RELIGION AND TRADE.
"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." —Church Extension, May 22, 1830.
Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty,
Who first in a statute this libel conveyed;
And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee,
As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?
Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed;
For none but thyself or some pluralist brother,
Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed,
Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other.
And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone,
One is forced to confess on maturer reflection
That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone
That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection.
Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land,
Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid;
And where the whole people, by royal command,
Buy their gods at the government mart, ready made;[1]—
There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is)
Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine,
To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses—
Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine.
But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood;
And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny
That priests love to do the least possible good
For the largest most possible quantum of money.
"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given,
"Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"—
"By me," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven—
"Give as much as you will—more will still be desired."
More money! more churches!—oh Nimrod, hadst thou
'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way gone—
Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to heaven now,
And tried Church-extension, the feat had been done!
[1] The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass but must purchase figures of the deity already made.—SYMES.
MUSINGS.
SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.
"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room
of her deceased husband."—Limerick Chronicle.
Whether as queens or subjects, in these days,
Women seem formed to grace alike each station:—
As Captain Flaherty gallantly says,
"You ladies, are the lords of the creation!"
Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float
Of all that matchless woman yet may be;
When hark! in rumors less and less remote,
Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea,
The important news—that Mrs. Nethercoat
Had been appointed jailer of Loughrea;
Yes, mark it, History—Nethercoat is dead,
And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead;
Hers the high task to wield the uplocking keys,
To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!
Thus, while your blusterers of the Tory school
Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,
One meek-eyed matron in Whig doctrines nurst
Is all that's askt to curb the maddest, worst!
Show me the man that dares with blushless brow
Prate about Erin's rage and riot now;
Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess;
When long-loved whiskey, fading from her sight,
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
Will soon like other spirits vanish quite;
When of red coats the number's grown so small,
That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes,
No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all,
Save that which she of Babylon supplies;—
Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be,
Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains;
While of its jails bright woman keeps the key,
And captive Paddies languish in her chains!
Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine!
Oh yes—if even this world, tho' bright it shine,
In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be,
At least let woman's hand our fetters twine,
And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free,
The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!
INTENDED TRIBUTE
TO THE AUTHOR OF AN ARTICLE IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review, ENTITLED "ROMANISM IN IRELAND."
It glads us much to be able to say,
That a meeting is fixt for some early day,
Of all such dowagers—he or she—
(No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,)
Whose opinions concerning Church and State
From about the time of the Curfew date—
Stanch sticklers still for days bygone,
And admiring them for their rust alone—
To whom if we would a leader give,
Worthy their tastes conservative,
We need but some mummy-statesman raise,
Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days;
For that's the man, if waked from his shelf,
To conserve and swaddle this world like himself.
Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames
Who've met in committee and given their names
(In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent
To pay some handsome compliment
To their sister author, the nameless he,
Who wrote, in the last new Quarterly,
That charming assault upon Popery;
An article justly prized by them
As a perfect antediluvian gem—
The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say,
Of some "fellow the Flood couldnt wash away."[1]
The fund being raised, there remained but to see
What the dowager-author's gift was to be.
And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue
Showed delicate taste and judgment too.
For finding the poor man suffering greatly
From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately—
So much so indeed to the alarm of all,
As to bring on a fit of what doctors call
The Antipapistico-monomania
(I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye),
They've acted the part of a kind physician,
By suiting their gift to the patient's condition;
And as soon as 'tis ready for presentation,
We shall publish the facts for the gratification
Of this highly-favored and Protestant nation.
Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors,
He still continues his Quarterly labors;
And often has strong No-Popery fits,
Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits.
Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play,[2]
"Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day;
Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens,
And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;[3]
Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter)
Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter.
'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's,
He will keep raving of "Irish Thuggists;"[4]
Tells us they all go murdering for fun
From rise of morn till set of sun,
Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun![5]
If askt, how comes it the gown and cassock are
Safe and fat, mid this general massacre—
How hap sit that Pat's own population
But swarms the more for this trucidation—
He refers you, for all such memoranda,
To the "archives of the Propaganda!"
This is all we've got, for the present, to say—
But shall take up the subject some future day.
[1] See Congreve's "Love for Love."
[2] "Beaux' Stratagem."
[3] "Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the north."— Quarterly Review.
[4] "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," etc.—Quarterly Review.
[5] "Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns."— Ibid.
GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.
A POOR POET'S DREAM.[1]
As I sate in my study, lone and still,
Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill,
And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made,
In spirit congenial, for "the Trade,"
Sudden I sunk to sleep and lo!
Upon Fancy's reinless nightmare flitting,
I found myself, in a second or so,
At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.
With a goodly group of diners sitting;—
All in the printing and publishing line,
Drest, I thought, extremely fine,
And sipping like lords their rosy wine;
While I in a state near inanition
With coat that hadn't much nap to spare
(Having just gone into its second edition),
Was the only wretch of an author there.
But think, how great was my surprise,
When I saw, in casting round my eyes,
That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks,
Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books;
Large folios—God knows where they got 'em,
In these small times—at top and bottom;
And quartos (such as the Press provides
For no one to read them) down the sides.
Then flasht a horrible thought on my brain,
And I said to myself, "'Tis all too plain,
"Like those well known in school quotations,
"Who ate up for dinner their own relations,
"I see now, before me, smoking here,
"The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;—
"Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse,
"All cut up in cutlets, or hasht in stews;
"Their works, a light thro' ages to go,—
"Themselves, eaten up by Type and Co.!"
While thus I moralized, on they went,
Finding the fare most excellent:
And all so kindly, brother to brother,
Helping the tidbits to each other:
"A slice of Southey let me send you"—
"This cut of Campbell I recommend you"—
"And here, my friends, is a treat indeed,
"The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!"
Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time,
Upon joints of poetry—all of the prime—
With also (as Type in a whisper averred it)
"Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferred it"—
They rested awhile, to recruit their force,
Then pounced, like kites, on the second course,
Which was singing-birds merely—Moore and others—
Who all went the way of their larger brothers;
And, numerous now tho' such songsters be,
'Twas really quite distressing to see
A whole dishful of Toms—Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,—
Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly!
Nor was this the worst—I shudder to think
What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink.
The warriors of Odin, as every one knows,
Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes:
And Type's old port, to my horror I found,
Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round.
And still as each well-filled cranium came,
A health was pledged to its owner's name;
While Type said slyly, midst general laughter,
"We eat them up first, then drink to them after."
There was no standing this—incensed I broke
From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke,
Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times,
"Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes,
"Could you e'er have foretold a day would be,
"When a dreamer of dreams should live to see
"A party of sleek and honest John Bulls
"Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!"
[1] Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.
CHURCH EXTENSION.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
Sir—A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;—a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished.
I am, Sir, yours, etc.
EPHESIAN GAZETTE.
Second edition.
Important event for the rich and religious!
Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square;—
Church Extension, their object,—the excitement prodigious;—
Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!
Third edition.
The Chairman still up, when our devil came away;
Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer,
That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day,
Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.
Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines,
"When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?"
He manfully answered, "Let us build the shrines,[2]
"And we care not if flocks are found for them or not."
He then added—to show that the Silversmiths' Guild
Were above all confined and intolerant views—
"Only pay thro' the nose to the altars we build,
"You may pray thro' the nose to what altars you choose."
This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip
(Tho' a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till)—
So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip,
That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are re-echoing still.
Fourth edition.
Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus
Are going dog-cheap—may be had for a rebus.
Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest;—
But Venus's also are much in request.
[1] "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth[…to be completed…
[2] The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples.
LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.
As news from Olympus has grown rather rare,
Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there,
We extract for our readers the intelligence given,
In our latest accounts from that ci-devant Heaven—
That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state
Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.
Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er,
Seems to find immortality rather a bore;
Tho' he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes,
And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, the Times.
He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-peckt are,
And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.
Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,
And packt off to earth on a puff speculation.
The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim,
Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him.
So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags.
Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the Mags;
Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in't,
From which men could guess that the god had a finger in't.
There are other small facts, well deserving attention,
Of which our Olympic despatches make mention.
Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege,
Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge.
"What, the Irish!" he cried—"those I lookt to the most!
"If they give up the spirit, I give up the ghost:"
While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun,
Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!
But these changes, tho' curious, are all a mere farce
Compared to the new "casus belli" of Mars,
Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet,
Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot!
In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow
Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow,
Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:"
But the joke wouldn't take—the whole world had got wiser;
Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser;
And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot,
Without very well knowing for whom or for what.
The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,
Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King;
While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain,
Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.
'Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy
Old Mars has been made by what's now on the tapis;
How much it delights him to see the French rally,
In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali;
Well knowing that Satan himself could not find
A confection of mischief much more to his mind
Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combined.
Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers,
Whatever their cause, that they didnt find backers;
While any slight care for Humanity's woes
May be soothed by that "Art Diplomatique," which shows
How to come in the most approved method to blows.
This is all for to-day—whether Mars is much vext
At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next.
THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.
Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space,
Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny;
And poor human life runs the same sort of race,
Being sad on one side—on the other side, funny.
Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie,
To weep o'er the woes of Macready;—but scarce
Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye,
When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.
And still let us laugh—preach the world as it may—
Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow;
Heroics are very grand things in their way,
But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.
For instance, what sermon on human affairs
Could equal the scene that took place t'other day
'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs—
The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!
Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied,
And whose worship not even among Christians declines,
In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died,
But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.
Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits,
And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at!
Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits,
Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?
And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave—
A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read;
While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,
We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.
Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing
To teach other bishops to "seek the right way;"[1]
And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,
Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.
For our parts, gravity's good for the soul,
Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on,
We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll,"
Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.
[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your
Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and
N. E. you had turned about," etc.—SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the
Bishop of London.
THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.
IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.
What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,
And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
Alike may laugh at patronage!
No, no—those times are past away,
When, doomed in upper floors to star it.
The bard inscribed to lords his lay,—
Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs with air dependent.
His "little bark may sail attendant"
Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launched triumphant in the Row,
Or taken by Murray's self in tow.
Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.
Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whiskt from England by the gale.
But bears on board some authors, shipt
For foreign shores, all well equipt
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be:—
It being enjoined on all who go
To study first Miss Martineau,
And learn from her the method true,[too.
To do one's books—and readers,
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "What to Observe."
No, no, my friend—it cant be blinkt—
The Patron is a race extinct;
As dead as any Megatherion
That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering in this age
Our praise for pence and patronage,
We authors now more prosperous elves,
Have learned to patronize ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made
The life of song, the soul of trade.
More frugal of our praises grown,
We puff no merits but our own.
Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse now taking to the till
Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows):
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,
While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."
What Steam is on the deep—and more—
Is the vast power of Puff on shore;
Which jumps to glory's future tenses
Before the present even commences;
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the God of Song
Drove his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two,
Bookt for posterity "all thro';"—
Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times—
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road;—
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his night-cap on the way.
Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author—that's enough.
In vain the critics set to watch him
Try at the starting post to catch him:
He's off—the puffers carry it hollow—
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they've laid down their first positions,
He's fairly blown thro' six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme)—
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch the Unread One, comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.
But bless me!—while I thus keep fooling,
I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."
That postman too (who, truth to tell,
'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)
Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally
That I must stop—
Yours sempiternally.
THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.
BY LORD STANLEY.
(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)
"Evil, be thou my good."
—MILTON.
How various are the inspirations
Of different men in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon on board wages
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward from that nameless spot;
His inspirations, hot and hot.
But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings—
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings—
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,
Both duly mixt, and matchless all;
A compound naught in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee—
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting—
A way they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon't
The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Ireland, we're told, means the land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes—sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"
And thanks to practice on that land
I stir it with a master-hand.
Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone
The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!"
How Caravats and Shanavests
Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain
Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.
And so, long life to Church and Co.—
Hurrah for mischief!—here we go.
EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.
Dear Lyndhurst,—you'll pardon my making thus free,—
But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we,
Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private—
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing—hot water.
All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Played so well into each other's hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,
Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.
Not Birmingham's self—to her shame be it spoken—
E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken;
And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws—and of heads is prodigious.
And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,—
Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by;
As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport,
Some rector—a cool hand at pistols and port,
Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself—
One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,
Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges,
Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges;
Except when some hero of this sort turned out,
Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs[1] about—
A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery,
Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery;
So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,
To have bit off so rich a receipt for a row;—
Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,
I was actually growing the dullest of men;
And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase,
Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace.
Like you, Reformation in Church and in State
Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate.
If once these curst Ministers do as they like,
All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike,
And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth,
Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.
But we must not despair—even already Hope sees
You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze
Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,
Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro',
And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,
So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows.
Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare
My own small resources with thine to compare:
Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst
Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.
But, hark, there's a shot!—some parsonic practitioner?
No—merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner;
The Courts having now, with true law erudition,
Put even Rebellion itself "in commission."
As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,
I'll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter.
In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks!
Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!
[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.—Chronicle.
CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.
LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1]
Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more,
Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:
For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew,
You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do;
So ready they're always, when dull we are growing,
To set our old concert of discord a-going,
While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,
To play in such concert the true double-base.
I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning
To tire of his course of political sinning,
And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,
Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last.
But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using two faces thro' life, all allow,
Has acquired face sufficient for any-thing now.
In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe,
My "Lord Harry" himself—who's the leader, we know,
Of another red-hot Opposition below—
If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares
Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs,
We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,
That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.
Even already—long life to such Bigwigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die—
He has served our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;
As it shows off both his and my merits alike,
Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike;
Mixes up, with a skill which one cant but admire,
The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered.
Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood,
But "You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;"
While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,
Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, "We are!"
And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it,
Still the echoes may quote Law authority for it,
And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion
So he, in the end, touches cash "for the opinion."
But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,
Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_.
They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin,
They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.
[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.
POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.
In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,
And wept for the husband, the father and friend.
Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.
Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,
'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was—and, content to be good,
Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.
So, left thro' their own little orbit to move,
His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
His children might still have been blest with his love,
And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway.
TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."
Sir,—In order to explain the following Fragment, it is
necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the
Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, "FUM,
The Chinese Bird of Royalty," is a principal ornament.
I am, Sir, yours, etc.
MUM.
FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.
One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM,
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM,
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)
Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.—
Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation
(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation);
Both, full-crawed Legitimates—both, birds of prey,
Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way
'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh.
While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea,
Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.—are sacred to thee
So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,
The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome
Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"—
And when, turning, he saw Bishop L—GE, "Zooks, it is."
Quoth the Bird, "Yes—I know him—a Bonze, by his phiz-
"And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low
"Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!"
It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig
Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1]
Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head,
And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed,
Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye,
That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"
But a truce to digression;—these Birds of a feather
Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together;
(The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't,
His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,)
"I say, HUM," says FUM—FUM, of course, spoke Chinese,
But, bless you! that's nothing—at Brighton one sees
Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease—
"I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now?
"Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney-or how?"
(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree
Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L—E,)
"As for us in Pekin"—here, a devil of a din
From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin,
Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the Confucius of Prose),
Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose
To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.
(Nota bene—his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come,
In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM,
CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug—LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,)
The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH.
Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away!
Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,
Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.
[1] In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal Highness.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.
principibus placuisse viris!
—HORAT.
Yes, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career.
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—
Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;—
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.
Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died—friendless and lorn!
How proud they can press to the funeral array
Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow:—
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,
Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!
And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure's dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:—
No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;—
No! not for the riches of all who despise thee,
Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;—
Would I suffer what—even in the heart that thou hast—
All mean as it is—must have consciously burned.
When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,
And which found all his wants at an end, was returned![1]
"Was this then the fate,"—future ages will say,
When some names shall live but in history's curse;
When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day
Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse;—
"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
"The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,
"The orator,—dramatist,—minstrel,—who ran
"Thro' each mode of the lyre and was master of all;—
"Whose mind was an essence compounded with art
"From the finest and best of all other men's powers;-
"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
"And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers;—
"Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light,
"Played round every subject and shone as it played;—
"Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,
"Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—
"Whose eloquence—brightening whatever it tried,
"Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,—
"Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide,
"As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"
Yes—such was the man and so wretched his fate;—
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.
In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;[2]
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die!
[1] The sum was two hundred pounds—offered when Sheridan could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.
[2] Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them,—History of Poland.