Chapter XII: Part IV (6)

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse. Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

NETLEY ABBEY. [Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.] R. HARRIS RARHAM

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
Was sinking slow,
And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
And the ivy sheen
With its mantle of green
That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovehly bright
In that glorious light,
And I felt 't was holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time--
The days of thy monks of old,--
When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,
And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,
Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a vision pass'd
Across my mental eye;
And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white vails, went by;
Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,--
--But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!

Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring, And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell, And "dear linen souls," In clean linen stoles, Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-- And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear With front severe And brow austere, Now and then pinching a little boy's ear When he chants the responses too late or too soon, Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune. (Then you know They'd a "movable Do," Not a fix'd one as now--and of course never knew How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.) It was, in sooth, a comely sight, And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er"
My spirit--a change of fear--
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall--
For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks
All ready to fix,
And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!--
That horrible hole!--it seems to say,
'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"
And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad--
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think
That maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink,
Or be closed for aye
In this kind of way,
Shut out forever from wholesome day,
Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!--
And that maiden's lip,
Which was made to sip,
Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
--That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this!--
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The poor lone victim's stifled cry,
"Well, I can't understand
How any man's hand
COULD wall up that hole in a Christian land!
Why, a Mussulman Turk
Would recoil from the work,
And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
'When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back
And sewn up in a sack,
To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!'
Oh! a saint 't would vex
To think that the sex
Should be no better treated than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls
Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,--
If e'er its justice wraps in flame
The black abodes of sin and shame,
That justice, in its own good time,
Shall visit, for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!--the tempest lowers,--
It bursts on thy devoted towers;
Ruthless Tudor's bloated form
Rides on the blast, and guides the storm
I hear the sacrilegious cry,
"Down--with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come--a fearful fall--
Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
Stained pane, and sculptured stone,
There they lie on the greensward strown--
Moldering walls remain alone!
Shaven crown
Bombazeen gown,
Miter, and crosier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
Upon that gray and moldering wall.
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall!--
They "come like shadows, so depart"--
I see thee as thou wert--and art--

Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe!
Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
No voice awakes thine echoes now!
No sound--good gracious!--what was that?
Was it the moan,
The parting groan
Of her who died forlorn and alone,
Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?--
Full and clear
On my listening ear
It comes--again--near and more near--
Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer
--I rush to the door--
I tread the floor,
By abbots and abbesses trodden before,
In the good old chivalric days of yore,
And what see I there?--
In a rush-bottom'd chair
A hag surrounded by crockery-ware,
Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng
A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,--
And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"
Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life!
Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."

Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-- Two or three chimney-sweeps, two or three clowns, Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns," Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea. Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love. Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,-- The detestable din Of that cracked violin, And the odors of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin! "--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!" And I said to the person who drove my "shay" (A very intelligent man, by the way), "This, all things considered, is rather too gay! It don't suit my humor,--so take me away! Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song! If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,' And I really consider it all very wrong.-- --Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"-- He paus'd, and said, Scratching his head, "Why I really DO think he's a little to blame, But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name!"

"Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh, And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, "My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt That some day or other you'll find it out, Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay' (As perhaps he may), Be so good as to say That a Visitor whom you drove over one day, Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized, Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized, And thus of their owner to speak began, As he ordered you home in haste, No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN, But--'_I_ CAN'T SAY MUCH FOR HIS TASTE!'"

FAMILY POETRY.
R. HARRIS BARHAM

Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day,
Though line before I never wrote!
"On what occasion?" do you say?
Our Dick has got a long-tail'd coat!!

Not a coatee, which soldiers wear
Button'd up high about the throat,
But easy, flowing, debonair,
In short a CIVIL long-tail'd coat.

A smarter you'll not find in town,
Cut by Nugee, that snip of note;
A very quiet olive brown
's the color of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole,
The proud Hungarian, and the Croat,
Yet Esterhazy, on the whole
Looks best when in a long-tail'd coat

Lord Byron most admired, we know,
The Albanian dress, or Suliote,
But then he died some years ago,
And never saw Dick's long-tail'd coat;

Or past all doubt the poet's theme
Had never been the "White Capote,"
Had he once view'd in Fancy's dream,
The glories of Dick's long-tail'd coat!

We also know on Highland kilt
Poor dear Glengarry used to dote,
And had esteem'd it actual guilt
I' "the Gael" to wear a long-tail'd coat!

No wonder 'twould his eyes annoy,
Monkbarns himself would never quote
"Sir Robert Sibbald," "Gordon," "Ray,"
Or "Stukely" for a long-tail'd coat.

Jackets may do to ride or race,
Or row in, when one's in a boat,
But in the boudoir, sure, for grace
There's nothing like Dick's long-tail'd cost,

Of course in climbing up a tree,
On terra-firma, or afloat,
To mount the giddy topmast, he
Would doff awhile his long-tail'd coat.

What makes you simper, then, and sneer?
From out your own eye pull the mote!
A PRETTY thing for you to jeer--
Haven't YOU, too, got a long-tail'd coat?

Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean.
Why, though too young to give a note,
Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen
's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat.

What! would you have him sport a chin
Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat
O' German Mahon, ere begin
To figure in a long-tail'd coat?

Suppose he goes to France--can he
Sit down at any table d' hote,
With any sort of decency,
Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat?

Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,
There soon may be a sans culotte,
And Nugent's self may then admit
The advantage of a long-tail'd coat.

Things are not now as when, of yore,
In tower encircled by a moat,
The lion-hearted chieftain wore
A corselet for a long-tail'd coat;

Then ample mail his form embraced,
Not like a weasel or a stoat,
"Cribb'd and confined" about the waist,
And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat

With beamy spear or biting ax,
To right and left he thrust and smote--
Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks
Fall from a modern long-tail'd coati

More changes still! now, well-a-day!
A few cant phrases learned by rote,
Each beardless booby spouts away,
A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat!

Prates of the "March of Intellect"--
"The Schoolmaster." A PATRIOTE
So noble, who could e'er suspect
Had just put on a long-tail'd coat?

Alack! alack! that every thick-
Skull'd lad must find an antidote
For England's woes, because, like Dick,
He has put on a long-tail'd coat!

But lo! my rhyme's begun to fail,
Nor can I longer time devote;
Thus rhyme and time cut short the TALE,
The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

THE SUNDAY QUESTION.
THOMAS HOOD.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions,"--BUNYAN.

What! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate! Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket! And hang a wooden notice up to state, On Sundays no admittance at this wicket! The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race, Denied to friends and visitors till Monday! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens--so unlike the ones we dub
Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses--
Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub--
Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?
No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head--
No rum--nor gin--not even of a Monday--
The Lion is not carved--or gilt--or red,
And does not send out porter of a Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Bear denied! the Leopard under looks!
As if his spots would give contagious fevers!
The Beaver close as hat within its box;
So different from other Sunday beavers!
The Birds invisible--the Gnaw-way Rats--
The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday--
The Monkey tribe--the Family of Cats--
We visit other families on Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy

What is the brute profanity that shocks
The super-sensitively serious feeling?
The Kangaroo--is he not orthodox
To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?
Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat,
Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi?
Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note
The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set?
What error in the bestial birth or breeding,
To put their tender fancies on the fret?
One thing is plain--it is not in the feeding!
Some stiffish people think that smoking joints
Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday--
But then the beasts are pious on these points,
For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,
As if transmuted by some spell organic?
Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race?
The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?
Do Irish minds--(whose theory allows
That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)--
Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows
Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?--
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

There are some moody Fellows, not a few,
Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias,
Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,
And think when they are dismal they are pious:
Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun
Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?--
Or perhaps some animal, no serious one,
Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offense have serious Fellows found
To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney?
Were charitable boxes handed round,
And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?
Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt
The feathers in her head--at least till Monday;
Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt
A tract presented to be read on Sunday?--
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?
Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing?
Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?
On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he preyed extempore as well
As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way
(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious--
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk
About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless man to take a walk,
If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
As surely as I am a Christian scion,
I cannot think it is a mortal sin--
(Unless he's loose)--to look upon a lion.
I really think that one may go, perchance,
To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday--
(That is, provided that he did not dance)--
Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,
I can not think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor--
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,
That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?
The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven?
The tender Love-Bird--or the filial Stork?
The punctual Crane--the providential Raven?
The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?
Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday
That feathered marvel with a human tongue,
Because she does not preach upon a Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver--that sagacious beast!
The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd--
That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,
The horned Rhinoceros--the spotted Leopard--
The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand
Are surely sights for better days than Monday--
The Elephant, although he wears no band,
Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?--
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature,
Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,
And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature?"
Better it were if, in his best of suits,
The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,
Should spend a leisure-hour among the brutes,
Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)
But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus
Had somehow mixed up Deus with their Theology?
Is Brahma's Bull--a Hindoo god at home--
A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday?--
Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough
To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE [Footnote: Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood's verses as "profaneness and ribaldry."] THOMAS HOOD.

"Close, close your eyes with holy dread,
And weave a circle round him thrice;
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise!"--Coleridge.

"It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be."--Old Ballad.

A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand-- Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretched, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched, And though I have not seen the shadow sketched, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.

I guess the features:--in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint, Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks--not physicians--in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out moral taints, And call the devil over his own coals-- Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed: Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed, But endless flames, to scorch them like flax-- Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbed The impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!

Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief, it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall-- That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till every farthing-candle RAY Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace!

Well!--be the graceless lineaments confest I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth;"-- No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious-- Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull, I pray for grace--repent each sinful act-- Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor, far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turned by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As any body's rotten borough.

What else? No part I take in party fray, With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging Tartars, I fear no Pope--and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times--but then It's when I 've got my wine--I say d---- canters!

I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow-souls, a spiritual Pry-- 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses Who thrust them into matters none of theirs And, though no delicacy discomposes Your saint, yet I consider faith and prayers Among the privatest of men's affairs.

I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otahei-tan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.

On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk-- For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!

Mere verbiage--it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates or Plato--where 's the odds?-- Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis-- An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages--through sheer pretense-- Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion through the lobby, Whether as stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house."

I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pindar, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lashed by law, wherever found, And driven to church as to the parish pound.

I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that groveling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle. On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor, One wishes worship freely given to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor-- The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say--Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I--the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's college, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink Prom schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly-- My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of hosts with an exclusive lord Of this world's aristocracy, It will not own a nation so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage as they do in ships.

One place there is--beneath the burial-sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is--the Fane of God, Where all are equal who draw living breath;-- Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole-- He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to every pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope-- He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,-- Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,-- A scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts: But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knolled to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells, As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight the ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:-- O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?

A man may cry Church! Church! at every word, With no more piety than other people-- A daw's not reckoned a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple; The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against, his sinful bias-- "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie--I cheat--do any thing for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious!"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts; On Sunday morning--(at the day don't fret)-- In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple, "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'T was built by the same man as built yon chapel, And master wanted once to buy it,-- But t' other driv' the bargain much too hard,-- He axed sure-LY a sum prodigious! But being so particular religious, Why, THAT you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heaven below, I have been there and still would go," Yet I am none of those who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in forma pauperis to God.

As for the rest,--intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurned some elements of Christian prayer-- An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"-- Acknowledgment of good--of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want-- Humilty.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks, Such is my spirit--(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS!

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own common-place-book in the other-- But you have been to Palestine--alas Some minds improve by travel--others, rather, Resemble copper wire or brass, Which gets the narrower by going further!

Worthless are all such pilgrimages--very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The humans heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulcher they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Haunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak.

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renewned for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For--doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?-- People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo, You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo.

For me--through heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,--I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travelers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play, If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR?

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him, two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a cankered stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason-- Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly CATHOLIC, one common form, At which unchecked All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot-- While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trailed around its base The blue significant Forget-Me-Not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope, Giving the eye much variegated scope!-- "Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"--(how the simple legend pierced me through!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells, Religion lives and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.

Shun pride, O Rae!--whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride--in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retained by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan-- He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, As last, with stately dodgings in a corner, He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!

"Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feathered clay--thou scum of birds!" Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes-- "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner, Behold these lovely variegated dyes! These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That heaven has shed upon me con amore-- A Bird of Paradise?--a pretty story! _I_ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!" And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!

That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints. By saints!--the Hypocrites that ope heaven's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches-- But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor, In parish stocks, instead of breeches.

The Saints?--the Bigots that in public spout, Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian, And go like walking "Lucifers" about-- Mere living bundles of combustion.

The Saints!--the aping Fanatics that talk All cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown-- That bid you balk A Sunday walk, And shun God's work as you should shun your own.

The Saints!--the Formalists, the extra pious, Who think the mortal husk can save the soul, By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias, To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl!

The Saints!--the Pharisees, whose beadle stands Beside a stern coercive kirk, A piece of human mason-work, Calling all sermons contrabands, In that great Temple that's not made with hands!

Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom The gracious prodigality of nature, The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, The bounteous providence in every feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome! To HIS tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cushion for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool, a font. Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the fall heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimmed by dust, Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked: but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labeled with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heaven a railway trust, And churches--that's the naked fact--mere factories?

O! simply open wide the temple door, And let the solemn, swelling organ greet, With VOLUNTARIES meet, The WILLING advent of the rich and poor! And while to God the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibiations from the vocal throng-- From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone.

How strange it is, while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor! Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol--and even use upon occasion-- That Christian principle, conciliation? But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus:

One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt a while, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. A sturdy man he looked to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocks Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-- Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stooped And meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle.

Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it-- And shunned the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it. At last there came a pause of brutal force; The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool; The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse, The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by-- "Zounds!--my good fellow--it quite makes me--why It really--my dear fellow--do just try Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint-- At least he seized upon the foremost wether-- And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop Just nolens volens through the open shop-- If tails come off he didn't care a feather-- Then walking to the door, and smiling grim, He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together-- "There!--I've CONciliated him!"

Again--good-humoredly to end our quarrel-- (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale Whereto is tied a moral. Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The doctors gave her over--to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl Of assinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny-- Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann! She can't get over it! she never can!" When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny, The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long-eared creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water. No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back-- "Your sarvant, Miss--a werry spring-like day-- Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack! Jenny be dead, Miss--but I'ze brought ye Jack-- He doesn't give no milk--but he can bray."

So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness;
But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?

DEATH'S RAMBLE.
THOMAS HOOD.

One day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank;
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed
Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughtered it made him laugh
(For the man was a coffin-maker),
To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;
And he shot one through at once--for he knew
They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,
And he gave a snore infernal;
Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving a coach
So slow that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the QUICK.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;
But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summoned to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;
But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,
And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.
THOMAS HOOD.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog-- What d'ye think of that my cat? What d'ye think of that my dog?

What loving tete-a-tetes to come! What tete-a-tetes must still defer! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her! With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all MY ties had leave to jog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll-- A monkey, too, what work he made! The sister introduced a beau-- My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own,-- A snappish mongrel christened Grog,-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The monkey bit--the parrot screamed, All day the sister strummed and sung, The petted maid was such a scold! My Susan learned to use her tongue; Her mother had such wretched health, She sat and croaked like any frog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!" The very servants crossed my wish, My Susan let me down to them. The poker hardly seemed my own, I might as well have been a log-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape! Such coats and hats she never met! My ways they were the oddest ways! My friends were such a vulgar set! Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed, She could not bear that Mister Blogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song-- The sister took a sister's part-- The maid declared her master wrong-- The parrot learned to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end; _I_ never had a decent coat-- _I_ never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come, and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug-- With Pussy in the elbow-chair, And Tray reposing on the rug?-- If I must totter down the hill 'Tis safest done without a clog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

ON SAMUEL ROGERS.
LORD BYRON.

Question.

Nose and chin would shame a knocker, Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker: Mouth which marks the envious scorner, With a scorpion in each corner, Turning its quick tail to sting you In the place that most may wring you: Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy; Carcass picked out from some mummy Bowels (but they were forgotten, Save the liver, and that's rotten); Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden-- Form the Devil would frighten God in. Is't a corpse stuck up for show, Galvanized at times to go With the Scripture in connection, New proof of the resurrection? Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it? I would walk ten miles to miss it.

Answer.

Many passengers arrest one, To demand the same free question. Shorter's my reply, and franker-- That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker. Yet if you could bring about, Just to turn him inside out, Satan's self would seem less sooty, And his present aspect--Beauty. Mark that (as he masks the bilious Air, so softly supercilious) Chastened bow, and mock humility, Almost sickened to servility; Hear his tone, (which is to talking That which creeping is to walking-- Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe), Hear the tales he lends his lip to; Little hints of heavy scandals, Every friend in turn he handles; All which women or which men do, Glides forth in an innuendo, Clothed in odds and ends of humor-- Herald of each paltry rumor. From divorces down to dresses, Women's frailties, men's excesses, All which life presents of evil Make for him a constant revel. You're his foe--for that he fears you, And in absence blasts and sears you: You're his friend--for that he hates you, First caresses, and then baits you, Darting on the opportunity When to do it with impunity: You are neither--then he'll flatter Till he finds some trait for satire; Hunts your weak point out, then shows it Where it injures to disclose it, In the mode that's most invidious, Adding every trait that's hideous, From the bile, whose blackening river Rushes through his Stygian liver. Then he thinks himself a lover: Why I really can't discover In his mind, age, face, or figure: Viper-broth might give him vigor. Let him keep the caldron steady, He the venom has already. For his faults, he has but ONE-- 'Tis but envy, when all's done. He but pays the pain he suffers; Clipping, like a pair of snuffers, Lights which ought to burn the brighter For this temporary blighter. He's the cancer of his species, And will eat himself to pieces; Plague personified, and famine; Devil, whose sole delight is damning!

For his merits, would you know 'em? Once he wrote a pretty Poem.

MY PARTNER.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
I danced, last year, my first quadrille
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels:--"Vivian Gray"
Was positively charming,
And "Almack's" infinitely gay,
And "Frankenstein" alarming;
I said "De Vere" was chastely told.
Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"
And Lady Morgan's "racy;"
I vowed the last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;
And Laura said--"I dote on books,
Because it's always raining!"

I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzo would come back again,
And criticized Paccini;
I wished the chorus singers dumb.
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's APLOMB
And voted Paul "terrific."
What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow?
"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed,
"We MUST have storms to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains;
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
And Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me where the glass
Stood at Madrid last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds And Jane take up her Handel; Why Julia walked upon the heath, With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried--"Oh, God! How could they in such weather?"

Was she a blue?--I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir pedant?--I discussed
The toga and the fasces;
A cockney-muse?--I mouthed a deal
Of folly from Endymion:
A saint?--I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
A politician?--It was vain
To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms come again,
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.

Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,
Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling;
I envied gloves upon her arm,
And shawls upon her shoulder;
And when my worship was most warm,
She "never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
And sits a horse divinely.
But to be linked for life to her!--
The desperate man who tried it,
Might marry a barometer,
And hang himself beside it!

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.
W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Years--years ago--ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty;
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;
Years, years ago, while all my joys
Were in my fowling-piece and filly:
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at a country ball;
There when the sound of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall,
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that sets young hearts romancing:
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And when she danced--oh, heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows;
I thought't was Venus from her isle,
I wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd of politics or prayers;
Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets;
Of daggers or of dancing bears,
Of battles, or the last new bonnets;
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,
To me it matter'd not a tittle,
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frown'd; but how should gout
Find any happiness in kneeling?