Chapter LV: Letter VII: Page 588 (7)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)

Those who are anxious to run a muck Cant do better than join with Puck. They'll find him _bon diable_--spite of his phiz-- And, in fact, his great ambition is, While playing old Puck in first-rate style, To be _thought_ Robin Good-fellow all the while.

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REFLECTIONS.

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF _The Quarterly Review_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Lords are _rather_ too small, 'tis true;
But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves;
And, besides,--_what's_ a man with creeturs to do
That make such _werry_ small figures themselves?

There--dont touch those lords, my pretty dears--(_Aside_.)
Curse the children!--this comes of reforming a nation:
Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers,
I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

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

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

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

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

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

Those of _bottle_-corks made take most with the trade,
(At least 'mong such as my _Irish_ writ summons,)
Of old _whiskey_ corks our O'Connells are made,
But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are _rum_ 'uns.
So, step in, gentlefolks, etc.
_Da Capo_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

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

Who can forget the deep sensation That news produced in this orthodox nation? Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed, If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed, 'Twas clearly _all up_ with the Protestant creed! There hadnt indeed such an apparition Been heard of in Dublin since that day When, during the first grand exhibition Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play, There appeared, as if raised by necromancers, An _extra_ devil among the dancers! Yes--every one saw with fearful thrill That a devil too much had joined the quadrille; And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball, And the poor _sham_ devils didnt like it at all; For they knew from whence the intruder had come, Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home.

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

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

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

With all humility we beg To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-- Known for his spunky speculations In buying up dead reputations, And by a mode of galvanizing Which, all must own, is quite surprising, Making dead authors move again, As tho' they still were living men;-- All this too managed, in a trice, By those two magic words, "Half Price," Which brings the charm so quick about, That worn-out poets, left without A second _foot_ whereon to stand, Are made to go at second _hand_;-- 'Twill please the public, we repeat, To learn that Tegg who works this feat, And therefore knows what care it needs To keep alive Fame's invalids, Has oped an Hospital in town, For cases of knockt-up renown-- Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic _fits_ (By some called _Cantoes_), stabs from wits; And of all wounds for which they're nurst, _Dead cuts_ from publishers, the worst;-- All these, and other such fatalities, That happen to frail immortalities, By Tegg are so expertly treated, That oft-times, when the cure's completed, The patient's made robust enough To stand a few more rounds of _puff_, Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay He's puft into thin air away! As titled poets (being phenomenons) Dont like to mix with low and common 'uns, Tegg's Hospital has separate wards, Express for literary lords, Where _prose_-peers, of immoderate length, Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength, And poets, whom their friends despair of, Are--put to bed and taken care of.

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

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

RELIGION AND TRADE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MUSINGS.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.

"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room
of her deceased husband."--_Limerick Chronicle_.

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

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

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

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

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

INTENDED TRIBUTE

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

It glads us much to be able to say, That a meeting is fixt for some early day, Of all such dowagers--_he_ or _she_-- (No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,) Whose opinions concerning Church and State From about the time of the Curfew date-- Stanch sticklers still for days bygone, And admiring _them_ for their rust alone-- To whom if we would a leader give, Worthy their tastes conservative, We need but some mummy-statesman raise, Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days; For _that's_ the man, if waked from his shelf, To conserve and swaddle this world like himself. Such, we're happy to state, are the old _he_-dames Who've met in committee and given their names (In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent To pay some handsome compliment To their sister author, the nameless he, Who wrote, in the last new _Quarterly_, That charming assault upon Popery; An article justly prized by them As a perfect antediluvian gem-- The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say, Of some "fellow the Flood couldnt wash away."[1]

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

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

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

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

[2] "Beaux' Stratagem."

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

[4] "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," etc.--_Quarterly Review_.

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

GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.

A POOR POET'S DREAM.[1]

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

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

Nor was this the worst--I shudder to think What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink. The warriors of Odin, as every one knows, Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes: And Type's old port, to my horror I found, Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round. And still as each well-filled cranium came, A health was pledged to its owner's name; While Type said slyly, midst general laughter, "We eat them up first, then drink to them after." There was _no_ standing this--incensed I broke From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke, Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times, "Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes, "Could you e'er have foretold a day would be, "When a dreamer of dreams should live to see "A party of sleek and honest John Bulls "Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!"

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

CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

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

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

_Second edition_.

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

_Third edition_.

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

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

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

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

_Fourth edition_.

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

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

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

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

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

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

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail Is whiskt from England by the gale. But bears on board some authors, shipt For foreign shores, all well equipt With proper book-making machinery, To sketch the morals, manners, scenery, Of all such lands as they shall see, Or _not_ see, as the case may be:-- It being enjoined on all who go To study first Miss Martineau, And learn from her the method true,[too. To _do_ one's books--and readers, For so this nymph of _nous_ and nerve Teaches mankind "How to Observe;" And, lest mankind at all should swerve, Teaches them also "_What_ to Observe."

No, no, my friend--it cant be blinkt-- The Patron is a race extinct; As dead as any Megatherion That ever Buckland built a theory on. Instead of bartering in this age Our praise for pence and patronage, We authors now more prosperous elves, Have learned to patronize ourselves; And since all-potent Puffing's made The life of song, the soul of trade. More frugal of our praises grown, We puff no merits but our own.

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

What Steam is on the deep--and more-- Is the vast power of Puff on shore; Which jumps to glory's future tenses Before the present even commences; And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us Before the world has read one line of us. In old times, when the God of Song Drove his own two-horse team along, Carrying inside a bard or two, Bookt for posterity "all thro';"-- Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes, (Like yours, my friend,) for after-times-- So slow the pull to Fame's abode, That folks oft slept upon the road;-- And Homer's self, sometimes, they say, Took to his night-cap on the way. Ye Gods! how different is the story With our new galloping sons of glory, Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, Dash to posterity in _no_ time! Raise but one general blast of Puff To start your author--that's enough. In vain the critics set to watch him Try at the starting post to catch him: He's off--the puffers carry it hollow-- The _critics_, if they please, may follow. Ere _they_'ve laid down their first positions, He's fairly blown thro' six editions! In vain doth Edinburgh dispense Her blue and yellow pestilence (That plague so awful in my time To young and touchy sons of rhyme)-- The _Quarterly_, at three months' date, To catch the Unread One, comes too late; And nonsense, littered in a hurry, Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray. But bless me!--while I thus keep fooling, I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling." That postman too (who, truth to tell, 'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally That I _must_ stop-- Yours sempiternally.

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

BY LORD STANLEY.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

"Evil, be thou my good."
--MILTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

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

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

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

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

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

[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.--_Chronicle_.

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

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

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

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

He has served our right riotous cause by a speech Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; As it shows off both _his_ and _my_ merits alike, Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike; Mixes up, with a skill which one cant but admire, The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire, And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner, Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner! Oh Terry, my man, let this speech _never_ die; Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly; Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered. Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood, But "_You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;_" While voices, from sweet Connemara afar, Shall answer, like true _Irish_ echoes, "We are!" And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it, Still the echoes may quote _Law_ authority for it, And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion So he, in the end, touches cash "for the _opinion_."

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

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

POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

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

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

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

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

TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."

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

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

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

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

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

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

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

_principibus placuisse viris_!
--HORAT.

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

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

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

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

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