And, num'rous now though such songsters be, "Twas really quite distressing to see

A whole dishful of Toms-Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,— Bolted by Type and Co. so gaily!

Nor was this the worst-I shudder to think What a scene was disclos'd when they came to drink.

The warriors of Odin, as every one knows,
Used to drink out of skulls of slaughter'd foes:
And Type's old port, to my horror I found,
Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round.
And still as each well-fill'd cranium came,
A health was pledg'd to its owner's name;
While Type said slily, 'midst general laughter,
We eat them up first, then drink to them after."

66

This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip, (Though a tolerance mix'd with due taste for the till)

So much charm'd all the holders of scriptural scrip That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are reechoing still.

Fourth edition. Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Pho-bas 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.

CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Sin,- 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, flourished. I am, Sir, yours, &c.

EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

Second edition.

IMPORTANT event for the rich and religious!
Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen
Square;
[prodigious;

. Church Extension, their object, - the' excitement Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!

Third edition.

The chairman still up, when our dev'l came away; Having prefac'd his speech with the usual state prayer, [day, That the Three-headed Dian' would kindly, this Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.

Being ask'd by some low, unestablish'd divines, "When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?"

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." - Acts, xix.

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 heavenThat 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'et,
Seems to find immortality rather a bore;
Though he still asks for news of earth's capers and
crimes,

And reads daily his old fellow-Thund'rer, the
Times.
[peck'd are,
He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-
And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,
And pack'd off to earth on a puff-speculation.
The fact is, he found his old shrines had grow
dim,
[hr
Since bards look'd to Bentley and Colburn,
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,
[finger in't
From which men could guess that the god had a

2 Tria Virginis ora Dianæ.

3 The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples;-" ædiculæ, in quibus statuæ reponebantur."- ERASM.

Men lik'd 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 C-rd-g-n.

'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 combin'd.

Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers,

Whatever their cause, that they didn't find backers;
While any slight care for Humanity's woes
May be sooth'd by that " Art Diplomatique," which
shows

How to come, in the most approv'd 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.

1 Some parts of the Provinciales may be said to be of the highest order of jeux d'esprit, or squibs.

2" This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for

sits,

Had England a hierarchy form'd all of wits,
And be his every honour he deigneth to climb at!

Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave— A Horace to hear, and a Pascal 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;" 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, though gravity's good for the soul, Such a fancy have we for the side that there's

fun on,

We'd rather with Sydney south-west take a "stroll," Than couch it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N.E. you had turned about," &c. &c.— SYDNEY SMITH's Last Letter to the Bishop of London.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND

OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM T. M. TO S. R.

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 pass'd away,

When, doom'd in upper floors to star it,
The bard inscrib'd to lords his lav,-
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 launch'd triumphant in the Row,
Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow,

Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.
Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whisk'd from England by the gale,
But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well-equipp'd
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Ör not see, as the case may be:-
It being enjoin'd on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books-and readers, too.
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 can't be blink'd-
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 learn'd to patronise 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 open'd 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,
Book'd for posterity "all through; "-
Their luggage, a few close-pack'd 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 nightcap on the way.1

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 through 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, litter'd 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.

Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus: - HORAT.

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

BY LORD ST-NL-Y.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

"Evil, be thou my good."

How various are the inspirations
Of different men, in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,

MILTON.

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 L-nd-st, 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 L-nd-st'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 mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,

Whene'er thou, witch-like, rid'st 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 land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St-nl-y.
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, "swelter'd venom got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"

دو

"Swelter'd venom, sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot."

And, thanks to practice on that land,
I stir it with a master-hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth hath 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.

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
Play'd 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 contriv'd to be broken;
And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws-and of heads is prodigious.

Except when some hero of this sort turn'd 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 hit 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 allow'd to increase,
Might have snor'd 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-e -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 box'd the whole compass of party right through,

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 Compete, for one instant, with thee, my dear L-ndh-t.

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 meantime, 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!

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 L-ndh-t's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,
To play, in such concert, the true double-base.
I had fear'd 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 wrong'd the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquir'd face sufficient for anything 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 L-ndh-t, 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 Big-wigs, say I
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die-
He has serv'd 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 can't 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;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, letify,
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter`d
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,
Till nought shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood,
But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and is
blood;"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,
Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, “We are!"
And, though false be the cry, and though sense
must abhor it,

Still the' echoes may quote Law authority for it And nought L-ndh-t 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 through their r They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they begin, (wells.

They'll have plenty of practice to break the

2 The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.