A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES.

1834.

    "Then I heard one saint speaking, and
    another saint said unto that saint,"

St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth,
That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth.
He had hated priests the whole of his life,
For a priest was a man who had no wife,[1]
And, having no wife, the Church was his mother,
The Church was his father, sister and brother.
This being the case, he was sorry to say
That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,[2]
So deep and wide, scarce possible was it
To say even "how d' ye do?" across it:
And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas,
Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease,
'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make
Your proper, heavy-built Christian take.
No, no,—if a Dance of Sects must be,
He would set to the Baptist willingly,[3]
At the Independent deign to smirk,
And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk;
Nay even, for once, if needs must be,
He'd take hands round with all the three;
But as to a jig with Popery, no,—
To the Harlot ne'er would he point his toe.

St. Mandeville was the next that rose,—
A saint who round as pedler goes
With his pack of piety and prose,
Heavy and hot enough, God knows,—
And he said that Papists were much inclined
To extirpate all of Protestant kind,
Which he couldn't in truth so much condemn,
Having rather a wish to extirpate them;
That is,—to guard against mistake,—
To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake;
A distinction Churchman always make,—
Insomuch that when they've prime control,
Tho' sometimes roasting heretics whole,
They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth,
The spiritual Dogberry of the North,[4]
A right "wise fellow, and what's more,
An officer," like his type of yore;
And he asked if we grant such toleration,
Pray, what's the use of our Reformation?
What is the use of our Church and State?
Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate?
And still as he yelled out "what's the use?"
Old Echoes, from their cells recluse
Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose,
Yelling responsive, "What's the use?"

[1] "He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy bound by the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and brother."—Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, The Times, April 19.

[2] "It had always appeared to him that between the Catholic and Protestant a great gulf intervened, with rendered it impossible," etc.

[3] The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England to any of the other three; but the Catholic," etc.

[4] "Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his consent to a grant of money?" etc.

MORAL POSITIONS.

A DREAM.

    "His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to
    find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage
    had been so long," etc.—Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial
    Slavery, March 8.

T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration
  (A treat that comes once a year as May-day does),
I dreamt that I saw—what a strange operation!
A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes.

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes,
  Packing the article tidy and neat;—
As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes
  "Moral positions" don't keep very sweet.

There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass;
  And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing,
There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass,"
  Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting.
The freight was however stowed safe in the hold;
  The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic,
While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled,
  With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic.
Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made;
  For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer,
By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed,
  And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret,"
  Delivered my goods in the primest condition.
And next morning read in the Bridge-town Gazette,
  "Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position.

"The Captain"—here, startled to find myself named
  As "the Captain"—(a thing which, I own it with pain,
I thro' life have avoided,) I woke—lookt ashamed,
  Found I wasn't a captain and dozed off again.

THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.

1832-3.

    'mutantem regna cometem."
    LUCAN.[1]

"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail,
  "Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us,
"We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;—
  "Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?

"No—'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh;
  "Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters;
"One whisk from that tail as it passes us by
  "Will settle at once all political matters;—

"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers,
  "(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;—
"Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours
  "Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls!

"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock,
  "Meet planets and suns in one general hustle!
"While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock
  "That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell."

Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised,
  His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set:
And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed,
  Much hoped that there would before Parliament met.

And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass,
  "Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries;
While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas!
  From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:—

"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big!
  "Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:—
"And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig,
  "In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind,
  "Londonderry, in vacuo, flaring about;—
"While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind,
  "Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.

"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet;
  "So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale;
"The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it,
  "And plenty of vapor, but—where is the tail?"

Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated—
  For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed,
Which he took to be Cumberland, upwards translated,
  Instead of his natural course, t'other road!

But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,—
  Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces,
Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken,
  And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases.

[1] Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of administrations.

[2] The Duke of Buckingham.

* * * * *

FROM THE HON. HENRY ——, TO LADY EMMA ——.

Paris, March 30,1833.

You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my sweet railer,—
  There are two worthy persons I always feel loath
To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,—
  As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,
  She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,—
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
  A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honor you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle
  As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears;
And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell,
  To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1]
This deluge of coronets frightful to think of;
Which England is now for her sins on the brink of;
This coinage of nobles,—coined all of 'em, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a dis-count most sadly.

Only think! to have Lords over running the nation,
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,—
Things created in haste just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!
The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose
  (My particular friend) says is perfectly true,
That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,
  'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do;
And Sir George even doubts,—could he choose his disorder,—
'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.
This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,
'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma;
And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain,
  To've left idol mio without an addio,
Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan
  I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without—
Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop,
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.
Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles
The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles.
A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened
To think one knows Latin, when—one, perhaps, doesn't;
With some little book about heathen mythology,
Just large enough to refresh one's theology;
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras.
Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

HENRY.

[1] A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.

TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY.

College.—We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car." Dublin Evening Post, Dec. 20, 1832.

Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car,
  Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;-
Fleet chargers drew the God of War,
  Great Cybele was drawn by lions,
And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream,
Drove four young panthers in his team.
Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is,
  Thus, studious of a like turn-out,
He harnesses young sucking dunces,
  To draw him as their Chief about,
And let the world a picture see
Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry:
Showing us how young College hacks
Can pace with bigots at their backs,
As tho' the cubs were born to draw
Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw,
Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift,
  Bright spirits whom, in days of yore,
This Queen of Dulness sent adrift,
  As aliens to her foggy shore;—-
Shade of our glorious Grattan, too,
  Whose very name her shame recalls;
Whose effigy her bigot crew
  Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]—
Bear witness (lest the world should doubt)
  To your mute Mother's dull renown,
Then famous but for Wit turned out,
  And Eloquence turned upside down;
But now ordained new wreaths to win,
  Beyond all fame of former days,
By breaking thus young donkies in
  To draw M.P.s amid the brays
  Alike of donkies and M.A.s;—
  Defying Oxford to surpass 'em
  In this new "Gradus ad Parnassum."

[1] In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan's public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for some time.

TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

Scripta manet.

1833.

'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1]
In letters four and letters three;
And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by
But those awful letters scared his eye;
For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said,
"As long as those words by man were read,
"The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er
"One hour of peace or plenty share."
But years on years successive flew,
And the letters still more legible grew,—
At top, a T, an H, an E,
And underneath, D. E. B. T.

Some thought them Hebrew,—such as Jews
More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use;
While some surmised 'twas an ancient way
Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day
Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias,
Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)
And proved in books most learnedly boring,
'Twas called the Pon_tick_ way of scoring.

Howe'er this be there never were yet
Seven letters of the alphabet,
That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell,
Or scared a Land of Gulls so well,
As did this awful riddle-me-ree
Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

* * * * *

Hark!—it is struggling Freedom's cry;
"Help, help, ye nations, or I die;
"'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field
"Where I expire your doom is sealed."
The Gull-King hears the awakening call,
He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all,
And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we
"Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,
"Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?"
And they answer with voice of thunder, "No."

Out fly their flashing swords in the air!—
But,—why do they rest suspended there?
What sudden blight, what baleful charm,
Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm?
Alas! some withering hand hath thrown
The veil from off that fatal stone,
And pointing now with sapless finger,
Showeth where dark those letters linger,—
Letters four and letters three,
T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

At sight thereof, each lifted brand
Powerless falls from every hand;
In vain the Patriot knits his brow,—
Even talk, his staple, fails him now.
In vain the King like a hero treads,
His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads;
And to all his talk of "brave and free,"
No answer getteth His Majesty
But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T."

In short, the whole Gull nation feels
They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels;
And so, in the face of the laughing world,
Must e'en sit down with banners furled,
Adjourning all their dreams sublime
Of glory and war to-some other time.

[1] Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,—for which see Westminster Abbey.

NOTIONS ON REFORM.

BY A MODERN REFORMER.

Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass
  By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches,
The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas!
  It has caused between Wetherel's waistcoat and breeches.

Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity
  Had oft broken out in that quarter before;
But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity,
  Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more.

Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order,
  Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past;
Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy's border,
  When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast?

Make Wetherel yield to "some sort of Reform"
  (As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;)
And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm
  About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces.

Should those he now sports have been long in possession,
  And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear,
Advise him at least as a prudent concession
  To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair.

Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands,
  With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's,
While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands
  Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets—

Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough,
  To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,—
But must grieve that there's any thing like falling off
  In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?

Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair,
  He began first to court—rather late in the season—
Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair
  Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1]

That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted
  All mongers in both wares to proffer their love;
Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted,
  As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove;

Who in short would not grieve if a man of his graces
  Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past,
The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces,
  Till, some day,—he'll all fall to pieces at last.

[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this allegorical lady had occupied.

TORY PLEDGES.

I pledge myself thro' thick and thin,
  To labor still with zeal devout
To get the Outs, poor devils, in,
  And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, tho' much bereft
  Of ways and means of ruling ill,
To make the most of what are left,
  And stick to all that's rotten still.

Tho' gone the days of place and pelf,
  And drones no more take all the honey,
I pledge myself to cram myself
  With all I can of public money.

To quarter on that social purse
  My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers,
Nor, so we prosper, care a curse
  How much 'tis at the expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right
  And Might on any point divide,
Not to ask which is black or white.
  But take at once the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions,
 I'm for the Reverend encroachers:-
I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,—
  Am for the Squires, against the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor
  I've not the slightest hesitation,—
The People must be starved, to insure
  The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more
  With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,—
I vote her grievances a bore,
  So she may suffer and be damned.

Or if she kick, let it console us,
  We still have plenty of red coats,
To cram the Church, that general bolus,
  Down any given amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,—
  Think newspapers the worst of crimes;
And would, to give some chance of quiet,
  Hang all the writers of "The Times;"

Break all their correspondents' bones,
  All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder,"
From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones,
  To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.

Such are the Pledges I propose;
  And tho' I can't now offer gold,
There's many a way of buying those
  Who've but the taste for being sold.

So here's, with three times three hurrahs,
  A toast of which you'll not complain,—
"Long life to jobbing; may the days
  "Of Peculation shine again!"

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

FIRST VISIT.

1832.

As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,
Was sitting one day in the shades below,
"I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he,
"And shall now take a trip to earth to see
"How far they agree in their lives and ways
"With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learned—but learned without misgivings—
Their love for good living and eke good livings;
Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees)
That good living means claret and fricassees,
While its plural means simply—pluralities.

"From all I hear," said the innocent man,
"They are quite on the good old primitive plan.
"For wealth and pomp they little can care,
"As they all say 'No' to the Episcopal chair;
"And their vestal virtue it well denotes
"That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,
And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's.
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?"
"His Grace!" quoth Jerome—for posed was he,
Not knowing what sort this Grace could be;
Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular,
Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular—[1]

In short he rummaged his holy mind
The exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.
At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,
(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2]
And said—surveying, as sly he spoke,
The costly palace from roof to base—
"Well, it isn't, at least, a saving Grace!"
"Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words,
"The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."

"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son,
"For in my time at least there was but one;
Unless such many-fold priests as these
"Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3]
"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace:
Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face
With a curse to the single knockers all
Went to finish his port in the servants' hall,
And propose a toast (humanely meant
To include even Curates in its extent)
"To all as serves the Establishment."

[1] So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.

[2] Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

[3] The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this passage.

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

SECOND VISIT.

"This much I dare say, that, since lording and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and lorded not; and now they lord and preach not…. Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve." —Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."

"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see
How the Church goes on,"—and off set he.
Just then the packet-boat which trades
Betwixt our planet and the shades
Had arrived below with a freight so queer,
"My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"—
For he saw, when nearer he explored,
They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all,
"Once worn by nobs Episcopal.[1]
"For folks on earth, who've got a store
"Of cast off things they'll want no more,
"Oft send them down, as gifts, you know,
"To a certain Gentleman here below.
"A sign of the times, I plainly see,"
Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he
Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more
"I'll affect a body as before;
"For I think I'd best, in the company
"Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be,
"And glide unseen from See to See."
But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,—
It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw.
For instance, he found Exeter,
Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,—
For love of God? for sake of King?
For good of people?—no such thing;
But to get for himself, by some new trick,
A shove to a better bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert,
Much with his money-bags bewildered;
Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese,
Because the rogues showed restlessness
At having too little cash to touch,
While he so Christianly bears too much.
He found old Sarum's wits as gone
As his own beloved text in John,—[2]
Text he hath prosed so long upon,
That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven,
His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day,"
Said the weary Saint,—"I must away.
"Tho' I own I should like before I go
"To see for once (as I'm askt below
"If really such odd sights exist)
"A regular six-fold Pluralist."
Just then he heard a general cry—
"There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!"
"Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow,"
And off he sets with a loud view-hello,
At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can
A glimpse of this singular plural man.
But,—talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3]
To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.
"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"—
"He is now at his living at Hillingdon."—
"No, no,—you're out, by many a mile,
"He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."—
"Pardon me, sir; but I understand
"He's gone to his living in Cumberland."—
"God bless me, no,—he cant be there;
"You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired,
From living to living, mockt and tired;—
'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there,
'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere;
Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er
And flitted away to the Stygian shore,
To astonish the natives underground
With the comical things he on earth had found.

[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.

[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be in two places at once, unless he was a bird."

THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FÊTE.)[1]

1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised
  'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!
And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised
  To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these,
  Clear the air of that other still viler infection;
That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,
  Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an Auto da Fe
  Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"
They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,
  And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
  A volcano of nonsense in active display;
While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout
  The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,—
  Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!
Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)
  He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fête.—From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.

THE CONSULTATION.[1]

"When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful. The Critic.

1833.

Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the floor between them.

Dr. Whig.—This wild Irish patient does pester me so. That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know. I've promist him anodynes— Dr. Tory. Anodynes!—Stuff. Tie him down—gag him well—he'll be tranquil enough. That's my mode of practice. Dr Whig. True, quite in your line, But unluckily not much, till lately, in mine. 'Tis so painful— Dr. Tory.—Pooh, nonsense—ask Ude how he feels, When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, And letting them wriggle on there till they tire. He, too, says "'tis painful"—"quite makes his heart bleed"— But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."— He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No," And—in short—eels were born to be treated just so.[2] 'Tis the same with these Irish,—who're odder fish still,— Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:— But, in fact, my dear brother,—if I may make bold To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,— We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude, And, indifferent like him,—so the fish is but stewed,— Must torture live Pats for the general good. [Here patient groans and kicks a little.] Dr. Whig.—But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse, That he won't be thus tortured? Dr. Tory. Coerce, sir, coerce. You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You cant think how fast you may train your hand in: And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, He's succeeded by one just as—bad as himself? Dr. Whig (looking flattered).— Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,— [Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat and gag.] And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again. Dr. Tory (embracing him). Oh, charming!-My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure, Next to torturing, myself, to help you is a pleasure. [Assisting Dr. Whig.] Give me leave—I've some practice in these mad machines; There—tighter—the gag in the mouth, by all means. Delightful!—all's snug—not a squeak need you fear,— You may now put your anodynes off till next year. [Scene closes.]

[1] These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.

[2] This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it is the only proper mode of preparing eels for the table.

TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON,

CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK.

AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH.

1833.

Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned,
By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1]
If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight,
Only think, in a Rectory, how you would write!
Once fairly inspired by the "Tithe-crowned Apollo,"
(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow,
Having gotten, besides the old Nine's inspiration,
The Tenth of all eatable things in creation.)
There's nothing in fact that a poet like you,
So be-nined and be-tenthed, couldn't easily do.

Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian[2] they say,
While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay,
Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell
Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell.
Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt,
Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about;
Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation,
Came, shadowing forth his adult destination,
And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves,
Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves.
O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore,
Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er
Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on,
Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan,
Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall,
Without any effort of fancy, at all;
Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find
A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind,
But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce,
By gods yclept anser, by mortals a goose.

[1] "Your Lordship," says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to the Bishop of Chester," has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse will always be a 'Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David's was.'"

[2] Sophocles.

SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED "MATRICULATION."[1]

[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.—
Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

Doctor P.—There, my lad, lie the
Articles—(Boy begins to count them) just thirty nine—
No occasion to count—you've now only to sign.
At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we,
The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three.
Let's run o'er the items;—there 'a Justification,
Predestination, and Supererogation—
Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian,
Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification.
That is sufficient—now, sign—having read quite enough,
You "believe in the full and true meaning thereof?"

(Boy stares.)

Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief,—
A commodious and short make-believe of belief,
Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular
To keep out in general all who're particular.
But what's the boy doing? what! reading all thro',
And my luncheon fast cooling!—this never will do.
Boy (poring over the Articles).—
Here are points which—pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?"
Doctor P. (sharply).—You'll find out, young sir, when
you've more ingenuity.
At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely.
Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely,
Both in dining and signing we take the same plan,—
First, swallow all down, then digest—as we can.
Boy (still reading).—I've to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius's
  Creed,
Which. I'm told, is a very tough morsel indeed;
As he damns—

Doctor P. (aside).—Ay, and so would I, willingly, too, All confounded particular young boobies, like you. This comes of Reforming!—all's o'er with our land, When people wont stand what they can't under-stand; Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine Were made not for men to believe but to sign. Exit Dr. P. in a passion.

[1] It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religious Belief.

LATE TITHE CASE.

"sic vos non vobis."

1833.

"The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage." —Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.

No, not for yourselves, ye reverend men,
Do you take one pig in every ten,
But for Holy Church's future heirs,
Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs;
The law supposing that such heirs male
Are already seized of the pig, in tail.
No, not for himself hath Birmingham's priest
His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced:
But it is that, before his prescient eyes,
All future Vicars of Birmingham rise,
With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces,
And 'tis for them the poor he fleeces.
He heareth their voices, ages hence
Saying, "Take the pig"—"oh take the pence;"
The cries of little Vicarial dears,
The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears;
And, did he resist that soft appeal,
He would not like a true-born Vicar feel.
Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington!
A rector true, if e'er there was one,
Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages,
Gripest the tenths of laborer's wages.[1]
'Tis true, in the pockets of thy small-clothes
The claimed "obvention"[2]of four-pence goes;
But its abstract spirit, unconfined,
Spreads to all future Rector-kind,
Warning them all to their rights to wake,
And rather to face the block, the stake,
Than give up their darling right to take.

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes
(So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms,
And a single four-pence, pocketed well,
Thro' a thousand rectors' lives will tell.
Then still continue, ye reverend souls,
And still as your rich Pactolus rolls,
Grasp every penny on every side,
From every wretch, to swell its tide:
Remembering still what the Law lays down,
In that pure poetic style of its own.
"If the parson in esse submits to loss, he
"Inflicts the same on the parson in posse."

[1] Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and the best paid of the whole not more than 18_l_. annually) were all, in the course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of 4_d_. in the 1_l_. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of Lackington, etc.—The Times, August, 1833.

[2] One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc., are comprised.

FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fool's Paradise,
Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.
But they wanted not in this happy place,
Where a light of its own gilds every face;
Or if some wear a shadowy brow,
'Tis the wish to look wise,—not knowing how.
Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,
The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;
The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,
The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,
The falling founts in a titter fall,
And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace
The scenes I saw in that joyous place.
There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,
In converse sweet, "What charming weather!—
"You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure,
"Lord Charles has got a good sinecure;
"And the Premier says, my youngest brother
"(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

"Isnt this very, very gallant!—
"As for my poor old virgin aunt,
"Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist,
"We must quarter her on the Pension List."
Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled;
It seemed like an Age of real gold,
Where all who liked might have a slice,
So rich was that Fools' Paradise.

But the sport at which most time they spent,
Was a puppet-show, called Parliament
Performed by wooden Ciceros,
As large as life, who rose to prose,
While, hid behind them, lords and squires,
Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires;
And thought it the very best device
Of that most prosperous Paradise,
To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose
For them and their wooden Ciceros.

And many more such things I saw
In this Eden of Church and State and Law;
Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk
As those who had the best of the joke.
There were Irish Rectors, such as resort
To Cheltenham yearly, to drink—port,
And bumper, "Long may the Church endure,
"May her cure of souls be a sinecure,
"And a score of Parsons to every soul
"A moderate allowance on the whole."
There were Heads of Colleges lying about,
From which the sense had all run out,
Even to the lowest classic lees,
Till nothing was left but quantities;
Which made them heads most fit to be
Stuck up on a University,
Which yearly hatches, in its schools,
Such flights of young Elysian fools.
Thus all went on, so snug and nice,
In this happiest possible Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas!
That a downfall soon must come to pass.
For grief is a lot the good and wise
Dont quite so much monopolize,
But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are)
Even blessed fools must have their share.
And so it happened:—but what befell,
In Dream the Second I mean to tell.