THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.
ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator.
OVID.
The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame,
"If ever the sound of Marathon's name
Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow,
"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"
The Benthamite yawning left his bed—
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye,
And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose—so much per cent.
(As we see in a glass that tells the weather
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again;—
He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost—how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)
"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,
Then melting away like a night-dream fled!
The Benthamite hears—amazed that ghosts
Could be such fools—and away he posts,
A patriot still? Ah no, ah no—
Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,
And warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par,
The Benthamite's ardor fast decays,
By turns he weeps and swears and prays.
And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss.
They quote him the Stock of various nations,
But, spite of his classic associations,
Lord! how he loathes the Greek quotations!
"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?"
Is now the theme of the patriot's lip,
As he runs to tell how hard his lot is
To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,
And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,
"Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break
"Those dark, unholy bonds of thine—
"If you'll only consent to buy up mine!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;—
His brow like the night was lowering o'er,
And he said, with a look that flasht dismay,
"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they,
"Who turn to a trade her cause divine,
"And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"
Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry—
And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!
ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!
REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY—ONE GALT AT THE HEAD OF IT.
God preserve us!—there's nothing now safe from assault;—
Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer;
And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. Galt
Has declared open war against English and Grammar!
He had long been suspected of some such design,
And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at,
Had lately 'mong Colburn's troops of the line
(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.
There schooled, with a rabble of words at command,
Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance.
He at length against Syntax has taken his stand,
And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.
Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford:
In the mean time the danger most imminent grows,
He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord,
And whom he'll next murder the Lord only knows.
Wednesday evening.
Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene;
Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection,
Has seized a great Powder—no, Puff Magazine,
And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.
What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,
As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration)
Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2]
And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3]
Now, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet, Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4] Now, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet, With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5]
We shudder in tracing these terrible lines;
Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out;
For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs,
That they're all Anti-English no Christian can doubt.
[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."—GALT'S Life of Byron.
[2] "The gelatinous character of their effusions." Ibid.
[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."— Ibid.
[4] "Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate melody."—Ibid.
[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."— Ibid.
RESOLUTIONS
PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.
Resolved—to stick to every particle
Of every Creed and every Article;
Reforming naught, or great or little,
We'll stanchly stand by every tittle,
And scorn the swallow of that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1]
Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious—
Tho' wide and far his curses fall,
Our Church "hath stomach for them all;"
And those who're not content with such,
May e'en be damned ten times as much.
Resolved—such liberal souls are we—
Tho' hating Nonconformity,
We yet believe the cash no worse is
That comes from Nonconformist purses.
Indifferent whence the money reaches
The pockets of our reverend breeches,
To us the Jumper's jingling penny
Chinks with a tone as sweet as any;
And even our old friends Yea and Nay
May thro' the nose for ever pray,
If also thro' the nose they'll pay.
Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3]
And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err,
In taking such a low-bred view
Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:—
All owing to the fact, poor men,
That Mother Church was modest then,
Nor knew what golden eggs her goose,
The Public, would in time produce.
One Pisgah peep at modern Durham
To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.
Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords
Whose income just enough affords
To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey,
Are told by Antiquarians prosy
How ancient Bishops cut up theirs,
Giving the poor the largest shares—
Our answer is, in one short word,
We think it pious but absurd.
Those good men made the world their debtor,
But we, the Church reformed, know better;
And taking all that all can pay,
Balance the account the other way.
Resolved our thanks profoundly due are
To last month's Quarterly Reviewer,
Who proves by arguments so clear
(One sees how much he holds per year)
That England's Church, tho' out of date,
Must still be left to lie in state,
As dead, as rotten and as grand as
The mummy of King Osymandyas,
All pickled snug—the brains drawn out—
With costly cerements swathed about,—
And "Touch me not," those words terrific,
Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.
[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was—"Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks—"Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a tittle amiss, in it."
[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it were sufficient."—On the Commandments, p. 72.
[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve."—Lat. Serm.
[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.—Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix.
SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.
"nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent." PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.
As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First's high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of Courts
Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]
Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!—
It chanced to be too a Sabbath day
When the people from church were coming away;
And Andrew with horror heard this song.
As the smiling sinners flockt along;—
"Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"For a week of work and a Sunday of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."
"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess,"
And he grinned with conscious holiness.
But the song went on, and, to brim the cup
Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!
"Come, take out the lasses—let's have a dance—
"For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,
"Well knowing that no one's the more in advance
"On the road to heaven, for standing still.
"Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces
"Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
"Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,
"Alone should sit among cherubs above.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.
"For Sunday fun we never can fail,
"When the Church herself each sport points out;—
"There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
"And a May-pole high to dance about.
"Or should we be for a pole hard driven,
"Some lengthy saint of aspect fell,
"With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven,
"Will do for a May-pole just as well.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"A week of work and a Sabbath of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."
To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke,
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)
That since that dream—which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise.
Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies—
He has viewed things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line—
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:—
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley
To bring in a Bill enacting duly
That all good Protestants from this date
May freely and lawfully recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,
With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.
[1] The Book of Sports drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May poles, or other sports therewith used." etc.
A BLUE LOVE SONG.
TO MISS——-.
Air-"Come live with me and be my love."
Come wed with me and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,
While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
'Tis true, even books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother,—
While printers' devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 'tis to hear
From male or female—as it may be—
"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?"
And whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books if rickety may go
And be well dry-nurst in the Row;
And when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row's expense.
Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outscrips all moderation,
That even prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Lettered at back and stitched together
Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em,
With naught but—literature betwixt 'em.
[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."—Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."
SUNDAY ETHICS.
A SCOTCH ODE.
Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true,
We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell,
A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel
Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.
So at least ye may reckon for one day entire
In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh,
As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,
An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire
Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.
For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;"
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.
As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.
Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries,
"Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew!
"Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies,
"For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise
"In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!
Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad
To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too;
That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad
Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad—
But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.
If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right
To gang to the deevil—as maist o' 'em do—
To stop them our Andie would think na polite;
And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't)
But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.
[1] Servants in livery.
AWFUL EVENT.
Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it),
Winehelsea's Earl hath cut the British Senate—
Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,
"That for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!
Disastrous news!—like that of old which spread,
From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead,"
O'er the cross benches (cross from being crost)
Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"
Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget
The deep impression of that awful threat,
"I quit your house!!"—midst all that histories tell,
I know but one event that's parallel:—
It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night,
When the gay gods too blest to be polite
Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius,
Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious—
A well-drest member of the middle gallery,
Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie,
Rose in his place—so grand, you'd almost swear
Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there—
And like that Lord of dignity and nous,
Said, "Silence, fellows, or—I'll leave the house!!"
How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,
That speech so fine should be so thrown away!
In vain did this mid-gallery grandee
Assert his own two-shilling dignity—
In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray
Of his own full-price countenance away—
Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,
And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the gods!
THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.
PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE,
"COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."
"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."
Bishop of London's late Charge.
"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent."
Claudian in Eutrop.
Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]
Oh there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]
Count the cormorants hovering about,[3]
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest's in play,
And not minding the farmer's distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4]
On the way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you've given,
We still shall be craving for more.
Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment.
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.
[1]
Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
[2]
For whilst I love thee above measure,
To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.
[3]
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, etc.
[4]
Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many sands on the shore,
When so many kisses you've given,
I still shall be craving for more.
A SAD CASE.
"If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters?" —The Times, March 25.
How sad a case!—just think of it—
If Goulburn junior should be bit
By some insane Dissenter, roaming
Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming,
And with that aspect ultra crabbed
Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid!
God only knows what mischiefs might
Result from this one single bite,
Or how the venom, once suckt in,
Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin.
Mad folks of all denominations
First turn upon their own relations:
So that one Goulburn, fairly bit,
Might end in maddening the whole kit,
Till ah! ye gods! we'd have to rue
Our Goulburn senior bitten too;
The Hychurchphobia in those veins,
Where Tory blood now redly reigns;—
And that dear man who now perceives
Salvation only in lawn sleeves,
Might, tainted by such coarse infection,
Run mad in the opposite direction.
And think, poor man, 'tis only given
To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!
Just fancy what a shock 'twould be
Our Goulburn in his fits to see,
Tearing into a thousand particles
His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles;
(Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1]
For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;)
Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers—
Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers—
Pelting the church with blasphemies,
Even worse than Parson Beverley's;—
And ripe for severing Church and State,
Like any creedless reprobate,
Or like that class of Methodists
Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"
But 'tis too much—the Muse turns pale,
And o'er the picture drops a veil,
Praying, God save the Goulburns all
From mad Dissenters great and small!
[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of Christianity."
A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.
—risum tenaetis, amici
"The longer one lives, the more one learns,"
Said I, as off to sleep I went,
Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns,
And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1]
On the Irish Church Establishment.
But lo! in sleep not long I lay,
When Fancy her usual tricks began,
And I found myself bewitched away
To a goodly city in Hindostan—
A city where he who dares to dine
On aught but rice is deemed a sinner;
Where sheep and kine are held divine,
And accordingly—never drest for dinner.
"But how is this?" I wondering cried—
As I walkt that city fair and wide,
And saw, in every marble street,
A row of beautiful butchers' shops—
"What means, for men who don't eat meat,
"This grand display of loins and chops?"
In vain I askt—'twas plain to see
That nobody dared to answer me.
So on from street to street I strode:
And you can't conceive how vastly odd
The butchers lookt—a roseate crew,
Inshrined in stalls with naught to do;
While some on a bench, half dozing, sat,
And the Sacred Cows were not more fat.
Still posed to think what all this scene
Of sinecure trade was meant to mean,
"And, pray," askt I—"by whom is paid
The expense of this strange masquerade?"—
"The expense!—oh! that's of course defrayed
(Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers)
"By yonder rascally rice-consumers."
"What! they who mustn't eat meat!"—
No matter—
(And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,)
"The rogues may munch their Paddy crop,
"But the rogues must still support our shop,
"And depend upon it, the way to treat
"Heretical stomachs that thus dissent,
"Is to burden all that won't eat meat,
"With a costly MEAT ESTABLISHMENT."
On hearing these words so gravely said,
With a volley of laughter loud I shook,
And my slumber fled and my dream was sped,
And I found I was lying snug in bed,
With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS'S book.
[1] An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets.
THE BRUNSWICK CLUB.
A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy.
Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828.
Private,—Lord Belzebub presents
To the Brunswick Club his compliments.
And much regrets to say that he
Can not at present their Patron be.
In stating this, Lord Belzebub
Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club,
That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack
Of zeal or fire he thus holds back—
As even Lord Coal himself is not[1]
For the Orange party more red-hot:
But the truth is, still their Club affords
A somewhat decenter show of Lords,
And on its list of members gets
A few less rubbishy Baronets,
Lord Belzebub must beg to be
Excused from keeping such company.
Who the devil, he humbly begs to know,
Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo?
Or who, with a grain of sense, would go
To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo?
What living creature—except his nurse—
For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse,
Or think 'twould matter if Lord Muskerry
Were 'tother side of the Stygian ferry?
Breathes there a man in Dublin town,
Who'd give but half of half-a-crown
To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne,
Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in
Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn?
In short, tho' from his tenderest years,
Accustomed to all sorts of Peers,
Lord Belzebub much questions whether
He ever yet saw mixt together
As 'twere in one capacious tub.
Such a mess of noble silly-bub
As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club.
'Tis therefore impossible that Lord B.
Could stoop to such society,
Thinking, he owns (tho' no great prig),
For one in his station 'twere infra dig.
But he begs to propose, in the interim
(Till they find some properer Peers for him),
His Highness of Cumberland, as Sub
To take his place at the Brunswick Club—
Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub
Their obedient servant,
BELZEBUB.
It luckily happens, the Royal Duke
Resembles so much, in air and look,
The head of the Belzebub family,
That few can any difference see;
Which makes him of course the better suit
To serve as Lord B.'s substitute.
[1] Usually written Cole.
PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY.
ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING.
—"quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras." VERGIL.
As Whig Reform has had its range,
And none of us are yet content,
Suppose, my friends, by way of change,
We try a Female Parliament;
And since of late with he M.P.'s
We've fared so badly, take to she's—
Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells,
Burdetts in blonde and Broughams in bustles.
The plan is startling, I confess—
But 'tis but an affair of dress;
Nor see I much there is to choose
'Twixt Ladies (so they're thorough-bred ones)
In ribands of all sorts of hues,
Or Lords in only blue or red ones.
At least the fiddlers will be winners,
Whatever other trade advances
As then, instead of Cabinet dinners
We'll have, at Almack's, Cabinet dances;
Nor let this world's important questions
Depend on Ministers' digestions.
If Ude's receipts have done things ill,
To Weippert's band they may go better;
There's Lady **, in one quadrille,
Would settle Europe, if you'd let her:
And who the deuce or asks or cares
When Whigs or Tories have undone 'em,
Whether they've danced thro' State affairs,
Or simply, dully, dined upon 'em?
Hurrah then for the Petticoats!
To them we pledge our free-born votes;
We'll have all she, and only she—
Pert blues shall act as "best debaters,"
Old dowagers our Bishops be,
And termagants our agitators.
If Vestris to oblige the nation
Her own Olympus will abandon
And help to prop the Administration,
It can't have better legs to stand on.
The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show
Each evening, forth in learned oration;
Shall move (midst general cries of "Oh!")
For full returns of population:
And finally to crown the whole,
The Princess Olive, Royal soul,[1]
Shall from her bower in Banco Regis,
Descend to bless her faithful lieges,
And mid our Union's loyal chorus
Reign jollily for ever o'er us.
[1] A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at that period.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *.
Sir,
Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of his declared hostility to "anthems, solos, duets,"[1] etc., I took the liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning and lose no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.
Yours, etc.
P. P.
[1] In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832.
LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA
—in Metii decenaat Judicis aures.
HORAT.
As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,
Revolving much his own renown,
And hoping to add thereto a ray
By putting duets and anthems down,
Sudden a strain of choral sounds
Mellifluous o'er his senses stole;
Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!"
For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.
Then starting up he saw a sight
That well might shock so learned a snorer—
Saint Cecilia robed in light
With a portable organ slung before her.
And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings,
Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting,
So begged they'd sit—but ah! poor things,
They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.
"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns,
"And indeed that musical snore betrayed you,
"Myself and my choir of cherubims
"Are come for a while to serenade you."
In vain did the horrified Henley say
"'Twas all a mistake—she was misdirected;"
And point to a concert over the way
Where fiddlers and angels were expected.
In vain—the Saint could see in his looks
(She civilly said) much tuneful lore;
So at once all opened their music-books,
And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.
All night duets, terzets, quartets,
Nay, long quintets most dire to hear;
Ay, and old motets and canzonets
And glees in sets kept boring his ear.
He tried to sleep—but it wouldn't do;
So loud they squalled, he must attend to 'em.
Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew
Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.
Oh judgment dire on judges bold,
Who meddle with music's sacred strains!
Judge Midas tried the same of old
And was punisht like Henley for his pains.
But worse on the modern judge, alas!
Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne;
For Midas was given the ears of an ass,
While Henley is doomed to keep his own!
ADVERTISEMENT.[1]
1830.
Missing or lost, last Sunday night,
A Waterloo coin whereon was traced
The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright,
Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.
The metal thereof is rough and hard,
And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass;
But it bears the stamp of Fame's award,
And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.
How it was lost God only knows,
But certain City thieves, they say,
Broke in on the owner's evening doze,
And filched this "gift of gods" away!
One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect,
If we hadn't that evening chanced to see,
At the robbed man's door a Mare elect
With an ass to keep her company.
Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows,
Is begged to state all facts about it,
As the owner can't well face his foes,
Nor even his friends just now without it.
And if Sir Clod will bring it back,
Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able,
He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2]
That's left in old King George's stable.
[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.
[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least conspicuous.
MISSING.
Carlton Terrace, 1832.
Whereas, Lord —— de ——
Left his home last Saturday,
And, tho' inquired for round and round
Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found;
And whereas, none can solve our queries
As to where this virtuous Peer is,
Notice is hereby given that all
May forthwith to inquiring fall,
As, once the thing's well set about,
No doubt but we shall hunt him out.
His Lordship's mind, of late, they say,
Hath been in an uneasy way,
Himself and colleagues not being let
To climb into the Cabinet,
To settle England's state affairs,
Hath much, it seems, _un_settled theirs;
And chief to this stray Plenipo
Hath been a most distressing blow.
Already,-certain to receive a
Well-paid mission to the Neva,
And be the bearer of kind words
To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,-
To fit himself for free discussion,
His Lordship had been learning Russian;
And all so natural to him were
The accents of the Northern bear,
That while his tones were in your ear, you
Might swear you were in sweet Siberia.
And still, poor Peer, to old and young,
He goes on raving in that tongue;
Tells you how much you would enjoy a
Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1]
Talks of such places by the score on
As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2]
And swears (for he at nothing sticks)
That Russia swarms with Raskolniks,
Tho' one such Nick, God knows, must be
A more than ample quantity.
Such are the marks by which to know
This strayed or stolen Plenipo;
And whosoever brings or sends
The unhappy statesman to his friends
On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks,
And—any paper but the Bank's.
P.S.—Some think the disappearance
Of this our diplomatic Peer hence
Is for the purpose of reviewing,
In person, what dear Mig is doing,
So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters
'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,—
The only "wretches" for whose aid[3]
Letters seem not to have been made.
[1] In the Government of Perm.
[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.
[3] "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." POPE.
THE DANCE OF BISHOPS;
OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE.[1]
A DREAM.
1833.
"Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first Bishops were called praesules[2] for other reason than that they led off these dances."—"Cyclopaedia," art. Dances.
I've had such a dream—a frightful dream—
Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem,
By all who regard the Church, like us,
'Twill be thought exceedingly ominous!
As reading in bed I lay last night—
Which (being insured) is my delight—
I happened to doze off just as I got to
The singular fact which forms my motto.
Only think, thought I, as I dozed away,
Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay!
Clerks, curates and rectors capering all
With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball!
Scarce had my eyelids time to close,
When the scene I had fancied before me rose—
An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand
As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand.
For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees
To make it a Dance of Dignities,
And I saw—oh brightest of Church events!
A quadrille of the two Establishments,
Bishop to Bishop vis-à-vis,
Footing away prodigiously.
There was Bristol capering up to Derry,
And Cork with London making merry;
While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so,
Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe.
There was Chester, hatched by woman's smile,
Performing a chaine des Dames in style;
While he who, whene'er the Lords' House dozes,
Can waken them up by citing Moses,[3]
The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry
To set, en avant, to Canterbury.
Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets,
(All out of date like spent skyrockets,)
Our Exeter stood forth to caper,
As high on the floor as he doth on paper—
like a dapper Dancing Dervise,
Who pirouettes his whole church-service—
Performing, midst those reverend souls,
Such entrechats, such cabrioles,
Such balonnés, such—rigmaroles,
Now high, now low, now this, that,
That none could guess what the devil he'd be at;
Tho', watching his various steps, some thought
That a step in the Church was all he sought.
But alas, alas! while thus so gay.
These reverend dancers friskt away,
Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he
Of the Opera-house) could brisker be,
There gathered a gloom around their glee—
A shadow which came and went so fast,
That ere one could say "'Tis there," 'twas past—
And, lo! when the scene again was cleared,
Ten of the dancers had disappeared!
Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept
From the hallowed floor where late they stept,
While twelve was all that footed it still,
On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille!
Nor this the worst:—still danced they on,
But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone;
And again from time to time the same
Ill-omened darkness round them came—
While still as the light broke out anew,
Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two;
Till ah! at last there were only found
Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round;
And when I awoke, impatient getting,
I left the last holy pair poussetting!
N.B.—As ladies in years, it seems,
Have the happiest knack at solving dreams,
I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends
Of the Standard to say what this portends.
[1] Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics.
[2] Literally, First Dancers.
[3] "And what does Moses say?"—One of the ejaculations with which this eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question.
DICK * * * *
A CHARACTER.
Of various scraps and fragments built,
Borrowed alike from fools and wits,
Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt,
Made up of new, old, motley bits—
Where, if the Co. called in their shares,
If petticoats their quota got
And gowns were all refunded theirs,
The quilt would look but shy, God wot.
And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking,
Reversed ventriloquism's trick,
For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking,
'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick.
A Tory now, all bounds exceeding,
Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats;
One day with Malthus, foe to breeding,
The next with Sadler, all for brats.
Poor Dick!—and how else could it be?
With notions all at random caught,
A sort of mental fricassee,
Made up of legs and wings of thought—
The leavings of the last Debate, or
A dinner, yesterday, of wits,
Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter,
Had the scraps for perquisites.