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TORY PLEDGES.

I PLEDGE myself through thick and thin,
To labor still, with zeal devout,
To get the Outs, poor devils, in,

And turn the Inns, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, though much bereft Of ways and means of ruling ill, To make the most of what are left,

And stick to all that's rotten still.

Though gone the days of place and pelf, And drones no more take all the honey,

I pledge myself to cram myself

With all I can of public money;

To quarter on that social purse

My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers, Nor, so we prosper, care a curse

How much 'tis at th' expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right

And Might on any point divide, Not to ask which is black or white,

But take, at once, the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions,

I'm for the Reverend encroachers :I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,Am for the Squires against the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-Lords and the Poor

I've not the slightest hesitation,The people must be starved t' ensure The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more

With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shamm'd— I vote her grievances a bore,

So she may suffer, and be d

Or if she kick, let it console us,

We still have plenty of red coats, To cram the Church, that general bolus, Down any giv'n amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,

Think newspapers the worst of crimes; And would, to give some chance of quiet, Hang all the writers of The Times; Break all their correspondents' bones, All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder,"

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He had learn'd-but learn'd without misgivings Their love for good living, and eke good livings; Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees). That good living means claret and fricassees, While its plural means simply-pluralities. "From all I hear," said the innocent man, "They are quite on the good old primitive plan. "For wealth and pomp they little can care, "As they all say 'No' to th' Episcopal chair; "And their vestal virtue it well denotes, "That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,
And knocks at th' Archbishop of Canterbury's
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, "What's your business with his Grace"
"His grace !" quoth Jerome for posed was he,
Not knowing what sort this Grace could be;
Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular,
Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular'—
In short, he rummaged his holy mind,
Th' exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.

1 So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Der

At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,

(For dearly the good saint loved his joke,1) And said surveying, as sly he spoke,

The costly palace from roof to base

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Well, it isn't, at least, a saving Grace!" "Umph," said the lackey, a man of few words, "Th' Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords." To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son, "For in my time, at least, there was but one; "Unless such many-fold priests as these "Seek, ev'n in their LORD, pluralities!"** "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 PreJates 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. "They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all, "Once worn by nobs Episcopal.3 "For folks on earth, who've got a store "Of cast off things they'll want no more, "Oft send them down, as gifts, you know, "To a certain Gentleman here below."

1 Witness his well-known pun on the name of his adversary, Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

2 The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation from this passage.

The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

"A sign of the times, I plainly see," Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he Sail'd off in the death-boat gallantly.

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 Ex-t—r, 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 bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van M―ld—t,
Much with his money-bags bewilder'd;
Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese,*
Because the rogues show'd restlessness
At having too little cash to touch,
While he so Christianly bears too much.
He found old Sarum's wits as gone
As his own beloved text in John,—
Text he hath prosed so long upon,
That 'tis thought when ask'd, at the gate of heaven,
His name, he'll answer "John, v. 7.”

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day,"
Said the weary Saint,-" I must away.
"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!"
To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.
"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone ?"—
"He is now at his living at Hillingdon."—
"No, no,-you're out, by many a mile,
"He's away at his Deanery, in Carlisle."-

4 See the Bishop's Letter to Clergy of his Diocese. 1 John. v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.

It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be in two places at once, anless he was a bird."

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How R-d-n would blaze! and what rubbish Used, at some operations, to blush to the eyes;—

throw out!

A volcano of nonsense, in active display; While V-ne, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout

The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

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.

And then, for a finish, there's C-mb-d's Duke,-
Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in Dr.

air!

Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)

He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

1 The M-s of H-tf-d's Fête.-From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.

2 These verses, as well as some others that follow, (p. 608,) were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.

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

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You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You can't think how fast you may train your hand in :

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,

And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take So be-nined and be-tenth'd, couldn't easily do.

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,

Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian,'
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.

Which you help'd me to make for my patient last Just so round our Ov-rt-n's cradle, no doubt, 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 these mad machines;

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 cf 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 turn'd to a
swan,*

Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall,

There-tighter the gag in the mouth, by all Without any effort of fancy, at all;

means.

Delightful!-all's snug-not a squeak need you fear,

You may now put your anodynes off till next year. [Scene closes.

Little thought'st thou the world would in Ov-rt-n
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.

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

You"believe in the full and true meaning thereof?" (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.

At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely,
Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely.
Both in dining and signing we take the same plan-
First, swallow all down, then digest-as we can.
Boy, (still reading.)—I've to gulp, I see,
Athanasius's Creed,

Which, I'm told, is a very tough morsel, indeed;
As he damns-

St.

Dr. P. (aside.)-Ay, and so would I, willingly, too,

All confounded particular young boobies, like you. This comes of Reforming !-all's o'er with our land, When people won't stand what they can't understand;

Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine Were made, not for men to believe, but to sign. [Exit Dr. P. in a passion.

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 B-mh-m's priest
His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced:
But it is that, before his prescient eyes,
All future Vicars of B-mh-m 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 B-mh-mites, reach his ears;
And, did he resist that soft appeal,

He would not like a true-born Vicar feel.

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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."

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