THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

    "To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was
    yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the
    Locusts and Periwinkles, amounting one year with another
    to the value of 2,485,768," etc.—RABELAIS.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,
And they cheered and shouted all the way,
As the Laird of Salmagundi went.
To open in state his Parliament.

The Salmagundians once were rich,
Or thought they were—no matter which—
For, every year, the Revenue
From their Periwinkles larger grew;
And their rulers, skilled in all the trick
And legerdemain of arithmetic,
Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4,
  5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10,
Such various ways, behind, before,
That they made a unit seem a score,
  And proved themselves most wealthy men!
So, on they went, a prosperous crew,
  The people wise, the rulers clever—
And God help those, like me and you,
Who dared to doubt (as some now do)
That the Periwinkle Revenue
  Would thus go flourishing on for ever.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,
And they cheered and shouted all the way,
As the Great Panurge in glory went
To open his own dear Parliament.

But folks at length began to doubt
What all this conjuring was about;
For, every day, more deep in debt
They saw their wealthy rulers get:—
"Let's look (said they) the items thro'
"And see if what we're told be true
"Of our Periwinkle Revenue,"
But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle
  Of truth in aught they heard before;
For they gained by Periwinkles little
  And lost by Locusts ten times more!
These Locusts are a lordly breed
Some Salmagundians love to feed.
Of all the beasts that ever were born,
Your Locust most delights in corn;
And tho' his body be but small,
To fatten him takes the devil and all!
"Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry,
As they saw the gaudy show go by,
As the Laird of Salmagundi went
To open his Locust Parliament!

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

    "His 'prentice han'
    He tried on man,
    And then he made the lasses."

1827.

"And now," quoth the Minister, (eased of his panics,
  And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,)
"Having had our full swing at destroying mechanics,
  "By way of set-off, let us make a few Lords.

"'Tis pleasant—while nothing but mercantile fractures,
  "Some simple, some compound, is dinned in our ears—
"To think that, tho' robbed all coarse manufactures,
  "We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;—

"Those Gotielin productions which Kings take a pride
  "In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of;
"Choice tapestry things very grand on one side,
  "But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of.

The plan being fixt, raw material was sought,—
  No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be;
And first, to begin with, Squire W—-, 'twas thought,
  For a Lord was as raw a material as need be.

Next came with his penchant for painting and pelf
  The tasteful Sir Charles,[1] so renowned far and near
For purchasing pictures and selling himself—
  And both (as the public well knows) very dear.

Beside him Sir John comes, with equal éclat, in;—
  Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye;
Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of drawing,
  Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury.

But, bless us!—behold a new candidate come—
  In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written:
He poiseth a pill-box 'twixt finger and thumb,
  And he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Britain!

"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls!
  "Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted,
"If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls,
  "And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!

"No—ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford—
  "If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life,
"And young Master Holford as yet is too small for't,
  "Sweet Doctor, we'll make a she Peer of thy wife.

"Next to bearing a coronet on our own brows
  "Is to bask in its light from the brows of another;
"And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse,
  "As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine thro' his mother."[2]

Thus ended the First Batch—and Jenky, much tired
  (It being no joke to make Lords by the heap),
Took a large dram of ether—the same that inspired
  His speech 'gainst the Papists—and prosed off to sleep.

[1] Created Lord Farnborough.

[2] Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc.

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

    "vos inumbrelles video."—Ex Juvenil.
    GEORGII CANNINGII.[2]

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is
  The last into which at my age I could fall—
Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses,
  Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present,
  No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow,
"That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant,
  "Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me;
  I am ancient—but were I as old as King Priam,
Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be,
  To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous,
  And long as God spares me will always maintain,
That once having taken men's rights, or umbrellas,
  We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers,
  If thus you give back Mr. Bell's parapluie,
That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears,
  And then—where would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,
  Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow,
"For God's sake"—at that awful moment I'd say—
  "For God's sake, don't give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression."]

[1] A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a pendant to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

[2] From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's—

    "I say, my good fellows,
    As you've no umbrellas."

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 1827.—Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.—Freeman's Journal.

I have found out a gift for my Erin,
  A gift that will surely content her:—
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
  Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right,
  But ill she her wants understood;—
Ball cartridges, morning and night,
  Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives
  But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
  Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate
  A good halter is sure to agree—
That love-knot which, early and late,
  I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has blest
  With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,
  With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show—
  Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
  Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
  Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,
  Alone can remove thy complaints;—

That, blest as thou art in thy lot,
  Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant
But being hanged, tortured and shot,
  Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred
  Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I loved him the more when I heard
  Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills,
  Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
  From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go,
  How I wish that, before you set out,
The Devil of the Freischütz could know
  The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.
  Into such supernatural wit.
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
  Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

regnis EX sul ademptis.—Verg. 1827.

To Swanage—that neat little town in whose bay
  Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers—
Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day,
  To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.

There—learned as he is in conundrums and laws—
  Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on),
  "Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"—"Because
  Their suits are put off, till they haven't a rag on."

Thus on he went chatting—but, lo! while he chats,
  With a face full of wonder around him he looks;
For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats,
  Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.

"How is this, Lady Bags?—to this region aquatic
"Last year they came swarming to make me their bow,
"As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic,
"Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s—where the devil are they now?"

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "can you doubt?
  "I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant;
"But don't you perceive, dear, the Church have found out
  "That you're one of the people called Ex's, at present?"

"Ah, true—you have hit it—I am, indeed, one
  "Of those ill-fated Ex's (his Lordship replies),
"And with tears, I confess—God forgive me the pun!—
  "We X's have proved ourselves not to be Y's."

[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, till this season, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

WO! WO![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it—
  That beautiful Light which is now on its way;
Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
  Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!
  How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee;
  The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!—
  On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other,
  Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
  Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day,
  Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest—so mild are thy views—
  Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose
  'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?
  St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter
Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2]
  And Saints keep her now in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career,
  Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us,
When blest with an orthodox crop every year,
  We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know,
  Had been trying their talent for many a day;
Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show,
  Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;—
  "Catch your Catholic, first—soak him well in poteen,
"Add salary sauce,[3] and the thing is complete.
  "You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!"
  Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4]
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
  Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

[2] The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

[3] "We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they giving a head for converts?'"—Wexford Post.

[4] Of the rook species—Corvus frugilegus, i.e. a great consumer of corn.

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."—Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16.

1827.

Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium,
  When "civil advantages" are to be gained,
What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,
  Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular)
  All the good things to good hypocrites fall;
And he who in swallowing creeds is particular,
  Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot)
  Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow,
And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got,
  I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.

Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god,
  Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places,
I own I should feel it unchristian and odd
  Not to find myself also in Vishnu's good graces.

For among all the gods that humanely attend
  To our wants in this planet, the gods to my wishes
Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend
  In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1]

So take my advice—for if even the devil
  Should tempt men again as an idol to try him,
'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil,
  As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

[1] Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"—his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

ENIGMA.

monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.

Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
  And tell me what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
  And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;—
Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
  I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes:
Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand,
  That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take every morsel of scrip in the land
  But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
  To cover me nothing but rags will supply;
And the doctors declare that in due course of nature
  About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,
  An object of interest most painful to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found,
  Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall.
    Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
    Come tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,
  Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,
O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look,
  And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,
  And expects thro' another to caper and prank it,
You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!"
  How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall
  His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow,
Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall,
  And the cup falls to earth and—the gout to his toe!
But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram
  My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres,
And knowing who made me the thing that I am,
  Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.
    Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
    And tell, if thou know'st, who I may be.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

"vox clamantis in deserto."

1827.

Said Malthus one day to a clown
  Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,—
"What's the number of souls in this town?"—
  "The number! Lord bless you, there's none.

"We have nothing but dabs in this place,
  "Of them a great plenty there are;—
But the soles, please your reverence and grace,
  "Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now,
  Not a soul to be seen up or down;—
Of dabs? a great glut, I allow,
  But your soles, every one, out of town.

East or west nothing wondrous or new,
  No courtship or scandal worth knowing;
Mrs. B—-, and a Mermaid[1] or two,
  Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers
  That some weeks ago kept us merry?
Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears?
And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor,
  In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled!—
It being his task to take care
  That such animals shan't go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils
  Are so worthy a captain of horse—
Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle's)
  Are "amendments, that make matters worse;"[3]

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains
  To prove—what is granted, nem. con.—
With how moderate a portion of brains
  Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where
  Is the peer with a star at his button,
Whose quarters could ever compare
  With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?[4]

Why, why have ye taken your flight,
  Ye diverting and dignified crew?
How ill do three farces a night,
  At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee,
  My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big
Or where's the burletta can be
  Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig?

I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could
  (Tho' Griffin's a comical lad)
Invent any joke half so good
  As that precious one, "This is too bad!"

Then come again, come again Spring!
  Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train;
And—of all things the funniest—bring
  These exalted Grimaldis again!

[1] One of the shows of London.

[2] More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.

[3] From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons.

[4] The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's "fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.

[5] The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces.

THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION."

1828.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage)
  The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange,
Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage
  Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Tho' the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad,"
  'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends;
And few dogs have such opportunities had
  Of knowing how Lions behave—among friends;

How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks,
  Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;
And 'tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks
  That the Lion was no such great things after all.

Tho' he roared pretty well—this the puppy allows—
  It was all, he says, borrowed—all second-hand roar;
And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows
  To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a Cynic could ask,
  To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits
Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task,
  And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case)
  With sops every day from the Lion's own pan,
He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass.
  And does all a dog so diminutive can.

However, the book's a good book, being rich in
  Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,
How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,
  Who'll feed on them living and foul them when dead.

T. PIDCOCK

Exeter 'Change,

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, Brute!

1828.[1]

What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!
  After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,
  And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;—
  Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!
Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,—
  And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter
  Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine,
Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,
  And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;—
  Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe,[3]
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
  And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.

Some Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)
  A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;—
Not content with the common hot meat on a table,
  They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it![4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found
  Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round
  Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup à la Reine.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,
  Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,
And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings
  Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics—the Bears just as bad—
  The few men who have, and the many who've not tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
  Prince Metternich's pupil, is—not patriotic!

[1] At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves.

[2] Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the year 1827.

[3] Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits—a favorite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.

[4] This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars—the hiding the body under the dinner-table, etc.—is, no doubt, well known to the reader.

THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

1828.

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride,
Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride
Two stately steeds—standing, with graceful straddle,
Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,
While to soft tunes—some jigs and some andantes—
He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;—
Papist and Protestant the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,
And round the ring—each honored, as they go,
With equal pressure from his gracious toe—

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day"
And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way,
While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks.
Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!
How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;—
If Protestant's old restive tricks were gone,
And Papist's winkers could be still kept on!
But no, false hopes—not even the great Ducrow
'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:
If solar hacks played Phaëton a trick,
What hope, alas, from hackneys lunatic?

If once my Lord his graceful balance loses,
Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses;
If Peel but gives one extra touch of whip
To Papist's tail or Protestant's ear-tip—
That instant ends their glorious horsmanship!
Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free.
And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea!

THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

A DREAM.

"Cio che si perde qui, là si raguna." ARIOSTO.

"—-a valley, where he sees Things that on earth were lost." MILTON.

1828.

Knowest thou not him[1] the poet sings,
  Who flew to the moon's serene domain,
And saw that valley where all the things,
  That vanish on earth are found again—
The hopes of youth, the resolves of age,
The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage,
The golden visions of mining cits,
  The promises great men strew about them;
And, packt in compass small, the wits
  Of monarchs who rule as well without them!—
Like him, but diving with wing profound,
I have been to a Limbo underground,
Where characters lost on earth, (and cried,
In vain, like Harris's, far and wide,)
In heaps like yesterday's orts, are thrown
And there, so worthless and flyblown
That even the imps would not purloin them,
Lie till their worthy owners join them.

Curious it was to see this mass
  Of lost and torn-up reputations;—
Some of them female wares, alas!
  Mislaid at innocent assignations;
Some, that had sighed their last amen
  From the canting lips of saints that would be;
And some once owned by "the best of men,"
  Who had proved-no better than they should be.
'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,
  Once shining fair, now soakt and black—
"No wonder" (an imp at my elbow cried),
  "For I pickt it out of a butt of sack!"

Just then a yell was heard o'er head,
  Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons;
And lo! a devil right downward sped,
Bringing within his claws so red
Two statesmen's characters, found, he said,
  Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons;
The which, with black official grin,
He now to the Chief Imp handed in;—
Both these articles much the worse
  For their journey down, as you may suppose;
But one so devilish rank—"Odd's curse!".
  Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.
"Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well
  "From whom these two stray matters fell;"—
Then, casting away, with loathful shrug,
The uncleaner waif (as he would a drug
The Invisible's own dark hand had mixt),
His gaze on the other[2] firm he fixt,
And trying, tho' mischief laught in his eye,
To be moral because of the young imps by,
"What a pity!" he cried—"so fresh its gloss,
"So long preserved—'tis a public loss!
"This comes of a man, the careless blockhead,
"Keeping his character in his pocket;
"And there—without considering whether
"There's room for that and his gains together—
"Cramming and cramming and cramming away,
"Till—out slips character some fine day!

"However"—and here he viewed it round—
"This article still may pass for sound.
"Some flaws, soon patched, some stains are all
"The harm it has had in its luckless fall.
"Here, Puck!" and he called to one of his train—
"The owner may have this back again.
"Tho' damaged for ever, if used with skill,
"It may serve perhaps to trade on still;
"Tho' the gem can never as once be set,
"It will do for a Tory Cabinet."

[1] Astolpho.

[2] Huskisson.

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

qui facit per alium facit per se.

'Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time
  When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes
Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,
  But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters;—
  And one day a Bishop, addressing a Blue,
Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?"
  To which the Blue answered—"No, Bishop, have you?"

The same is now done by our privileged class;
  And to show you how simple the process it needs,
If a great Major-General[1] wishes to pass
  For an author of History, thus he proceeds:—

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well
  As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,
He settles his neckcloth—takes snuff—rings the bell,
  And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

The Subaltern comes—sees his General seated,
  In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;—
"There look," saith his Lordship, "my work is completed,—
"It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling."

Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads
  Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more;
And tho' often condemned to see breaking of heads,
  He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.

However, the job's sure to pay—that's enough—
  So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,
Convinced that there never was job half so tough
As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.

But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view—
  New toil for the Sub.—for the Lord new expense:
'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do,
  As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

At last—even this is achieved by his aid;
  Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and—the story;
Drums beat—the new Grand March of Intellect's played—
  And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!

[1] Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."

Inferno, canto 5.

I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering towards me—blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puft as—tho' they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired
Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
"We once were authors"—thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said—
"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
"Who, early smit with love of praise and—pewter,[1]
"On C—lb—n's shelves first saw the light of day,
"In —-'s puffs exhaled our lives away—
"Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace,
"When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease.
"Ah! little knew we then what ills await
"Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state;
"Bepuft on earth—how loudly Str—t can tell—
"And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!"

  Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew,
Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro'
In mournful prose,—such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost
Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast,
Sighs thro' the columns of the Morning Post,—
Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood
Foremost of all that flatulential brood,
Singling a she-ghost from the party, said,
"Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3]
"One of our lettered nymphs—excuse the pun—
"Who gained a name on earth by—having none;
"And whose initials would immortal be,
"Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.

"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat,
"Wrapt in his own dead rhymes—fit winding-sheet—
"Still marvels much that not a soul should care
"One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'—
"While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew
A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro',
As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre
For the whole Row's soft _trade_winds to inspire,)
"This modest genius breathed one wish alone,
"To have his volume read, himself unknown;
"But different far the course his glory took,
"All knew the author, and—none read the book.

"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun,
"Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington;—
"In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent,
"And now the wind returns the compliment.
"This lady here, the Earl of —-'s sister,
"Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister—
"Beg pardon—Honorable Mister Lister,
"A gentleman who some weeks since came over
"In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover.
"Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey,
"Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away—
"Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind
"No further purchase for a puff can find."

"And thou, thyself"—here, anxious, I exclaimed—
"Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named."
"Me, Sir!" he blushing cried—"Ah! there's the rub—
"Know, then—a waiter once at Brooks's Club,
"A waiter still I might have long remained,
"And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drained;
"But ah! in luckless hour, this last December,
"I wrote a book,[4] and Colburn dubbed me 'Member'—
"'Member of Brooks's!'—oh Promethean puff,
"To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!
"With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits,
"And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits,
"To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;—
"With such ingredients served up oft before,
"But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er,
"I managed for some weeks to dose the town,
"Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down;
"And ready still even waiters' souls to damn,
"The Devil but rang his bell, and—here I am;—
"Yes—'Coming up, Sir,' once my favorite cry,
"Exchanged for 'Coming down, Sir,' here am I!"

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop,
When, lo! a breeze—such as from —-'s shop
Blows in the vernal hour when puffs prevail,
And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale—
Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop,
And whirling him and all his grisly group
Of literary ghosts—Miss X. Y. Z.—
The nameless author, better known than read—
Sir Jo—the Honorable Mr. Lister,
And last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister—
Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes
And sins about them, far into those climes
"Where Peter pitched his waistcoat"[5] in old times,
Leaving me much in doubt as on I prest,
With my great master, thro' this realm unblest,
Whether Old Nick or Colburn puffs the best.

[1] The classical term for money.

[2] Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside—"regnat Rosa"—over its pages.

[3] Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

[4] "History of the Clubs of London," announced as by "a Member of Brooks's."

[5]A Dantesque allusion to the old saying "Nine miles beyond Hell, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."