Chapter L: Letter VII: Page 588 (2)

It follows from hence--and the Duke's very words
Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are--
That weavers, _once_ rescued from starving by Lords,
Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each _row_;
But not so the plan of _our_ noble physicians,
"No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose, As I shall my poetry--_neither_ convinces; And all we have spoken and written but shows, When you tread on a nobleman's _corn_,[4] how he winces.

[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the 'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex."

[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them."

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund--these eight
millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the
interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand
pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?"
--_The Times_.

Take your bell, take your bell,
Good Crier, and tell
To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned,
That, lost or stolen,
Or fallen thro' a hole in
The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes!
Can anybody guess
What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

Folks well knew what
Would soon be its lot,
When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1]
And said to each other,
"Suppose, dear brother,
"We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

We are come, alas!
To a very pretty pass--
Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

With but Five in the till,
To discharge the bill,
And even that Five, too, whipt away!

Stop thief! stop thief!--
From the Sub to the Chief,
These _Gemmen_ of Finance are plundering cattle--
Call the watch--call Brougham,
Tell Joseph Hume,
That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

Whoever will bring
This aforesaid thing
To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin,
Shall be paid, with thanks,
In the notes of banks,
Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."

O yes! O yes!
Can anybody guess
What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder?
It has Pitt's name on't,
All brass, in the front,
And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL.

Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorned with somniferous poppies to show
Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee
An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches.
Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesnt bore thee),
Thou'lt read o'er the last of his--_never_-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn
Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;
Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn,
'Tis the _growers_ of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us--
Reviewers, economists--fellows no doubt
That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus
And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,--
Who thinks just as little of settling a nation
As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking
(What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading
Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;--
And whereas Mill Senior makes war on _good_ breeding,
Mill Junior makes war on all _breeding_ whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided
Between _ultra_ blockheads and superfine sages;--
With _which_ of these classes we landlords have sided
Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction
And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting
That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction
To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "_chaste_ notions"[3] of food
That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,
They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,
That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,
Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination
(Like _Sulky_ and _Silky_, that pair in the play,)[5]
Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister!--no matter who,
Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he
Keeps the ports shut--and the people's mouths too--
We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,

And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn
To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,
Had England but _One_ to stand by thee, Dear Corn,
That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!

[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches.

[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.

[5] "Road to Ruin."

[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the _Bos_ and the _Asinus_, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for everything "chaste."

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

_"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."_

And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er-- Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more! Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain! The short eclipse of April-Day Having (God grant it!) past away, Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,-- With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,-- Whate'er the job, prepared to back it; Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers, At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]

Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares-- Ye Senators of many Shares, Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary; So fond of aught like _Company_, That you would even have taken _tea_ (Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]

Come, matchless country-gentlemen; Come, wise Sir Thomas--wisest then When creeds and corn-lords are debated; Come, rival even the Harlot Red, And show how wholly into _bread_ A 'Squire is _transubstantiated_,

Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world, That--surely as thy scratch is curled As never scratch was curled before-- Cheap eating does more harm than good, And working-people spoiled by food, The less they eat, will work the more.

Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence (Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence) Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter; Two pipes of port (_old_ port, 'twas said By honest _New_port)[3] bought and paid By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]

Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry For peopling Canada from Kerry-- Not so much rendering Ireland quiet, As grafting on the dull Canadians That liveliest of earth's contagions, The _bull_-pock of Hibernian riot!

Come all, in short, ye wondrous men Of wit and wisdom, come again; Tho' short your absence, all deplore it-- Oh, come and show, whate'er men say, That you can _after_ April-Day, Be just as--sapient as _before_ it.

[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:-- trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "_bene vestiti_."

[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his _Joint_-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te _solo adoro_."

[3] Sir John Newport.

[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine."

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing, For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;-- Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't _cheering_, That all its gay auditors _were_ every minute.

What, _still_ more prosperity!--mercy upon us,
"This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For _Ruin made easy_ there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts--
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table--
When _the Members_ all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly,
Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, _bolt_ very nearly
A moderate-sized bankrupt, _tout chaud_, for their dinners![2]

_Nota bene_--a rumor to-day, in the city, "Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing, When they heard of the fate of poor Cock _Robin_: While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty, A murmuring _Stock_-dove breathed her ditty:--

Alas, poor _Robin_, he crowed as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his _note_ was _small_ and the _gold_-finch's song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,
"While I have a rag, poor _Rob_ shall be rolled in't,
"With many a pound I'll paper him round,
"Like a plump rouleau--_without_ the gold in it."

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies."--_Debate in the Lords_.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)

"The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves
itself into a Family Account."--_Sir Robert Peel's Letter_.

Tune--_My banks are all furnisht with bees_.

My banks are all furnisht with rags,
So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;
I've torn up my old money-bags,
Having little or nought to put in 'em.
My tradesmen are smashing by dozens,
But this is all nothing, they say;
For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,--
So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me.
As sages the matter explain;--
Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy
Just owes it to Bob back again.
Since all have thus taken to _owing_,
There's nobody left that can _pay_;
And this is the way to keep going,--
All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,
To put in Prosperity's budget;
And tho' it were billions or trillions,
The generous rogues wouldnt grudge it.
'Tis all but a family _hop_,
'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round!--why the deuce should we stop?
'Tis all in the family way.

My laborers used to eat mutton,
As any great man of the State does;
And now the poor devils are put on
Small rations of tea and potatoes.
But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy,
The King is your father, they say;
So even if you starve for your Daddy,
'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,
My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And even if themselves do not grumble
Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
But coolly to fast _en famille_,
Is as good for the soul as to pray;
And famine itself is genteel,
When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,
A secret for next Budget day;
Tho' perhaps he may know it already,
As he too's a sage in his way.
When next for the Treasury scene he
Announces "the Devil to pay,"
Let him write on the bills, "_nota bene_,
"'Tis all in the family way."

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of
proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that
_whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest_, should
give way to the other."
--_Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn_.

Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too, No one e'er the fact denied;-- Which is "weakest" of the two, Cambridge can alone decide. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is, Bankes, as much afraid as he; Never yet did two old ladies On this point so well agree. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.

Each a different mode pursues, Each the same conclusion reaches; Bankes is foolish in Reviews, Goulbourn foolish in his speeches. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Each a different foe doth damn, When his own affairs have gone ill; Bankes he damneth Buckingham, Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell. Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. Once we know a horse's neigh Fixt the election to a throne, So whichever first shall _bray_ Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own. Choose him, choose him by his bray, Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.

_June_, 1826.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

1826.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Sir--Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an _avalanche_, where he had remained, _bien frappe_, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.--Yours, etc.

_Laudator Temporis Acti_.

What a lucky turn-up!--just as Eldon's withdrawing,
To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year
Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing
To serve for _our_ times quite as well as the Peer;--

To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone
Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves,
But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown,
To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home--
Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way;
With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,
And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"

What a God-send to _them_!--a good, obsolete man,
Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;--
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can,
And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.

Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou _shalt_ be their chosen;
And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men,
To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen,
So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation
Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he
Has been also laid up in a long congelation,
And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch
An official young demon, preparing to go,
Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch
From the Hell here at Crockford's, to _our_ Hell below--

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,
To say that first having obeyed your directions
And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic,"
My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,
When every good Christian tormented his brother,
And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,
From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part
With the old Penal Code--that _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Law,
In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art)
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,
(Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)
'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,
Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;--

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,
So like is to _ours_, in its spirit and tone.
That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,
To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes
Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir
With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats
Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command
"Such audience, tho' yelled by a _Sans-culotte_ crew
"What wonders shall _we_ do, who've men in our band,
"That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such _then_ were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,
I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will,
Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,--
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,
The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;
And certain _base_ voices, that lookt for a fee
At the _York_ music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends _might_ have been warmer,--
Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had;
Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer,
And _Huntingdon_ Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;--
Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;
And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,
We _must_, please your Highness, recruit _from below_.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip--
Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;--
The next opportunity shan't be let slip,
But, till then,
I'm, in haste, your most dutiful
DEVIL.

_July, 1826_

[1] _Con fuoco_--a music-book direction.

[2] This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY."

1826

A millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it--
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us all starving or near it.
A good, rich Millennium will come _à-propos_.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags--

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound--
A celestial _Cocaigne_ on whose buttery shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian,
Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision
Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;--

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we
May even in our own times a Jubilee share.
Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee,
And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber whose pious productions have been
All belied ere his book's first edition was out;--

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal _eclat_,
And, each day of his life sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also--but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,--doom them all to the shelf,--
And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce,
Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny."--Rev. vi.

[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had ever had honor of being known to St. John".

[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in Revelation.

THE THREE DOCTORS.

_doctoribus loetamur tribus_.

1826.

Tho' many great Doctors there be,
There are three that all Doctors out-top,
Doctor Eady, that famous M. D.,
Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard--
All quacks in a different style;
Doctor Southey writes books by the yard.
Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone
By his scribbling or physicking brother,
Can dose us with stuff like the one.
Ay, and _doze_ us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps
With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls;
Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps
With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine,
Such bedlamite slaver lets drop,
Taat if Eady should take the _mad_ line,
He'll be sure of a patient in Slop.

Seven millions of Papists, no less,
Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk;
Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess,
Attacks but his maid-of-all-work

Doctor Southey, for _his_ grand attack,
Both a laureate and pensioner is;
While poor Doctor Eady, alack,
Has been _had up_ to Bow-street for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder,
That tho' little blood has been spilt, he
May probably suffer as, under
The _Chalking_ Act, _known_ to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime
(With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop)
Of the three greatest lights of our time,
Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to _which_ of the three
Great Doctors the preference should fall,
As a matter of course I agree
Doctor Eady must go to _the wall_.

But as Southey with laurels is crowned,
And Slop with a wig and a tail is,
Let Eady's bright temples be bound
With a swingeing "Corona _Muralis_!"[3]

[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed.

[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the walls round the metropolis.

[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering them, etc.--No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honor.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a _star_ he'd quit,
And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
He took of course to peers' relations;
And rather than not sport a Lord
Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em
With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;
And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum
Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.

ODE TO A HAT.

--_altum aedificat caput_."
JUVENAL

1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!--sublime mid all
The minor felts that round thee grovel;--
Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call
While meaner mortals call the "shovel."
When on thy shape (like pyramid,
Cut horizontally in two)[1]
I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid
Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims so sleekly good--
Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down,
But looking (as all churchmen's should)
Devoutly upward--towards the _crown_.

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim, So redolent of Church all over, What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,-- Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim, With ducklings' wings--around it hover! Tenths of all dead and living things, That Nature into being brings, From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks, The very cock most orthodox. To _which_ of all the well-fed throng Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong? Thou'rt _not_ Sir Harcourt Lees's--no- For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em: And hats, on heads like his, would grow Particularly _harum-scarum_.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te, (The reverend rat, whom we saw stand On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,) Who changed so quick from _blue_ to _yellow_, And would from _yellow_ back to _blue_, And back again, convenient fellow, If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or haply smartest of triangles, Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen; The hat that, to his vestry wrangles, That venerable priest doth go in,-- And then and there amid the stare Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair And quotes with phiz right orthodox The example of his reverend brothers, To prove that priests all fleece their flocks And _he_ must fleece as well as others.

Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be) Thus low I take off mine to thee, The homage of a layman's _castor_, To the spruce _delta_ of his pastor. Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest, Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter, Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:--"A Delta hat like the horizontal section of a pyramid."--GRANT'S "History of the English Church."

[2] Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of Ireland "the little Zion."

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper, When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper, But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends As you chance to pick up from political friends- Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better-- His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster) Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master; Engaging to change the old name, if he can, From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;-- Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim) Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar-- Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are, And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose) Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]-- Is now busy collecting with brotherly care The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare) On all the distinguisht old ladies now going. (While I write, an arrival from Riga--the "Brothers"-- Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India--Sir Archy, 'tis thought, Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught In N. Lat. 2l.)--and his Highness Burmese, Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees, And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.

(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose Can establish a _running_ account with the Jews!) The security being what Rothschild calls "goot," A loan will be shortly, of course, set _on foot_; The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co. With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe, And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us _leg_-bail, As he did once before) to pay down _on the nail_.

* * * * *

This is all for the present--what vile pens and paper! Yours truly, dear Cousin--best love to Miss Draper.

_September_, 1826.

[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe by his successor.

[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray One hasty orison, whirled me away To a Limbo, lying--I wist not where-- Above or below, in earth or air; For it glimmered o'er with a _doubtful_ light, One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night; And 'twas crost by many a mazy track, One didn't know how to get on or back; And I felt like a needle that's going astray (With its _one_ eye out) thro' a bundle of hay; When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me, "Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; (Like bottled-up babes that grace the room Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)-- All of them, things half-killed in rearing; Some were lame--some wanted _hearing_; Some had thro' half a century run, Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon. Others, more merry, as just beginning, Around on a _point of law_ were spinning; Or balanced aloft, 'twixt _Bill_ and _Answer_, Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer. Some were so _cross_ that nothing could please 'em;- Some gulpt down _affidavits_ to ease 'em-- All were in motion, yet never a one, Let it _move_ as it might, could ever move _on_, "These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see, "Are what they call suits in Chancery!"

I heard a loud screaming of old and young, Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung; Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ") At an amateur concert screamed in score;-- So harsh on my ear that wailing fell Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell! It seemed like the dismal symphony Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see; Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook Cut off and left the frogs in the brook, To cry all night, till life's last dregs, "Give us our legs!--give us our legs!" Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene, I askt what all this yell might mean, When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee, "'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"

I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1] With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes. In his aged hand he held a wand, Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band, And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er, But they never get on one inch the more. And still they kept limping to and fro, Like Ariels round old Prospero-- Saying, "Dear Master, let us go," But still old Prospero answered "No." And I heard the while that wizard elf Muttering, muttering spells to himself, While o'er as many old papers he turned, As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned. He talkt of his virtue--"tho' some, less nice, (He owned with a sigh) preferred his _Vice_"-- And he said, "I think"--"I doubt"--"I hope," Called God to witness, and damned the Pope; With many more sleights of tongue and hand I couldn't for the soul of me understand. Amazed and posed, I was just about To ask his name, when the screams without, The merciless clack of the imps within, And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din, That, startled, I woke--leapt up in my bed-- Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled, And blest my stars, right pleased to see, That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition
Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing--
That sad, very sad, is our present condition;--
Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;--

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions,
Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,
We hold it the basest of all base transactions
To keep us from murdering the other six parts;--

That as to laws made for the good of the many,
We humbly suggest there is nothing less true;
As all human laws (and our own, more than any)
Are made _by_ and _for_ a particular few:--

That much it delights every true Orange brother
To see you in England such ardor evince,
In discussing _which_ sect most tormented the other,
And burned with most _gusto_ some hundred years since;--

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint,
Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows,
To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint,
Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw--
Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother--
And many such points, from which Southey can draw
Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation
Has now for some ages, gone happily on
Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,
One party in _Trans_ and the other in _Con_;[1]

That we, your petitioning _Cons_, have in right
Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands
And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night,
Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for _Trans_;--

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages,
For keeping us still in the same state of mind;
Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages,
When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;--

When the words _ex_ and _per_[2] served as well to annoy
One's neighbors and friends with, as _con_ and _trans_ now;
And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for _oi_,
Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for _ou_.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already
So often has helpt us to play this game o'er,
We have got our red coats and our carabines ready,
And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense--the few millions or so,
Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay--
'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know
That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way.
For which your petitioners ever will pray,
Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

[1] Consubstantiation--the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute between "_ex_" and "_per_" was going on), he found the Turks, we are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such insignificant particles."

[3] The Arian controversy.--Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or particles of speech they used."

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchanged a salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
"To hint at starvation before you,
"Look down on a poor hungry devil,
"And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make _free_--
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
"The distance between you and me!

"To expect that we Peers of high birth
"Should waste our illustrious acres,
"For no other purpose on earth
"Than to fatten curst calico-makers!--

"That Bishops to bobbins should bend--
"Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
"Great dealers in _lawn_, to befriend
"Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

"No--vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor
"A hope to be fed at our boards;--
"Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
"What claim canst _thou_ have upon Lords?

"No--thanks to the taxes and debt,
"And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
"Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
"May defy your whole rabble of _Jennys_!"

So saying--whip, crack, and away
Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn will be _down_ before long."

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

"A Christian of the best edition."--RABELAIS.

Canonize him!--yea, verily, we'll canonize him,
Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,
Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him,
He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.

Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread
The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea,
Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head,
Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere.
And bring little Shiloh--if 'tisn't too far--
Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear,
_His_ conceptions and _thine_ being much on a par.

Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold
A world thou hast honored by cheating so many;
Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old,
Who also by tricks and the _Seals_[1] makes a penny.

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2]
Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign;
Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he,
_One_ hallowing Fleet Street, and _t'other_ Toad Lane![3]

The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood, And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;-- Old women and Butterworths make just as good As any the Pope ever _bookt_ as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!--not Mahomet's pigeon,
When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say,
Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion
Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams
Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again,
Bolus on bolus, good man!--and then damns
Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.

How well might his shop--as a type representing
The creed of himself and his sanctified clan--
On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting,"
Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"

Canonize him!--by Judas, we _will_ canonize him;
For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss;
And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him,
He'll make but the better _shop_-saint for all this.

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters,
Convoke all the _serious_ Tag-rag of the nation;
Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters
To witness their Butterworth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint,
Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray,
And they form a sum-total for making a Saint.
That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay.

Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar,
While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes,
Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar,
With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers.

[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all the children of regeneration."

[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester."

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Air.--_Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow_.

Come with me and we will blow Lots of bubbles as we go; Bubbles bright as ever Hope Drew from fancy--or from soap; Bright as e'er the South Sea sent From its frothy element! Come with me and we will blow Lots of bubbles as we go. Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks, Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1] Mix the lather--who can be Fitter for such tasks than thee, Great M. P. for _Suds_bury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe, Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,-- Thou whom ancient Coventry Once so dearly loved that she Knew not which to her was sweeter, Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;-- Puff the bubbles high in air, Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More! Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar. Glittering all with golden hues Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;-- Some reflecting mines that lie Under Chili's glowing sky, Some, those virgin pearls that sleep Cloistered in the southern deep; Others, as if lent a ray From the streaming Milky Way, Glistening o'er with curds and whey From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment--who shall first Catch the bubbles ere they burst? Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run, Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;-- John Wilks junior runs beside ye! Take the good the knaves provide ye! See, with upturned eyes and hands, Where the _Share_man, Brogden, stands, Gaping for the froth to fall Down his gullet--_lye_ and all. See!--

But, hark, my time is out-- Now, like some great water-spout, Scattered by the cannon's thunder, Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

[_Here the stage darkens--a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra --the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the_ Dramatis Personae_, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters--all in the suds_.]

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him--"thou rainbow ruffian!"

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet I sailed along, when--whom should I meet But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea, "On the service of his Majesty."[1] When spying him first thro' twilight dim, I didn't know what to make of him; But said to myself, as slow he plied His fins and rolled from side to side Conceitedly o'er the watery path-- "'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath, "And I hear him now, among the fishes, "Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!" But, no--'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide And plump as ever these eyes descried; A turtle juicy as ever yet Glued up the lips of a Baronet! And much did it grieve my soul to see That an animal of such dignity, Like an absentee abroad should roam, When he _ought_ to stay and be ate at home.

But now "a change came o'er my dream," Like the magic lantern's shifting slider; I lookt and saw by the evening beam On the back of that Turtle sat a rider-- A goodly man with an eye so merry, I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2] Who there at his ease did sit and smile, Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3] Cracking such jokes, at every motion, As made the Turtle squeak with glee And own they gave him a lively notion Of what his _forced_-meat balls would be. So, on the Sec. in his glory went. Over that briny element, Waving his hand as he took farewell With graceful air, and bidding me tell Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he Were gone on a foreign embassy-- To soften the heart of a _Diplomat_, Who is known to dote upon verdant fat, And to let admiring Europe see, That _calipash_ and _calipee_ Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him as "on his majesty's service."

[2] Mr. Canning.

[3] _Wanderings in South America_. "It was the first and last time [says Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back."

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

--_"fessus jam sudat asellus,
"parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus."_
VERGIL. _Copa_.

A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous,
That--down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways
For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1]
Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other--
When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down!
But how to upraise him?--_one_ shouts, _t'other_ whistles,
While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]--
(Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall."

Another wise Solomon cries as he passes--
"There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease;
"The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
"And this is his mode of '_transition to peace_.'"

Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone--
"Let the blacksmith provide him a _sound metal basis_,"
(The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;
And--what was still dolefuller--lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past--
"Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
"Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

October, 1826.

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what food the gentleman meant?"--"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

1826.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
And oh! above all I admire that Decree,
In which thou command'st that all _she_ politicians
Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster--
A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts,
Who talks with a lisp of "the last new West_minster_,"
And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is,
How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;--
And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is
In Jeremy's school, of no sort of _utility_.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing--
ART. 1.--"On the _Needle's_ variations," by Pl--ce;[1]
ART. 2.--By her Favorite Funblank[2]--"so amusing!
"Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a _Law_ case."

ART. 3.--"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own--
(Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);-
ART. 4.--"Upon Honesty," author unknown;--
ART. 5.--(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag
And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call--
Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,
I would bag this _she_ Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head
From the watery bottom, her clack to renew--
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,
I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "_Life of Sheridan_," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235-- and some _fractions_.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

_utrum horum
dirius_ borun? _Incerti Auctoris_.

What! _still_ those two infernal questions,
That with our meals our slumbers mix--
That spoil our tempers and digestions--
Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores?
Nothing else talkt of night or morn--
Nothing _in_ doors or _out_ of doors,
But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests--
While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skilled but in feathering their nests,
Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet
Popery and Corn that oft I doubt,
Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat,
Or bonded Papists, they let out.

_Here_, landlords, _here_ polemics nail you,
Armed with all rubbish they can rake up;
_Prices_ and _Texts_ at once assail you--
From Daniel _these_, and _those_ from Jacob,

And when you sleep, with head still torn
Between the two, their shapes you mix,
Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn--
Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantsic wheat before you floats--
Now Jesuits from California--
Now Ceres linkt with Titus _Oats_,
Comes dancing thro' the "Porta _Corn_ea."[1]

Oft too the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, _bearding_ Church and State--
Themselves, together _by the ears_!

In short these torments never cease,
And oft I wish myself transferred off
To some far, lonely land of peace
Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;
For--if my fate is to be chosen
'Twixt bores and icebergs--on my soul,
I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."

A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up _incog_. some years ago
To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him as he walkt
From C----e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And--just as some fine husbands do--
Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty,
And even contrived--to his own great wonder--
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous _hogo_ under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about,
Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt
He had many _post-obits_ falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit,
At night he was seen with Crockford's crew,
At morn with learned dames would sit--
So past his time 'twixt _black_ and _blue_.

Some wisht to make him an M. P.,
But, finding Wilks was also one, he
Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he
"Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."

At length as secrets travel fast,
And devils, whether he or she,
Are sure to be found out at last,
The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs
Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers--
Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's,
Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

"We warn good men to keep aloof
"From a grim old Dandy seen about
"With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof
"Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."

Now,--the Devil being gentleman,
Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,--
You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran,
How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law,
And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em,
As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw,
And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.

Straight an indictment was preferred--
And much the Devil enjoyed the jest,
When, asking about the Bench, he heard
That, of all the Judges, his own was _Best_.[1]

In vain Defendant proffered proof
That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil--
Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof
And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich,
And readers of virtuous Sunday papers)
Found for the Plaintiff--on hearing which
The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies
(As this wily fiend is named in the Bible)
To find it settled by laws so wise,
That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

[1] A celebrated Judge, so named.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season,
No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.
Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics;
Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,
And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools--
He can study high life in the King's Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more _within rules_,
And of _place_ he at least must adhere to the _unity_.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age
To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher)
Will meet with encouragement--so much, _per_ page,
And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with _what_ their remembrance is stockt,
So they'll only remember the _quantum_ desired;--
Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, _oct_.,
Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.