NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

WITH all humility we beg

To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-
Known for his spunky speculations,
In buying up dead reputations,
And, by a mode of galvanizing
Which, all must own, is quite surprising,
Making dead authors move again,
As though they still were living men ;-
All this, too, managed, in a trice,

By those two magic words, "Half Price,"
Which brings the charm so quick about,
That worn-out poets, left without
A second foot, whereon to stand,
Are made to go at second hand ;--
"Twill please the public, we repeat,

To learn that Tegg, who works this feat,
And, therefore, knows what care it needs
To keep alive Fame's invalids,
Mas oped an Hospital, in town,
For cases of knock'd-up renown-
Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic fits,

(By some call'd Cantos,) stabs from wits;
And, of all wounds for which they're nursed,
Dead cuts from publishers, the worst ;-
All these, and other such fatalities,
That happen to frail immortalities,
By Tegg are so expertly treated,

That oft-times, when the cure's completed,
The patient's made robust enough
To stand a few more rounds of puff,
Till, like the ghosts of Dante's lay,
He's puff'd into thin air away!

As titled poets (being phenomenons)

Don't like to mix with low and common 'uns, Tegg's Hospita. has separate wards,

Express for literary lords,

Where prose-peers, of immoderate length,

And oft, not only stints, for spite.
The patients in their copy-right,
But that, on being call'd in lately
To two sick poets, suffering greatly,
This vaticidal Doctor sent them

So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham,
That one of the poor bards but cried,
"Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died;
While t'other, though less stuff was given,
Is on his road, 'tis fear'd, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant,
Tegg means to say no more at present,-
Intending shortly to prepare

A statement of the whole affair,
With full accounts, at the same time,
Of some late cases, (prose and rhyme,)
Subscribed with every author's name,
That's now on the Sick List of Fame.

RELIGION AND TRADE

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate ali respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the Hoss." -Church Extension, May 22, 1830.

SAY, who was the wag, indecorously witty,

Who, first in a statute, this libel convey'd; And thus slyly referr'd to the self-same committes, As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Ph-llp-ts, 'twas thou didst the deed;

For none but thyself, or some pluralist brother, Accustom'd to mix up the craft with the creed, Could bring such a pair thus to twin with ea other.

And poets, whom their friends despair of, Are-put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story,

Now current both with Whig and Tory,
That Doctor W-rb-t-n, M. P.,
Well known for his antipathy,
His deadly hate, good man, to all
The race of poets, great and small-
So much, that he's been heard to own,
He would most willingly cut down
The holiest groves on Pindus' mount,
To turn the timber to account!-
The story actually goes, that he
Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary;

gone,

One is forced to confess, on maturer reflection, That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone, That the shrine and the shop seem to have so

connection.

Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fat land. Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid; And where the whole people, by royal command, Buy their gods at the government mart, rea made;1

1 The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass, it must purchase figures of the deity already made.—STIT

(In good hieroglyphics,) with kind intent
To pay some handsome compliment
To their sister-author, the nameless he,
Who wrote, in the last new Quarterly,
That charming assault upon Popery;
An article justly prized by them,
As a perfect antediluvian gem-

The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say,
Of some "fellow the Flood couldn't wash away."

The fund being raised, there remain'd but to see
What the dowager-author's gift was to be.
And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue
Show'd delicate taste and judgment too.
For, finding the poor man suffering greatly
From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately-
So much so, indeed, to the alarm of all,
As to bring on a fit of what doctors call
The Antipapistico-monomania,

(I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye,)
They've acted the part of a kind physician,
By suiting their gift to the patient's condition;
And, as soon as 'tis ready for presentation,
We shall publish the facts, for the gratification
Of this highly-favor'd and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors,
He still continues his Quarterly labors;
And often has strong No-Popery fits,
Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits.
Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play,2
"Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day;
Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens,
And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;
Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter)
Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter.

'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's,

He will keep raving of "Irish Thuggists ;"
Tells us they all go murd'ring, for fun,

From rise of morn till set of sun,

Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun !6

If ask'd, how comes it the gown and cassock are
Safe and fat, 'mid this general massacre-
How haps it that Pat's own population
But swarms the more for this trucidation-

He refers you, for all such memoranda,
To the "archives of the Propaganda !***
This is all we've got, for the present, to say-
But shall take up the subject some future day

GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO

A POOR POET'S DREAM.

As I sate in my study, lone and still,
Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill,
And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made,
In spirit congenial, for "the Trade,"
Sudden I sunk to sleep, and, lo,

Upon Fancy's reinless night-mare flitting,
I found myself, in a second or so,
At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.
With a goodly group of diners sitting ;-
All in the printing and publishing line,
Dress'd, I thought, extremely fine,
And sipping, like lords, their rosy wine;
While I, in a state near inanition,

With coat that hadn't much nap to spare, (Having just gone into its second edition,)

Was the only wretch of an author there. But think, how great was my surprise, When I saw, in casting round my eyes, That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks, Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books; Large folios-God knows where they got 'em, In these small times-at top and bottom; And quartos (such as the Press provides For no one to read them) down the sides. Then flash'd a horrible thought on my brain, And I said to myself, ""Tis all too plain; "Like those, well known in school quotations, "Who ate up for dinner their own relations, "I see now, before me, smoking here,

"The bodies and bones of my brethren dear

1 See Congreve's Love for Love.

Beaux Stratagem.

3 The writer of the article has groped about, with much success, in what he calls "the dark recesses of Dr. Dens's disquisitions."-Quarterly Review.

"Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the North ?"-Ibid.

5 "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estat of a village of Irish Thuggists," &c., &c.—Quarterig Br

view.

"Observe how murder after murder is committed lav minute-guns."-Ibid.

"Might not the archives of the Propaganda possibly supply the key ?"

Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

"Their works, a light through ages to go, "Themselves, caten up by Type and Co !"

While thus I moralized, on they went,
Finding the fare most excellent;
And all so kindly, brother to brother,
Helping the titbits to each other;

"A slice of Southey let me send you❞—
"This cut of Campbell I recommend you"-
"And here, my friends, is a treat indeed,
"The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!"

Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time, Upon joints of poetry-all of the primeWith also (as Type in a whisper averr'd it) "Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferr'd it"

They rested awhile, to recruit their force,

Then pounced, like kites, on the second course, Which was singing-birds merely-Moore and others

Who all went the way of their larger brothers; 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 gayly!

Nor was this the worst-I shudder to think

What a scene was disclosed 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 pledged to its owner's name;
While Type said slyly, 'midst general laughter,
"We eat them up first, then drink to them after."

There was no standing this-incensed I broke From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke, Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times, "Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes, "Could you e'er have foretold a day would be, "When a dreamer of dreams should live to see "A party of sleek and honest John Bulls "Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!"

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.

CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Sir,-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,1 flourished. I am, Sir, yours, &c.