Chapter LIV: Letter VII: Page 588 (6)

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

LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

1834.

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

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

The experiment having succeeded quite, (Whereat those Lords must much delight, Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food, They think it isnt for her spiritual good To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,) The Patentees of this new invention Beg leave respectfully to mention, They now are enabled to produce An ample supply for present use, Of these reverend pieces of machinery, Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery, Or any such-like post of skill That wood and leather are fit to fill.

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

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

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

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

HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

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

1834.

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

Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory, Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory, I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular, One _grand_ rule of enterprise,--_don't_ be particular. A man who once takes such a jump at nobility, Must _not_ mince the matter, like folks of nihility, But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

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

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

One snip,--and the urchin hath _never_ existed! Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere With his one sublime object of being a Peer? Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,-- No such people have ever lived, married or died!

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

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

THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping dreary dun."
"_Castle of Andalusia_."

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

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

EPISTLE

FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

Southampton.

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

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

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

London.

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

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

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

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

[1] Joshua xxiv 2.

[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.

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

_at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.
vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas_.
OVID. _Metam. lib_. xiii. v. 202.

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

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

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,
Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,
But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough
To translate "_Amor Fortis_" a love, _about forty_!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.

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

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

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

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

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

[2] The present Bishop of Exeter.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

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

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

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

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

THE SONG OF THE BOX.

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

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

How snug!--'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions,
Blown _this_ way and _that_, by the "_populi vox_,"
To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,
And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.

ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

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

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

Never in short did parallel Betwixt two heroes _gee_ so well; And among the points in which they fit, There's one, dear Bob, I cant omit. That hacking, hectoring blade of thine Dealt much in the _Domdaniel_ line; And 'tis but rendering justice due, To say that ours and his Tory crew _Damn Daniel_ most devoutly too.

RIVAL TOPICS.[1]

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

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

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

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

THE BOY STATESMAN.

BY A TORY.

"That boy will be the death of me."
_Matthews at Home_.

Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near, With Stanley to help us, we cant but fall; Already a warning voice I hear, Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear, "That boy--that boy'll be the death of you all."

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

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

LETTER

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

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

Troth, it wasnt at all civil to lave in the lurch
A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:--
Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church,
As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[2] "An ingenious device of my learned friend."--Bob's _Letter to Standard_.

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

MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.

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

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

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

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

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

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RECENT DIALOGUE.

1825.

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

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

THE WELLINGTON SPA.

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

1829.

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

Other physical waters but cure you in part;
_One_ cobbles your gout--_t'other_ mends your digestion--
Some settle your stomach, but _this_--bless your heart!--
It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present,
This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth,
So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant,
That patients _forget_ themselves into rude health.
For instance, the inventor--his having once said
"He should think himself mad if at _any one's_ call,
"He became what he is"--is so purged from his head
That he now doesnt think he's a madman at all.
Of course, for your memories of very long standing--
Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted
To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing--
A devil of a dose of the _Lethe_ is wanted.

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

A CHARACTERLESS

1834.

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

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

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

A GHOST STORY.

To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY."

1835.

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

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

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

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

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

BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN.

1835.

I sat me down in my easy chair, To read, as usual, the morning papers; But--who shall describe my look of despair, When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers! That _he_--that, of all live men, Lefroy Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!" Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said, On Orange conserve was chiefly fed, And never, till now, a movement made That wasnt manfully retrograde! Only think--to sweep from the light of day Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away; To annihilate--never to rise again-- A whole generation of aldermen, Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls, To keep together their bodies and souls!-- At a time too when snug posts and places Are falling away from us one by one, Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases Belzoni, in Egypt, sat upon, Wherein lay pickled, in state sublime, Conservatives of the ancient time;-- To choose such a moment to overset The few snug nuisances left us yet; To add to the ruin that round us reigns, By knocking out mayors' and town-clerks' brains; By dooming all corporate bodies to fall, Till they leave at last no bodies at all-- Naught but the ghosts of by-gone glory, Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!-- Where pensive criers, like owls unblest, Robbed of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them: Nor _mayors_ shall know where to seek a _nest_, Till Gaily Knight shall _find_ one for them;-- Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em, Shall perish all in one common plague; And the _sovereigns_ of Belfast and Tuam Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague.

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

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

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

ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836.

1836

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[4] Particularly the formation called _Transition_ Trap.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE CHURCH.

No. 1.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is,
'_leave us alone_.' The Established Church is part and parcel of
the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this
constitution. We ask of you nothing more:--_let us alone_."
--Letter in _The Times_, Nov. 1838.

1838.

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

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

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

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

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

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

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said-- That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet, Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street, Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces, Didnt burst out a laughing in each other's faces. What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago, Even we in the present times pretty well know; Having soothsayers also, who--sooth to say, John-- Are no better in some points than those of days gone, And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me), Might laugh in their sleeves, too--all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way--my intention being chiefly In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly, That, seeing how fond you of _Tuum_[1] must be, While _Meum's_ at all times the main point with me, We scarce could do better than form an alliance, To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance: You, John, recollect, being still to embark, With no share in the firm but your title and _mark_; Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldnt much mind; While _my_ church as usual holds fast by your Tuum, And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree, As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we; Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast, (See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest: Both mettlesome _chargers_, both brisk pamphleteers, Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears; And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer By any given cause than I found it the stronger, And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel, When the tone ecclesiastic wont do, try the _civil_.

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

[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand,
frequently chants:--
"Had every one _Suum_,
You wouldnt have _Tuum_,
But I should have _Meum_,
And sing _Te Deum_."

SONG OF OLD PUCK.