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NEXT week will be publish'd (as " Lives" are the WHAT! Miguel, not patriotic? oh, fye,

rage)

The whole Reminiscences, wond'rous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog, that liv'd once in the cage Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call 66 sad,"

'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had

Of knowing how Lions behave-among friends;

How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks,
Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;
And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog

thinks

That the Lion was no such great things after all.

Though he roar'd pretty well-this the puppy allows

It was all, he says, borrow'd-all second-hand

roar;

After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;

First school'd, as you were, under Metternich's eye, And then (as young misses say) "finish'd" at Windsor! 3

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1 The nom de guerre under which Colman has written

some of his best farces.

2 At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves.

3 Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court, at the close of the year 1827.

4 Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits a favourite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.

While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lash'd whip, to cheer the doubtful hacks.
Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!

Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Vice-roy of Hanover always on goose.
Some Dons, too, have fancied (though this may be How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;-
fable)
If Protestant's old restive tricks were gone,

A dish rather dear, if, in cooking, they blunder And Papist's winkers could be still kept on!

it ;

Not content with the common hot meat on a table, They're partial (eh, Mig ?) to a dish of cold under it !!

No wonder a Don of such appetites found
Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends
round

But no, false hopes-not even the great Ducrow
"Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:
If solar hacks play'd Phaëton a trick,
What hope, alas, from hackney's lunatic ?

If once my Lord his graceful balance loses,
Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses;
If Peel but gives one extra touch of whip
To Papist's tail or Protestant's ear-tip-

Are her Maintenon cutlets and soup à la Reine. That instant ends their glorious horsemanship!

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The promises great men strew about them;
And, pack'd in compass small, the wits

Of monarchs, who rule as well without them!—
Like him, but diving with wing profound,
I have been to a Limbo under ground.
Where characters lost on earth, (and cried,
In vain, like H-rr-s's, far and wide,)
In heaps, like yesterday's orts, are thrown
And there, so worthless and fly-blown,
That ev'n the imps would not purloin them,
Lie, till their worthy owners join them.

Curious it was to see this mass

Of lost and torn-up reputations;-
Some of them female wares, alas,
Mislaid at innocent assignations;

2 Astolpho

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"Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well "From whom these two stray matters fell;". Then, casting away, with loathful shrug, The' uncleaner waif (as he would a drug The' Invisible's own dark hand had mix'd), His gaze on the other firm he fix'd,

And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye, To be moral, because of the young imps by, "What a pity!" he cried—" so fresh its gloss, "So long preserv'd-'tis a public loss ! "This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, Keeping his character in his pocket;

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"And there-without considering whether

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Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times

more;

And, though often condemn' to see breaking of heads,

He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.

However, the job's sure to pay-that's enoughSo, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer, Convinc'd that there never was job half so tough As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.

But, lo, a fresh puzzlement starts up to view — New toil for the Sub.-for the Lord new expense: 'Tis discover'd that mending his grammar wo'n't do, As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

IH-k-n.

2 Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

At last -even this is achieved by his aid;
Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and-the story;
Drums beat-the new Grand March of Intellect's
play'd-

And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!

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"Still marvels much that not a soul should care
"One single pin to know who wrote May Fair;'—
"While this young gentleman," (here forth he
drew

A dandy spectre, puff'd quite through and through,
As though his ribs were an Æolian lyre

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE. For the old Row's soft trade-winds to inspire,)

"Così quel fiato gli spiriti mali

Di quà, di là, di giù, di su gli mena." Inferno, canto 5.

I TURN'D my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering tow'rds me-blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that through their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puff'd as-though they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquir'd
Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, tost, and tir'd
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
"We once were authors"-thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said-
"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
"Who, early smit with love of praise and—pewter, 1
On C-lb-n's shelves first saw the light of day,
"In -'s puffs exhal'd our lives away-

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Touch'd with compassion for his ghastly crew,
Whose ribs, even now, the hollow wind sung through
In mournful prose,—such prose as Rosa's ghost
Still at the' accustom'd hour of eggs and toast,
Sighs through the columns of the M-rn-g P―t,—
Pensive I turn'd to weep, when he, who stood
Foremost of all that flatulential brood,
Singling a she-ghost from the party, said,
"Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z., 4

"One of our letter'd nymphs-excuse the pun
"Who gain'd a name on earth by-having none;
And whose initials would immortal be,

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"And thou thyself"-here, anxious, I exclaim'd— "Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art nam'd." Me, Sir!" he blushing cried-" Ah, there's the rub

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"Know, then-a waiter once at Brooks's Club,
"A waiter still I might have long remain❜d,
"And long the club-room's jokes and glasses
drain'd;

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"Member of Brooks's!'-oh Promethean paff,
"To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!
"With crums of gossip, caught from dining wits,
“And half-heard jokes, bequeath'd, like half-
chew'd bits,

"To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites:-
"With such ingredients, serv'd up oft before,
"But with fresh fudge and fiction garnish'd o'er,
I manag'd, for some weeks, to dose the town.
"Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down;

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4 Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H.

2 The reader may fill up this gap with any one of the dissyl- whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day. labic publishers of London that occurs to him.

3 Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside" regnat Rosa"-over its pages.

5"History of the Clubs of London," announced as by *; Member of Brooks's."

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Scarce had the spectre's lips these words let drop,
When, lo, a breeze- such as from -'s shop
Blows in the vernal hour, when puffs prevail,
And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale—
Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop,
And, whirling him and all his grisly group.
Of literary ghosts-Miss X. Y. Z. —

The nameless author, better known than read-
Sir Jo.- the Honourable Mr. L-st-r,
And, last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister-
Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes
And sins about them, far into those climes
"Where Peter pitch'd his waistcoat 1" in old times,
Leaving me much in doubt, as on I prest,
With my great master, through this realm unblest,
Whether old Nick or C-lb-n puffs the best.

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Why

as if one was not enough —

Thy pig-tie with thy place resign,
And thus, at once, both cut and run?
Alas, my Lord, 'twas not well done,
'Twas not, indeed — though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets to part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguil'd our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,
Through long, long years our rallying sign
As if the State and all its powers

By tenancy in tail were ours —
To see it thus by scissors fall,

This was "the' unkindest cut of all!"

It seem'd as though the' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,

A Dantesque allusion to the old saying, "Nine miles beyond H-ll, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."

2 The noble Lord, it is well known, cut off this muchrespected appendage, on his retirement from office some months since.

And, proving Samson's story true, She lost her vigour with her queue.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said The tail directs them, not the head; Then, how could any party fail,

That steer'd its course by B-th-st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,
Blaz'd from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As W-1l-gt-n will be anon)
Thou might'st have had a tail to spare ;
But no, alas, thou hadst but one,
And that-like Troy, or Babylon,
A tale of other times is gone!

Yet

-

weep ye not, ye Tories true Fate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus depriv'd of B-th-st's queue, We've E-b-h's curls still left us ;Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate, Surcharg'd with all a nation's fate, His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did, 3 And oft in thundering talk comes near him ;— Except that, there, the speaker nodded,

And, here, 'tis only those who hear him. Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fat cranium may ye flourish, With plenty of Macassar oil,

Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last, lov'd relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

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