"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace: Then, slamming the door in St. Jerome's face, With a curse to the single knockers all, Went to finish his port in the servants' hall, And propose a toast (humanely meant To include even Curates in its extent) "To all as serves th' Establishment."

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

SECOND VISIT.

"This much I dare say, that, since lording and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and lorded not: and now they lord and preach not. . . . . Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, the people starve."-Latimer, Sermon of the Plough.

"ONCE more," said Jerome," I'll run up and see
"How the Church goes on,"-and off set he.
Just then the packet-boat, which trades
Betwixt our planet and the shades,

Had arrived below, with a freight so queer,
"My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"—
For he saw, when nearer he explored,

They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more "I'll affect a body, as before; "For I think I'd best, in the company "Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be, "And glide, unseen, from See to See." But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,It was more than Rabelais' pen could draw. For instance, he found Exeter, Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,— For love of God? for sake of King? For good of people?—no such thing; But to get for himself, by some new trick, A shove to a better bishopric.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert, Much with his money-bags bewilder'd; Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocess,18 Because the rogues show'd restlessness

66

Though I own I should like, before I go, "To see for once (as I'm ask'd below "If really such odd sights exist)

"A regular six-fold Pluralist." Just then he heard a general cry"There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!" "Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow," And off he sets, with a loud view-hollo, At Hodgson's heels, to catch, if he can, A glimpse of this singular plural man. But,-talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird !187 To compare him with Hodgson is absurd. "Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?”

Dr. Whig.

I, myself, in my youth, ere I came to get wise,
Used, at some operations, to blush to the eyes;-
But, in fact, my dear brother, if I may make bold
To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,-
We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude,
And, indifferent like him,-so the fish is but stew'd,—
Must torture live Pats for the general good.

[Here patient groans and kicks a little. Dr. Whig-But what, if one's patient's sc devilish perverse,

That he won't be thus tortured?
Dr. Tory.
Coerce, sir, coerce.
You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin,
You can't think how fast you may train your hand
in:

And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf,

With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf,

He's succeeded by one just as-bad as himself?

Dr. Whig, (looking flattered.)—Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, Which you help'd me to make for my patient last year,―

[Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait waistcoat and gag. And such rest I've enjoy'd from his raving since

then,

That I have made up my mind he shall wear it again.

Dr. Tory, (embracing him.)—Oh, charming! My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure. Next to torturing myself, to help you is a pleasure. [Assisting Dr. Whig.

Give me leave-I've some practice in those mad

machines;

There-tighter-the gag in the mouth, by all

means.

But unluckily not much, till lately, in mine. "Tis so painful

Dr. Tory.-Pooh, nonsense-ask Ude how he feels,

When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live cels,
By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire,
And letting them wriggle on there till they tire.
He, too, says "'tis painful"-"quite makes his
heart bleed"-

But "your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."-
He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says
"No,"

And, in short, eels were born to be treated just so.190 "Tis the same with these Irish,-who're odder fish still,

fear,

You may now put your anodynes off till next year.

[Scene closes.

TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON,

CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK.

1

AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH, 191

1833.

If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight,

Only think, in a Rectory, how you would write!

That's sufficient-now, sign-having read quite enough,

(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phœbus hollow,
Having gotten, besides the old Nine's inspiration,
The Tenth of all eatable things in creation,)
There's nothing, in fact, that a poet like you,
So be-nined and be-tenth'd, couldn't easily do.
Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian,193
they say,

While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay,
Wild honey-bees swarm'd, as a presage to tell
Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards
fell.

Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt,
Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about;
Goose embryos, waiting their doom'd decimation,
Came, shadowing forth his adult destination,
And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves,
Announced the Church poet whom Chester ap-
proves.

O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore,
Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er
Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on,
Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a
swan,194

Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall,
Without any effort of fancy, at all;

Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find

A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind, But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce, By gods yclept anser, by mortals a goose.

(Boy stares.) Oh, a mere form of words, to make things smooth

and brief,

A commodious and short make-believe of belief, Which our Church has drawn up, in a form thus articular,

To keep out, in general, all who're particular. But what's the boy doing? what! reading all through,

And my luncheon fast cooling!-this never will do. Boy, (poring over the Articles.)-Here are points which-pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?"

Dr. P. (sharply.)-You'll find out, young sir, when you've more ingenuity.

SCENE

FROM A PLAY ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED

"MATRICULATION." 195

[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-nine Articles before him.-Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

Doctor P.-THERE, my lad, lie the Articles-(Boy begins to count them)-just thirty-nine

No occasion to count-you've now only to sign.
At Cambridge, where folks are ess High-Church

than we,

The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lump'd into Three. Let's run o'er the items;-there's Justification, Predestination, and Supererogation,

Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian, Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification.

1833.

"The Vicar of Bramham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage."-Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.

No, not for yourselves, ye reverend men,
Do you take one pig in every ten,

But for Holy Church's future heirs,

Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs ;—
The law supposing that such heirs male
Are already seised of the pig, in tail.

No, not for himself hath Bramham's priest
His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced:
But it is that, before his prescient eyes,
All future Vicars of Bramham rise,
With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces,
And 'tis for them the poor he fleeces.
He heareth their voices, ages hence,
Saying, "Take the pig"-"oh take the pence;"
The cries of little Vicarial dears,

The unborn Bramhamites, reach his ears;
And, did he resist that soft appeal,

He would not like a true-born Vicar feel.

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes
(So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms,
And a single four-pence, pocketed well,
Through a thousand rectors' lives will tell.
Then still continue, ye reverend souls,
And still as your rich Pactolus rolls,
Grasp every penny on every side,
From every wretch, to swell its tide:
Remembering still what the Law lays down,
In that pure poetic style of its own,
"If the parson in esse submits to loss, he
"Inflicts the same on the parson in posse."

FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I HAVE been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fools' Paradise,
Lying N. N. E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom bless'd with a glimmer thence.
But they want it not in this happy place,
Where a light of its own gilds every face;
Or, if some wear a shadowy brow,
"Tis the wish to look wise,-not knowing how.
Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,
The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;

The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,
The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,
The falling founts in a titter fall,
And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace
The scenes I saw in that joyous place.
There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,
In converse sweet, "What charming weather!-
"You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure,
"Lord Charles has got a good sinecure;

"And the Premier says, my youngest brother
"(Him in the Guards) shall have another.
"Isn't this very, very gallant!—

"As for my poor old virgin aunt,

"Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist,

66

We must quarter her on the Pension List."

Thus smoothly time in that Eden roll'd;

. It seem'd like an Age of real gold, Where all who liked might have a slice, So rich was that Fool's Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas!

That a downfall soon must come to pass.
For grief is a lot the good and wise
Don't quite so much monopolize,
But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are)
Even blessed fools must have their share.
And so it happen'd:-but what befell,
In Dream the Second I mean to tell.

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;

OR, ONE POUND TWO.

I trust we shall part, as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR CON-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."-Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons.

THE account is balanced-the bill drawn out,—
The debit and credit all right, no doubt-
The Rector, rolling in wealth and state,
Owes to his Curate six pound eight;
The Curate, that least well-fed of men,
Owes to his Rector seven pound ten,
Which maketh the balance clearly due
From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven! But sure to be all set right in heaven,

And such the success the first colony met, That a second, soon after, set sail o'er th' Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-look'd for shore, Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might

greet,

And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there

came

"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"

While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper'd for joy!

Can it possibly be?-half amazement-half doubt, Pat listens again-rubs his eyes and looks

steady;

Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, "Good Lord! only think-black and curly already!"

Deceived by that well-mimick'd brogue in his ears, Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed

figures,

And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,

To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!

MORAL.