Some, that had sigh'd their last amen

From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once own'd by "the best of men,"

Who had proved-no better than they should be. "Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,

Once shining fair, now soak'd and blackNo wonder," (an imp at my elbow cried,) "For I pick'd it out of a butt of sack!"

Just then a yell was heard o'er head,

Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; And lo a devil right downward sped, Bringing, within his claws so red,

Two statesmen's characters, found, he said,

Last night, on the floor of the House of Com

mons:

The which, with black official grin,

He now to the Chief Imp handed in ;-
Both these articles much the worse

For their journey down, as you may suppose; But one so devilish rank-" Odds curse!"

Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.

"Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well
"From whom these two stray matters fell;"-
Then, casting away, with loathful shrug,
Th' uncleaner waif, (as he would a drug
Th' 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 preserved-'tis a public loss!
"This comes of a man, the careless blockhead,
"Keeping his character in his pocket;
"And there without considering whether
"There's room for that and his gains together-
"Cramming, and cramming, and cramming away,
"Till-out slips character some fine day!

"However"-and here he view'd it round-
"This article still may pass for sound.
"Some flaws, soon patch'd, some stains are all
"The harm it has had in its luckless fall.

“Here, Puck !”—and he call'd to one of his train-
"The owner may have this back again.
"Though damaged forever, if used with skill,
"It may serve, perhaps, to trade on still;
"Though the gem can never, as once,
"It will do for a Tory Cabinet."

be set,

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY

Qui facit per alium facit per se

'MONG our neighbors, the French, in the good olden

time

When Nobility flourish'd, great Barons and Dukes Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,

But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters ;-
And one day, a Bishop, addressing a Blue,
Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastor&
Letters ?"

To which the Blue answer'd-"No, Bishop, have you?"

The same is now done by our privileged class;
And, to show you how simple the process it needs,
If a great Major-General' wishes to pass

For an author of History, thus he proceeds:

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well
As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,
He settles his neckcloth-takes snuff-rings the bell,
And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

The Subaltern comes-sees his General seated,

In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;"There, look," saith his Lordship, "My work is completed,

"It wants nothing now, but the grammar and spelling."

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

more;

And, though often condemn'd 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 enough—
So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,
Convinced 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 won't do, As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

1 H-k-n.

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;
Druins beat-the new Grand March of Intellect's
play'd-

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

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

"Cosi 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 flutt'ring 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 inquired Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, toss'd, and tired 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,' On C-lb-n's shelves first saw the light of day, "In's puffs exhaled our lives away

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 th' 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.,*

"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, "Had she but learn'd those plain ones, A. B. C.

1 The classical term for money.

2 The reader may fill up this gap with any one of the dissyllabic 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.

"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, "Wrapp'd in his own dead rhymes-fit windingsheet

"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 Eolian lyre For the old Row's soft trade-winds to inspire,) "This modest genius breathed one wish alone, "To have his volume read, himself unknown; "But different far the course his glory took, "All knew the author, and-none read the book.

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

"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;

"But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December, "I wrote a book, and Colburn dubb'd me' Member'

"Member of Brooks's !--oh Promethean puff,

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 Honorable 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" in old times,
Leaving me much in doubt, as on I press'd
With my great master, through this realm unbless'd,
Whether old Nick or C-lb-n puffs the best.

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD B-TH-ST'S TAIL

ALL in again—unlook'd for bliss!
Yet, ah, one adjunct still we miss ;-
One tender tie, attach'd so long

To the same head, through right and wrong.
Why, B-th-st, why didst thou cut off

That memorable tail of thine?

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! beguiled 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 "th' unkindest cut of all!"

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

1 A Dantesque allusion to the old saying, "Nine miles beyond H-11, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."

? 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 vigor 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,

Blazed from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As W-11-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 trueFate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus deprived 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, Surcharged with all a nation's fate, His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,

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, loved relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons forever.

And, counting of noses the quantum desired, Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother, "Come forward, my jewels"-'tis all that's required.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter-
Thus honestly persecute, outlaw, and chain;

expense;

1 During the discussion of the Catholic question in the House of Commons last session.

This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

And never, oh never, try reasoning again!

3 Fabius, who sent droves of bullocks against the enemy.

4 Res Fisci est, ubicumque natat.—JUVENAL,