EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.[1]

CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.[2]

    "Ahi, mio Ben!"
    —METASTASIO.[3]

What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown?
Is this the new go?—kick a man when he's down!
When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then—
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN!
"Foul! foul!" all the lads of the Fancy exclaim—
CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified—BELCHER spits flame—
And MOLYNEUX—ay, even BLACKY[4] cries "shame!"

Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied
'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side:
When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating)
His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating.
But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions,
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions;
Your Noyaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what—
(One swig of Blue Ruin[5] is worth the whole lot!)

Your great and small crosses—my eyes, what a brood!
(A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good!)
Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise,
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus;
And (as JIM says) the only one trick, good or bad,
Of the Fancy you're up to, is fibbing, my lad.
Hence it comes,—BOXIANA, disgrace to thy page!—
Having floored, by good luck, the first swell of the age,
Having conquered the prime one, that milled us all round,
You kickt him, old BEN, as he gaspt on the ground!
Ay—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any—
Kickt him and jawed him and lagged[6] him to Botany!
Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger![7] you, who, alas!
Doubled up by the dozen those Moun-seers in brass,
On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes,
When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes,
Look down upon BEN—see him, dung-hill all o'er,
Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more!
Out, cowardly spooney!—again and again,
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN.
To show the white feather is many men's doom,
But, what of one feather?—BEN shows a whole Plume.

[1] A nickname given, at this time, to the Prince Regent.

[2] Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St. Helena.

[3] Tom, I suppose, was "assisted" to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.

[4] Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.

[5] Gin.

[6] Transported.

[7] A Life-Guardsman, one of the Fancy who distinguished himself and was killed in the memorable set-to at Waterloo.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

    tu Regibus alas eripe
    VERGIL, Georg. lib. iv.

    —Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings.
    DRYDEN'S Translation.

DEDICATION.

TO LORD BYRON.

Dear Lord Byron,—Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am,

My dear Lord,

Ever faithfully yours,

T. B.

PREFACE.

Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.

I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, etc.—but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the "Transactions of the Pococurante Society," I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon."

It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants, than is contained in the three words "non curat Hippoclides" (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading dictum of the sect.

THOMAS BROWN.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I've had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess—
  As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess—
  It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,
A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1]
Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is—
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all
  And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
  Given by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,
  Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
  At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy—and designed
To hint how thus the human Mind
May, like the stream imprisoned there,
Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.
And all were pleased and cold and stately,
  Shivering in grand illumination—
Admired the superstructure greatly,
  Nor gave one thought to the foundation.
Much too the Tsar himself exulted,
  To all plebeian fears a stranger,
For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,
  Had pledged her word there was no danger
So, on he capered, fearless quite,
  Thinking himself extremely clever,
And waltzed away with all his might,
  As if the Frost would last forever.

Just fancy how a bard like me,
  Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled
To see that goodly company,
  At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded—
For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy
  Were seized with an ill-omened dripping,
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,
  Their Holinesses took to slipping.
The Tsar, half thro' a Polonaise,
  Could scarce get on for downright stumbling;
And Prussia, tho' to slippery ways
  Well used, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.—
And now, to an Italian air,
  This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;
Now—while old Louis, from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare—
  Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to, like mad!
Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)
So out of all their princely senses,
But ah! that dance—that Spanish dance—
  Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
  Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light thro' all the chambers flamed,
  Astonishing old Father Frost,
Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed,
  "A thaw, by Jove—we're lost, we're lost!
"Run, France—a second _Water_loo
"Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so
  In palaces without foundations?—
Instantly all was in a flow,
  Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations—
Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice—
Those Eagles, handsomely provided
  With double heads for double dealings—
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
  Out of their claws on all the ceilings!
Proud Prussia's double bird of prey
Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;
While—just like France herself, when she
  Proclaims how great her naval skill is—
Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys
  Imagined themselves water-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,
  But—still more fatal execution—
The Great Legitimates themselves
  Seemed in a state of dissolution.
The indignant Tsar—when just about
  To issue a sublime Ukase,
"Whereas all light must be kept out"—
  Dissolved to nothing in its blaze.
Next Prussia took his turn to melt,
And, while his lips illustrious felt
The influence of this southern air,
  Some word, like "Constitution"—long
Congealed in frosty silence there—
  Came slowly thawing from his tongue.
While Louis, lapsing by degrees,
  And sighing out a faint adieu
To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese
  And smoking fondus, quickly grew,
  Himself, into a fondu too;—
Or like that goodly King they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,
When, in some urchin's mouth, alas!
It melts into a shapeless mass!

In short, I scarce could count a minute,
Ere the bright dome and all within it,
Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone—
  And nothing now was seen or heard
But the bright river, rushing on,
  Happy as an enfranchised bird,
And prouder of that natural ray,
Shining along its chainless way—
More proudly happy thus to glide
  In simple grandeur to the sea,
Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,
'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride
  Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream—and, I confess,
I tremble at its awfulness.
That Spanish Dance—that southern beam—
But I say nothing—there's my dream—
And Madame Krüdener, the she-prophet,
May make just what she pleases of it.

[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect."—PINKERTON.

FABLE II.

THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections
  Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see
What different and what odd perfections
  Men have required in Royalty.
Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,
  Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;—
Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy,
  Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1]
The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said,
Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2]
The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar,
  So that their Kings had not red hair—
This fault not even the greatest stickler
  For the blood-royal well could bear.

A thousand more such illustrations
Might be adduced from various nations.
But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,
  Touching the acquired or natural right
Which some men have to rule their fellows,
  There's one which I shall here recite:—

FABLE.

There was a land—to name the place
  Is neither now my wish nor duty—
Where reigned a certain Royal race,
  By right of their superior beauty.

What was the cut legitimate
  Of these great persons' chins and noses,
By right of which they ruled the state,
  No history I have seen discloses.

But so it was—a settled case—
  Some Act of Parliament, past snugly,
Had voted them a beauteous race,
  And all their faithful subjects ugly.

As rank indeed stood high or low,
  Some change it made in visual organs;
Your Peers were decent—Knights, so so—
  But all your common people, gorgons!

Of course, if any knave but hinted
  That the King's nose was turned awry,
Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted—
  The judges doomed that knave to die.

But rarely things like this occurred,
  The people to their King were duteous,
And took it, on his Royal word,
  That they were frights and He was beauteous.

The cause whereof, among all classes,
  Was simply this—these island elves
Had never yet seen looking-glasses,
  And therefore did not know themselves.

Sometimes indeed their neighbors' faces
  Might strike them as more full of reason,
More fresh than those in certain places—
  But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbor,
  And take his face's part, 'tis known
We ne'er so much in earnest labor,
  As when the face attackt's our own.

So on they went—the crowd believing—
  (As crowds well governed always do)
Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving—
  So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.

But jokes, we know, if they too far go,
  Must have an end—and so, one day,
Upon that coast there was a cargo
  Of looking-glasses cast away.

'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere,
  Had laid their wicked heads together,
And forced that ship to founder there,—
  While some believe it was the weather.

However this might be, the freight
  Was landed without fees or duties;
And from that hour historians date
  The downfall of the Race of Beauties.

The looking-glasses got about,
  And grew so common thro' the land,
That scarce a tinker could walk out,
  Without a mirror in his hand.

Comparing faces, morning, noon,
  And night, their constant occupation—
By dint of looking-glasses, soon,
  They grew a most reflecting nation.

In vain the Court, aware of errors
  In all the old, establisht mazards,
Prohibited the use of mirrors
  And tried to break them at all hazards:—

In vain—their laws might just as well
  Have been waste paper on the shelves;
That fatal freight had broke the spell;
  People had lookt—and knew themselves.

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime,
  Presumed upon his ancient face,
(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,)
  They popt a mirror to his Grace;—

Just hinting, by that gentle sign,
  How little Nature holds it true,
That what is called an ancient line,
  Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they past to regal phizzes,
  Compared them proudly with their own,
And cried. "How could such monstrous quizzes
  "In Beauty's name usurp the throne!"—

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,
  Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy,
Which made the King try various looks,
  But none improved his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court were levelled,
  And small lampoons, so full of slynesses,
That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled
  Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length—but here I drop the veil,
  To spare some royal folks' sensations;—
Besides, what followed is the tale
  Of all such late-enlightened nations;

Of all to whom old Time discloses
  A truth they should have sooner known—
That kings have neither rights nor noses
  A whit diviner than their own.

[1] The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King.—Munster, "Cosmog." lib. iii. p. 164.

[2] "In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable."—Oriental Field Sports.

FABLE III.

THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.

I saw it all in Fancy's glass—
  Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,
  And named each gliding apparition.

'Twas like a torch-race—such as they
  Of Greece performed, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
  Past the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant nations stand,
  To catch the coming flame in turn;—
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
  The clear tho' struggling glory burn.

And oh! their joy, as it came near,
  'Twas in itself a joy to see;—
While Fancy whispered in my ear.
  "That torch they pass is Liberty!"

And each, as she received the flame,
  Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
  Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnisht with the fire already,
COLUMBIA caught the boon divine,
  And lit a flame, like ALBION'S, steady.

The splendid gift then GALLIA took,
  And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,
  As she would set the world a-blazing!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high
  Her altar blazed into the air,
That ALBION, to that fire too nigh,
  Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare!

Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her,
  Leapt at the torch—but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
  'Twas quenched—and all again was dark.

Yet, no—not quenched—a treasure worth
  So much to mortals rarely dies:
Again her living light lookt forth,
  And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next received the flame? alas!
  Unworthy NAPLES—shame of shames,
That ever thro' such hands should pass
  That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touched the torch.
  When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting even to feel the scorch,
  She dropt it to the earth—and fled.

And fallen it might have long remained;
  But GREECE, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, tho' prostrate, stained,
  And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
  Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar,
  Who thus in song their voices blended:—

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,
  "Divinest gift of Gods to men!
"From GREECE thy earliest splendor came,
  "To GREECE thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,
  "When dimmed, revive, when lost, return,
"Till not a shrine thro' earth be found,
  "On which thy glories shall not burn."

FABLE IV.

THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey,
This world presents of topsy-turvy,
There's naught so much disturbs one's patience,
As little minds in lofty stations.
'Tis like that sort of painful wonder.
Which slender columns, laboring under
  Enormous arches, give beholders;—
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemned to smile and stand at ease,
  With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are born into such places—
If they are there by Right Divine
  Or any such sufficient reason,
Why—Heaven forbid we should repine!—
  To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, even to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call misprision.

SIR ROBERT FILMER saith—and he,
  Of course, knew all about the matter—
"Both men and beasts love Monarchy;"
  Which proves how rational the latter.
SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right.
Entirely differed from the Knight:
Nay, hints a King may lose his head.
  By slipping awkwardly his bridle:—
But this is treasonous, ill-bred,
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led
  In patent snaffles) downright idle.

No, no—it isnt right-line Kings,
(Those sovereign lords in leading strings
Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,)
That move my wrath—'tis your pretenders,
Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,
Who—not, like t'others, bores by birth,
Establisht gratiâ Dei blockheads,
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets—
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,
  Push up into the loftiest stations,
And, tho' too dull to manage shops,
  Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!

This class it is, that moves my gall,
And stirs up bile, and spleen and all.
While other senseless things appear
To know the limits of their sphere—
While not a cow on earth romances
So much as to conceit she dances—
While the most jumping frog we know of,
Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off—
Your ***s, your ***s dare,
  Untrained as are their minds, to set them
To any business, any where,
At any time that fools will let them.

But leave we here these upstart things—
My business is just now with Kings;
To whom and to their right-line glory,
I dedicate the following story.

FABLE

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;
  And even when they most condescended to teach,
They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies,
  In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to Kings—
  Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery;
But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things—
  As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say,
  To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)
Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,
To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar,
  Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine;
While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter,
  Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine.

Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher—
  "If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why
"Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature,
  "Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?"

"No wonder"—said t'other—"you stare at the sight,
  "But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it—
"That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right,
  "And that Bullock, the People that's sacrificed to it."

FABLE V.

CHURCH AND STATE.

PROEM

"The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them." —SOAME JENYNS

Thus did SOAME JENYNS—tho' a Tory,
  A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion's simple glory
  Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles,
  Appealed to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls—
  All in the name of the blest Trinity;
Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER,
That mighty Northern salamander,[1]
Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom out—
When he, too, winds up his Ukases
With God and the Panagia's praises—
When he, of royal Saints the type,
  In holy water dips the sponge,
With which, at one imperial wipe,
  He would all human rights expunge;
When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater,
Some name Dix-huit, and some Deshuitres.)
Calls down "St. Louis's God" to witness
The right, humanity, and fitness
Of sending eighty thousand Solons,
  Sages with muskets and laced coats,
To cram instruction, nolens volens,
  Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats—
I cant help thinking, (tho' to Kings
   I must, of course, like other men, bow,)
That when a Christian monarch brings
Religion's name to gloss these things—
   Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow![2]

   Or—not so far for facts to roam,
Having a few much nearer home-
When we see Churchmen, who, if askt,
"Must Ireland's slaves be tithed, and taskt,
"And driven, like Negroes or Croats,
   "That you may roll in wealth and bliss?"
Look from beneath their shovel hats
   With all due pomp and answer "Yes!"
But then, if questioned, "Shall the brand
"Intolerance flings throughout that land,—
"Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow
'Betwixt her palaces and hovels,
"Be ever quenched?"—from the same shovels
Look grandly forth and answer "No."—
Alas, alas! have these a claim
To merciful Religion's name?
If more you seek, go see a bevy
Of bowing parsons at a levee—
(Choosing your time, when straw's before
Some apoplectic bishop's door,)
Then if thou canst with life escape
That rush of lawn, that press of crape,
Just watch their reverences and graces,
   As on each smirking suitor frisks,
And say, if those round shining faces
   To heaven or earth most turn their disks?
This, this it is—Religion, made,
Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade—
This most ill-matched, unholy Co.,
From whence the ills we witness flow;
The war of many creeds with one—
The extremes of too much faith and none—
Till, betwixt ancient trash and new,
'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy—the two
Rank ills with which this age is curst—
We can no more tell which is worst,
Than erst could Egypt, when so rich
In various plagues, determine which
She thought most pestilent and vile,
Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle,
Croaking their native mud-notes loud,
Or her fat locusts, like a cloud
Of pluralists, obesely lowering,
At once benighting and devouring!—

This—this it is—and here I pray
   Those sapient wits of the Reviews.
Who make us poor, dull authors say,
   Not what we mean, but what they choose;
Who to our most abundant shares
Of nonsense add still more of theirs,
And are to poets just such evils
   As caterpillars find those flies,[3]
Which, not content to sting like devils,
   Lay eggs upon their backs like wise—
To guard against such foul deposits
  Of other's meaning in my rhymes,
(A thing more needful here because it's
  A subject, ticklish in these times)—
I, here, to all such wits make known,
  Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory,
'Tis this Religion—this alone—
  I aim at in the following story:—

FABLE.

When Royalty was young and bold,
  Ere, touched by Time, he had become—
If 'tisn't civil to say old,
  At least, a ci-devant jeune homme;

One evening, on some wild pursuit
  Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
  And took him in his vis-à-vis.

This said Religion was a Friar,
  The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
  Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"—quoth Royalty, who rather
  Enjoyed a masquerading joke—
"I say, suppose, my good old father,
  "You lend me for a while your cloak."

The Friar consented—little knew
  What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted too
  By a laced coat he got instead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
  Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash,
  And knockt whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they, whose heads were broke,
  Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore,"
Except that 'twas Religion's cloak
  The gentleman, who crackt them, wore,

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned
  By the laced coat, grew frisky too;
Lookt big—his former habits spurned—
  And stormed about, as great men do:

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses—
  Said "Damn you" often, or as bad—
Laid claim to other people's purses—
  In short, grew either knaves or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,
  And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense, then sitting,
  Summoned the culprits both before it.

Where, after hours in wrangling spent
  (As Courts must wrangle to decide well).
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,
  And Royalty packt off to Bridewell.

With this proviso—should they be
  Restored, in due time, to their senses,
They both must give security,
  In future, against such offences—
Religion ne'er to lend his cloak,
  Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke,—
  But not to crack poor people's heads too.

[1] The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.

[2] A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

[3] "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body—at every dart they deposit an egg"—GOLDSMITH.

FABLE VI.

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese,
  The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1]
Who had with all the subtleties
  Of old and modern jurists stockt her,
Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said,
  And over hearts held such dominion,
That when her father, sick in bed,
Or busy, sent her, in his stead,
  To lecture on the Code Justinian,
She had a curtain drawn before her,
  Lest, if her charms were seen, the students
Should let their young eyes wander o'er her,
  And quite forget their jurisprudence.
Just so it is with Truth, when seen,
  Too dazzling far,—'tis from behind
A light, thin allegoric screen,
  She thus can safest leach mankind.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reigned, we're told,
A little Lama, one year old—
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut—as near as can be reckoned—
Some say his first tooth, some his second.
Chronologers and Nurses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary.
We only know the important truth,
His Majesty had cut a tooth.
And much his subjects were enchanted,—
  As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
And would have given their heads, if wanted,
  To make tee-totums for the baby.
Throned as he was by Right Divine—
  (What Lawyers call Jure Divino,
Meaning a right to yours and mine
  And everybody's goods and rhino.)
Of course, his faithful subjects' purses
  Were ready with their aids and succors;
Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses;
  And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet,
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye Gods! what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes
  And pinafores, in nightly battles!
What calls for papers to expose
  The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no—if Thibet had M.P.s,
They were far better bred than these;
Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm;—for, just when he,
Had reached the alarming age of three,
When Royal natures and no doubt
Those of all noble beasts break out—
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Showed symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh;
  Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turned all the Judges' wigs awry,
  And trod on the old Generals' toes;
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,
  Rode cock-horse on the City maces,
And shot from little devilish guns,
  Hard peas into the subjects' faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he played,
  And' grew so mischievous, God bless him!
That his Chief Nurse—with even the aid
Of an Archbishop—was afraid.
  When in these moods, to comb or dress him.
Nay, even the persons most inclined
  Thro' thick and thin, for Kings to stickle,
Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind;
  Which they did not) an odious pickle.

At length some patriot lords—a breed
  Of animals they've got in Thibet,
Extremely rare and fit indeed
  For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit—
Some patriot lords, who saw the length
To which things went, combined their strength,
And penned a manly, plain and free,
Remonstrance to the Nursery;
Protesting warmly that they yielded
To none that ever went before 'em,
In loyalty to him who wielded
  The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em;
That, as for treason, 'twas a thing
  That made them almost sick to think of—
That they and theirs stood by the King,
  Throughout his measles and his chincough,
When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!—
But, still—tho' much admiring Kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings),
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
  There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control
  Of birch before their ruler's eyes;
But that of late such pranks and tricks
  And freaks occurred the whole day long,
As all but men with bishoprics
  Allowed, in even a King, were wrong.
Wherefore it was they humbly prayed
  That Honorable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,
  As all good men desired to see;—
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
  And in its bud the mischief nipping—
They ventured humbly to suggest
  His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read, no Congreve rocket,
  Discharged into the Gallic trenches
E'er equalled the tremendous shock it
  Produced upon the Nursery benches.
The Bishops, who of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss—
  "What, whip a Lama! suffer birch
"To touch his sacred—infamous!
"Deistical!—assailing thus
  "The fundamentals of the Church!—
"No—no—such patriot plans as these,
"(So help them Heaven—and their Sees!)
"They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other
  Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread thro' the land, till, such a pother,
  Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state,
  Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, tho' late,
  Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met—
  The little Lama, called before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette
  Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And tho', 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince
  So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
That her long line of Lamas, since,
  Have all behaved themselves much better.

[1] Andreas.

FABLE VII.

THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think—
  Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,—

And reasoners, whether clad in pink
Or red or blue, are on the brink
  (Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
  As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else—woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever
  Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then—but hold—'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:—

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,
Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,
Whose fires, beneath his very nose,
In heretic combustion rose.
But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,
  Do what they will—so, one fine morning,
He turned the rascal Ghebers out,
  First giving a few kicks for warning.
Then, thanking Heaven most piously,
  He knockt their Temple to the ground,
Blessing himself for joy to see
  Such Pagan ruins strewed around.
But much it vext my Lord to find,
  That, while all else obeyed his will,
The Fire these Ghebers left behind,
  Do what he would, kept burning still.
Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown
Could scare the bright insurgent down;
But, no—such fires are headstrong things,
And care not much for Lords or Kings.
Scarce could his Lordship well contrive
  The flashes in one place to smother,
Before—hey presto!—all alive,
  They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns,
  'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,
His stewards came, with low salams,
  Offering, by contract, to provide him
Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,
Much used, they said, at Ispahan,
Vienna, Petersburg—in short,
Wherever Light's forbid at court),
Machines no Lord should be without,
Which would at once put promptly out
All kinds of fires,—from staring, stark
Volcanoes to the tiniest spark;
Till all things slept as dull and dark,
As in a great Lord's neighborhood
'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies
  Of these Extinguishers were furnisht
(All of the true Imperial size),
  And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht,
Ready, where'er a gleam but shone
Of light or fire, to be clapt on.

But ah! how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, so thought he) dark, secure—
The flame, at all its exits, entries,
  Obstructed to his heart's content,
And black extinguishers, like sentries,
  Placed over every dangerous vent—
Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,
  His wrath, his rage, when, on returning,
He found not only the old blaze,
  Brisk as before, crackling and burning,—
Not only new, young conflagrations,
Popping up round in various stations—
But still more awful, strange and dire,
The Extinguishers themselves on fire!![1]
They, they—those trusty, blind machines
  His Lordship had so long been praising,
As, under Providence, the means
  Of keeping down all lawless blazing,
Were now, themselves—alas, too true,
The shameful fact—turned blazers too,
And by a change as odd as cruel
Instead of dampers, served for fuel!
Thus, of his only hope bereft,
  "What," said the great man, "must be done?"—
All that, in scrapes like this, is left
  To great men is—to cut and run.
So run he did; while to their grounds,
  The banisht Ghebers blest returned;
And, tho' their Fire had broke its bounds,
  And all abroad now wildly burned,
Yet well could they, who loved the flame,
Its wandering, its excess reclaim;
And soon another, fairer Dome
Arose to be its sacred home,
Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined,
The living glory dwelt inshrined,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Tho' born of earth, grew worthy heaven.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers
  Is, that such Lords are simple elves,
In trusting to Extinguishers,
  That are combustible themselves.

[1] The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters to Julia,"—a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.