THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;
OR, ONE POUND TWO.
"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."—Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons.
The account is balanced—the bill drawn out,—
The debit and credit all right, no doubt—
The Rector rolling in wealth and state,
Owes to his Curate six pound eight;
The Curate, that least well-fed of men,
Owes to his Rector seven pound ten,
Which maketh the balance clearly due
From Curate to Rector, one pound two.
Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven!
But sure to be all set right in heaven,
Where bills like these will be checkt, some day,
And the balance settled the other way:
Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum
Will back to his shade with interest come;
And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue
This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.
PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.
1833.
About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,
Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
As good raw material for settlers, abroad.
Some West-India island, whose name I forget,
Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic;
And such the success the first colony met,
That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.
Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore,
Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,
And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,
They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.
And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came—
"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"
While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name
Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!
Can it possibly be?—half amazement—half doubt,
Pat listens again—rubs his eyes and looks steady;
Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,
"Good Lord! only think,—black and curly already!"
Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears,
Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures,
And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,
To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!
MORAL.
'Tis thus,—but alas! by a marvel more true
Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,—
Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,
By a lusus naturae, all turn into Tories.
And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise,
Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady,
I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,
"Good Lord! only think,—black and curly already!"
COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM.
FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS.
1833.
Fine figures of speech let your orators follow,
Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow.
Tho' famed for his rules Aristotle may be,
In but half of this Sage any merit I see,
For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "tottle" for me!
For instance, while others discuss and debate,
It is thus about Bishops I ratiocinate.
In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter,
'Tis certain our souls are lookt very well after,
Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered)
Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.—
Said number of parishes, under said teachers,
Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,—
So that each of said Bishops full ably controls
One million and five hundred thousands of souls.
And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we're told, Half a million includes the whole Protestant fold; If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded Two proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, 'Tis plain, for the Irish half million who want 'em, One-third of one Bishop is just the right quantum. And thus, by old Cocker's sublime Rule of Three, The Irish Church question's resolved to a T; Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too.
Nay, if—as St. Roden complains is the case—
The half million of soul is decreasing apace,
The demand, too, for bishop will also fall off,
Till the tithe of one, taken in kind be enough.
But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect,
And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object.
We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare,
Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair,
And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch.
We'll let her have Exeter, sole, as her Church.
LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.
1834.
"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons."—"Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," chap. xii.
It being an object now to meet
With Parsons that dont want to eat,
Fit men to fill those Irish rectories,
Which soon will have but scant refectories,
It has been suggested,—lest that Church
Should all at once be left in the lurch
For want of reverend men endued
With this gift of never requiring food,—
To try, by way of experiment, whether
There couldnt be made of wood and leather,[1]
(Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,)
Jointed figures, not lay,[2] but clerical,
Which, wound up carefully once a week,
Might just like parsons look and speak,
Nay even, if requisite, reason too,
As well as most Irish parsons do.
The experiment having succeeded quite,
(Whereat those Lords must much delight,
Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food,
They think it isnt for her spiritual good
To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,)
The Patentees of this new invention
Beg leave respectfully to mention,
They now are enabled to produce
An ample supply for present use,
Of these reverend pieces of machinery,
Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery,
Or any such-like post of skill
That wood and leather are fit to fill.
N.B.—In places addicted to arson,
We cant recommend a wooden parson:
But if the Church any such appoints,
They'd better at least have iron joints.
In parts, not much by Protestants haunted,
A figure to look at's all that's wanted—
A block in black, to eat and sleep,
Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap.
P.S.—Should the Lords, by way of a treat,
Permit the clergy again to eat,
The Church will of course no longer need
Imitation-parsons that never feed;
And these wood creatures of ours will sell
For secular purposes just as well—
Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout,
May, 'stead of beating their own about,
Be knocking the brains of Papists out;
While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means,
Should transmigrate into turning machines.
[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.
[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay figures".
HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.
ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1]
1834.
Choose some title that's dormant—the Peerage hath many—
Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any.
Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer,
And marry him, off hand, in some given year,
To the daughter of somebody,—no matter who,—
Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do;
For, the Medici pills still in heraldry tell,
And why shouldn't lollypops quarter as well?
Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin,
Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen;
And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em,
You can't somehow manage to prove yourself one of 'em.
Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory,
Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory,
I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular,
One grand rule of enterprise,—don't be particular.
A man who once takes such a jump at nobility,
Must not mince the matter, like folks of nihility,
But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.
'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings,
Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things;
As oft, when the vision is near brought about,
Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out;
Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods,
And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds.
But there are ways—when folks are resolved to be lords—
Of expurging even troublesome parish records.
What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir
Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair,
As whate'er else the learned in such lore may invent,
Your scissors does wonders in proving descent.
Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears
With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers,
But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands
Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands
O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array,
And sweeps at each cut generations away.
By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?
One snip,—and the urchin hath never existed!
Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere
With his one sublime object of being a Peer?
Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,—
No such people have ever lived, married or died!
Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves,
Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves.
Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage,
Take S—m for thy model and B—z for thy steerage,
Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does,
And—who knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?
[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.
THE DUKE IS THE LAD.
Air.—"A master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping dreary dun."
"Castle of Andalusia."
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass.
Galloping, dreary duke;
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,
With his charger prancing,
Grim eye glancing,
Chin, like a Mufti,
Grizzled and tufty,
Galloping, dreary Duke.
Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood
Of this galloping dreary Duke;
Avoid him, all who see no good
In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood.
For, surely, no nymph is
Fond of a grim phiz.
And of the married,
Whole crowds have miscarried
At sight of this dreary Duke.
EPISTLE
FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.
Southampton.
As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted
To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,
Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,
And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,
To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,
I take up my pen, and with news of this earth
Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.
In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,
Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,
I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore
You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.
Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,
And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy,
A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.
Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile,
I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle,
(A conveyance you ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully,
And therefore, per next, I'll describe it more fully,)
Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly,
That England's o'errun by idolaters lately,
Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone,
Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone.
Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black,
Who from sports continental was hurrying back,
To look after his tithes;—seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow,
That just as of old your great idol, Apollo,
Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question,
These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion,
And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises,
May eat up the tithe-pig which he idolizes.
London.
'Tis all but too true—grim Idolatry reigns
In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains!
On arriving just now, as my first thought and care
Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer,
Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on,
I was shown to—what think you?—a downright Pantheon!
A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls,
Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;—
Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew
Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue;
And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1]
That he ever carv'd stranger than these I much doubt.
Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces,
And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places,
I shouldnt much mind,—for in this classic dome
Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home.
But the gods they've got here!—such a queer omnium gatherum
Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;—
Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,—
Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,—
Father Nile, too,—a portrait, (in spite of what's said,
That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his head,)
And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't,
Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;—
Not to mention the et caeteras of Genii and Sphinxes,
Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;—
Sea Captains,[2]—the idols here most idolized;
And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized
Among ready-made Saints, as they died cannonized;
With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities,
Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis;
Nor know I what better the Rector could do
Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too;
As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is
A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.
But I'm called off to dinner—grace just has been said,
And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.
[1] Joshua xxiv 2.
[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.
LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1]
at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.
vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas.
OVID. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.
Go, Brothers in wisdom—go, bright pair of Peers,
And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The one, the best lover we have—of his years,
And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.
Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile
Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;
Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,
And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.
Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,
Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,
But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough
To translate "Amor Fortis" a love, about forty!
And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars,
From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't,
That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "My stars!"
And forget that the Moon, too, was some way concerned in't.
For not the great Regent himself has endured
(Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine,
Till he lookt like a house that was over insured)
A much heavier burden of glories than thine.
And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is,
Or any young ladies can so go astray,
As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies,
The stars are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!
Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories,
Thou Malaprop Cicero, over whose lips
Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories,"
And "nullidge," and "features," like syllabub slips.
Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation
Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours,
Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation
Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.
Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers,
And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The one, the best lover we have—of his years,
And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.
[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.
[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious transactions took place—we should read "at Vienna."
TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.
Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.
So may my Lady's prayers prevail,
And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,
And Eldon beg a favoring gale
From Eolus, that older Bags,
To speed thee on thy destined way,
Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,
Our gracious Regent's better half
And therefore quarter of a King—
(As Van or any other calf
May find without much figuring).
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,
Waft this Lord of place and pelf,
Any where his Lordship pleases,
Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!
Oh, what a face of brass was his.
Who first at Congress showed his phiz—
To sign away the Rights of Man
To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;
And leave the sinking African
To fall without one saving struggle—
'Mong ministers from North and South,
To show his lack of shame and sense,
And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth"
For blunders and for eloquence!
In vain we wish our Secs, at home
To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,
If silly Secs, abroad will roam
And make such noodles of themselves.
But such hath always been the case—
For matchless impudence of face,
There's nothing like your Tory race!
First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor, for our ease,
With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,
And other deadly maladies.
When each in turn had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs:
And oh! I blush, I blush to say,
When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious TEMPLE flew away
With lots of pens he had no right to.[1]
In short, what will not mortal man do?
And now, that—strife and bloodshed past—
We've done on earth what harm we can do,
We gravely take to heaven at last
And think its favoring smile to purchase
(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by—building churches!
[1] This alludes to the 1200_l_. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of vacating his place.
SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.
"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose,
"Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose
"Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say,
"They've not known its equal for many a long day."
Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady,
And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.
"So, now for the ingredients:—first, hand me that bishop;"
Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up
From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em
The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom;
And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze,
And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose)
In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews,
Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst
From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!
"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame—
"He who's called after Harry the Older, by name."
"The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em—
"Why talk of one Ex, when your Mischief has two of 'em?"
"True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves,
"And a double-Ex dose they compose, in themselves."
This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly,
Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly.
So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising)
Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising;
While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted
With joy to see spirits so twin-like united—
Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather,
In one mess of venom thus spitted together.
Here a flashy imp rose—some connection, no doubt,
Of the young lord in question—and, scowling about,
"Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out;
"As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree,
"Loved mischief, pure mischief, more dearly than he."
But, no—the wise hag wouldnt hear of the whipster;
Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her,
And nature had given him, to keep him still young,
Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue;
But because she well knew that, for change ever ready,
He'd not even to mischief keep properly steady:
That soon even the wrong side would cease to delight,
And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the right;
While, on each, so at random his missiles he threw,
That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two.—
This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf,
There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself.
"And now," quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed.
And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside,
"There wants but some seasoning;—so, come, ere I stew 'em,
"By way of a relish we'll throw in John Tuam.'
"In cooking up mischief, there's no flesh or fish
"Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish."
Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama—
Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama.
[1] To lose no drop of the immortal man.
[2] The present Bishop of Exeter.
ANIMAL MAGNETISM.
Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day,
Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet,
To say nothing of all the wonders done
By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson,
When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he
Up waves his arm, and—down drops Okey![1]
Tho' strange these things, to mind and sense,
If you wish still stranger things to see—
If you wish to know the power immense
Of the true magnetic influence,
Just go to her Majesty's Treasury,
And learn the wonders working there—
And I'll be hanged if you dont stare!
Talk of your animal magnetists,
And that wave of the hand no soul resists,
Not all its witcheries can compete
With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street,
Which a Premier gives to one who wishes
To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes.
It actually lifts the lucky elf,
Thus acted upon, above himself;—
He jumps to a state of clairvoyance,
And is placeman, statesman, all, at once!
These effects, observe (with which I begin),
Take place when the patient's motioned in;
Far different of course the mode of affection,
When the wave of the hand's in the out direction;
The effects being then extremely unpleasant,
As is seen in the case of Lord Brougham, at present;
In whom this sort of manipulation,
Has lately produced such inflammation,
Attended with constant irritation,
That, in short—not to mince his situation—
It has workt in the man a transformation
That puzzles all human calculation!
Ever since the fatal day which saw
That "pass" performed on this Lord of Law—
A pass potential, none can doubt,
As it sent Harry Brougham to the right about—
The condition in which the patient has been
Is a thing quite awful to be seen.
Not that a casual eye could scan
This wondrous change by outward survey;
It being, in fact, the interior man
That's turned completely topsy-turvy:—
Like a case that lately, in reading o'er 'em,
I found in the Acta Eruditorum,
Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed,
The whole order of things was found transposed;
By a lusus naturae, strange to see,
The liver placed where the heart should be,
And the spleen (like Brougham's, since laid on the shelf)
As diseased and as much out of place as himself.
In short, 'tis a case for consultation,
If e'er there was one, in this thinking nation;
And therefore I humbly beg to propose,
That those savans who mean, as the rumor goes,
To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case,
Should also Lord Parry's case embrace;
And inform us, in both these patients' states,
Which ism it is that predominates,
Whether magnetism and somnambulism,
Or, simply and solely, mountebankism.
[1] The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London Hospital.
THE SONG OF THE BOX.
Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans,
And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock;
They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins
Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.
Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?—Oh, it isn't
By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;—
Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned,
She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.
How snug!—'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions,
Blown this way and that, by the "populi vox,"
To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,
And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.
Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom—
So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes;
But mute be our troops, when to ambush we lead 'em,
"For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box.
Pure, exquisite Box! no corruption can soil it;
There's Otto of Rose in each breath it unlocks;
While Grote is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet,
And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.
'Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius
(A namesake of Grote's—being both of Dutch stocks),
Like Grote, too, a genius profound as precocious,
Was also, like him, much renowned for a Box;—
An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius
When suffering in prison for views heterodox,
Was packt up incog. spite of jailers ferocious,[1]
And sent to his wife,[2] carriage free, in a Box!
But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf,
Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks;—
That Grotius ingloriously saved but himself,
While ours saves the whole British realm by a Box!
And oh! when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes
Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,
May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes,"
And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.
While long at his shrine, both from county and city,
Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks,
And sing, while they whimper, the appropriate ditty,
"Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep—in the Box."
[1] For the particulars of this escape of Grotius from the Castle of Louvenstein, by means of a box (only three feet and a half long, it is said) in which books used to be occasionally sent to him and foul linen returned, see any of the Biographical Dictionaries.
[2] This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to give him time for escape.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.
ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue
The terrible tale of Thalaba sung—
Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout
That grim divan of conjurors out,
Whose dwelling dark, as legends say,
Beneath the roots of the ocean lay,
(Fit place for deep ones, such as they,)
How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey,
Altho' bright genius all allow thee,
That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes
Should see a second Thalaba rise—
As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine,
Tho' his havoc lie in a different line,
And should find this new, improved Destroyer
Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer;
A sort of an "alien," alias man,
Whose country or party guess who can,
Being Cockney half, half Jonathan;
And his life, to make the thing completer,
Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre,
Loose and irregular as thy feet are;—
First, into Whig Pindarics rambling,
Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling;
Now love his theme, now Church his glory
(At once both Tory and ama-tory),
Now in the Old Bailey-lay meandering,
Now in soft couplet style philandering;
And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine,
Dragging his wounded length along,
When scourged by Holland's silken thong.
In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second
May fairly a match for the First be reckoned;
Save that your Thalaba's talent lay
In sweeping old conjurors clean away,
While ours at aldermen deals his blows,
(Who no great conjurors are, God knows,)
Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level,
Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil,
Bullies the whole Milesian race—
Seven millions of Paddies, face to face;
And, seizing that magic wand, himself,
Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf,
Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey
All into foreigners, in a jiffy—
Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em,
Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em?
Never in short did parallel
Betwixt two heroes gee so well;
And among the points in which they fit,
There's one, dear Bob, I cant omit.
That hacking, hectoring blade of thine
Dealt much in the Domdaniel line;
And 'tis but rendering justice due,
To say that ours and his Tory crew
Damn Daniel most devoutly too.
RIVAL TOPICS.[1]
AN EXTRAVAGANZA.
Oh Wellington and Stephenson,
Oh morn and evening papers,
Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,
When will ye cease our ears to stun
With these two heroes' capers?
Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington,"
The everlasting two!—
Still doomed, from rise to set of sun,
To hear what mischief one has done,
And t'other means to do:—
What bills the banker past to friends,
But never meant to pay;
What Bills the other wight intends,
As honest, in their way;—
Bills, payable at distant sight,
Beyond the Grecian kalends,
When all good deeds will come to light,
When Wellington will do what's right,
And Rowland pay his balance.
To catch the banker all have sought,
But still the rogue unhurt is;
While t'other juggler—who'd have thought?
Tho' slippery long, has just been caught
By old Archbishop Curtis;—
And, such the power of papal crook,
The crosier scarce had quivered
About his ears, when, lo! the Duke
Was of a Bull delivered!
Sir Richard Birnie doth decide
That Rowland "must be mad,"
In private coach, with crest, to ride,
When chaises could be had.
And t'other hero, all agree,
St. Luke's will soon arrive at,
If thus he shows off publicly,
When he might pass in private.
Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson,
Ye ever-boring pair,
Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,
Ye haunt me everywhere.
Tho' Job had patience tough enough,
Such duplicates would try it;
Till one's turned out and t'other off,
We Shan have peace or quiet.
But small's the chance that Law affords—
Such folks are daily let off;
And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords,
They both, I fear, will get off.
[1] The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9.
THE BOY STATESMAN.
BY A TORY.
"That boy will be the death of me."
Matthews at Home.
Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near,
With Stanley to help us, we cant but fall;
Already a warning voice I hear,
Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,
"That boy—that boy'll be the death of you all."
He will, God help us!—not even Scriblerius
In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be;
And our case is growing exceeding serious,
For, all being in the same boat as he,
If down my Lord goes, down go we,
Lord Baron Stanley and Company,
As deep in Oblivion's swamp below
As such "Masters Shallow," well could go;
And where we shall all both low and high,
Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie
As already doth Graham of Netherby!
But that boy, that boy!—there's a tale I know,
Which in talking of him comes à_propos_.
Sir Thomas More had an only son,
And a foolish lad was that only one,
And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife,
"My dear, I cant but wish you joy.
"For you prayed for a boy, and you now have a boy,
"Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."
Even such is our own distressing lot,
With the ever-young statesman we have got;
Nay even still worse; for Master More
Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before,
While ours such power of boyhood shows,
That the older he gets the more juvenile he grows,
And at what extreme old age he'll close
His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;—
Some century hence, should he reach so far,
And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn,
We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,
A whipper-snapper Methusalem;
Nay, even should he make still longer stay of it,
The boy'll want judgment, even to the day of it!
Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction;
And day and night with awe I recall
The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction,
"That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."
LETTER
FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN.
Arrah, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?—
Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf,
When that poor craythur, Bobby—as you were away—
Had to make twice as big a Tomfool of himself.
Troth, it wasnt at all civil to lave in the lurch
A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:—
Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church,
As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.
If thus in two different directions you pull,
'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother
Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull,
Whose tails were joined one way, while they lookt
another![1]
Och blest be he, whosomdever he be,
That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther!
Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free
At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther.
To be sure, when a lad takes to forgin', this way,
'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly;
Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2]
Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey.
That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd,
And (as if somethin' "odd" in their names, too, must be,)
One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod,
"While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.[3]
But, no matther who did it all blessin's betide him,
For dishin' up Bob, in a manner so nate;
And there wanted but you, Murthagh 'vourneen, beside him,
To make the whole grand dish of bull-calf complate.
[1] "You will increase the enmity with which they are regarded by their associates in heresy, thus tying these foxes by the tails, that their faces may tend in opposite directions."—Bob's Bull read, at Exeter Hall, July 14.
[2] "An ingenious device of my learned friend."—Bob's Letter to Standard.
[3] Had I consulted only my own wishes, I should not have allowed this hasty at tack on Dr. Todd to have made its appearance in this Collection; being now fully convinced that the charge brought against that reverend gentleman of intending to pass off as genuine his famous mock Papal Letter was altogether unfounded. Finding it to be the wish, however, of my reverend friend—as I am now glad to be permitted to call him—that both the wrong and the reparation, the Ode and, the Palinode, should be thus placed in juxtaposition, I have thought it but due to him, to comply with his request.
MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.
Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age,
The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;—
Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star,
Did not get on exceedingly well as we are,
And perform all the functions of noodles by birth
As completely as any born noodles on earth.
How acres descend, is in law-books displayed,
But we as _wise_acres descend, ready made;
And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,
Are all of us born legislators by nature;—
Like ducklings to water instinctively taking,
So we with like quackery take to lawmaking;
And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,
To make us more wise than our sires were before us.
The Egyptians of old the same policy knew—
If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too:
Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it,
Poisoners by right (so no more could be said of it),
The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it;
While, famed for conservative stomachs, the Egyptians
Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.
It is true, we've among us some peers of the past,
Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast—
Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising
With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising.
Conserves, in whom—potted, for grandmamma uses—
'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.
'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement,
Even our House, God help it, is doomed to improvement,
And all its live furniture, nobly descended
But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With movables 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham,
No wonder even fixtures should learn to bestir 'em;
And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day,
When—as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say,
Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm—
So ours may be whipt off, some night, by Reform;
And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air,
Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,
Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by,"
While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians,
Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.
[1] The Casa Santa, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.