A CURIOUS FACT.

Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff To the fishes that carried his kind uncle offAnd while filial piety urges so many on,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his

debtors)

Hath one little oddity, well worth reciting,

Which puzzleth observers, even more than his wri

ting

Whenever Lord K-ny-n doth chance to behold
A cold Apple-pie-mind, the pie must be cold-
His Lordship looks solemn, (few people know why,)
And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.
This idolatrous act, in so "vital" a Peer,
Is, by most serious Protestants, thought rather

queer

Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head (Vide Crustium, chap. iv.) of the Worship of Bread. Some think 'tis a tribute, as author, he owes

Sir,

NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

Most of your readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain, not over-wise, judge, who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraor dinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the

counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. |

prose ;

The only good things in his pages, they swear, Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes puts there.

Others say, 'tis a homage, through pie-crust convey'd,

To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honor'd shade;
As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)
Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green peas,'
And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,
My Lord K-ny-n to apple-pie takes off his hat.
While others account for this kind salutation
By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation ;"-
A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties,
"Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises,

For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises:
Lord K-ny-n's respected old father (like many
Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;
And loved so to save,2 that-there's not the least
question-

His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship would stuff in,

At breakfast, to save the expense of hot muffin. Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes—

1 See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs of this polite hero appropriating to himself, one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas-the first of the season-while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by, vainly entreating, with her eyes, for a share.

Yours, &c.

8.

Huc coeamus,3 ait; nullique libentius unquam Responsura sono, Coeamus, retulit echo.

OVID.

THERE are echoes, we know, of all sorts, From the echo, that "dies in the dale," To the "airy-tongued babbler," that sports Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."

There are echoes that bore us, like Blues,

With the latest smart mot they have heard; There are echoes, extremely like shrews, Letting nobody have the last word.

In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too,

Certain "talented" echoes there dwell, Who, on being ask'd, "How do you do?" Politely reply," Pretty well."

But why should I talk any more

Of such old-fashion'd echoes as these, When Britain has new ones in store, That transcend them by many degrees?

For, of all repercussions of sound,

Concerning which bards make a pother, There's none like that happy rebound

When one blockhead echoes another;

* The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to the expense of a diphthong on his father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus:“ Mors janua vita.”

"Let us form Clubs."

4 Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes."

When K-ny-n commences the bray,

And the Borough-Duke follows his track; And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay, R-thd-ne brays, with interest, back ;—

And while, of most echoes the sound

On our ear by reflection doth fall, These Brunswickers' pass the bray round, Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,

Who can name all the echoes there are From Benvoirlich to bold Ben-venue, From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track, through each hard Irish name,
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came

To the chief Neddy, K-ny-n, again;

Might tell how it roar'd in R-thd—ne,
How from D-ws-n it died off genteelly-
How hollow it rung from the crown

Of the fat-pated Marquis of E-y;

How, on hearing my Lord of G-e, Thistle-eaters, the stoutest, gave way, Outdone, in their own special line,

By the forty-ass power of his bray!

But, no-for so humble a bard

"Tis a subject too trying to touch on; Such noblemen's names are too hard,

And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,

Of the dell, and the deep-sounding shelves;

If, in spite of Narcissus, you still

1st Bruns.-Round about the caldron go; In the poisonous nonsense throw. Bigot spite, that long hath grown, Like a toad within a stone, Sweltering in the heart of Sc-tt, Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All-Dribble, dribble, nonsense d: oble, Eld-n, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.

2d Bruns.-Slaver from N-wc-stle's quill In the noisome mess distil,

Brimming high our Brunswick broth

Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord M-ntc-shel,
With that malty stuff which Ch―nd-s
Drivels as no other man does.

Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,

From my Lord of S-1-sb-y,—
One idea, though it be

Smaller than the "happy flea,"
Which his sire, in sonnet terse,
Wedded to immortal verse.2
Though to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;

And, to keep it company,

All-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, B-xl-y, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.

3d Bruns. Now the charm begins to brew; Sisters, sisters, add thereto

Scraps of L-thbr-dge's old speeches,
Mix'd with leather from his breeches.
Rinsings of old B-xl-y's brains,
Thicken'd (if you'll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle, nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There-the Hell-broth we've enchanted-
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice,
C keeps cork'd for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Color'd deep with blood of
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o'er it,
England's parsons bow before it!

All-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
B-xl-y, talk, and K-ny-n, scribble.
2d Bruns.-Cool it now with
So the charm is firm and good.

-'s blood, [Excunt.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

Watch well how he dines, during any great Question

What makes him feed gayly, what spoils his diges

tion

And always feel sure that his joy o'er a stew
Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you.
Read him backwards, like Hebrew-whatever he
wishes,

Or praises, note down as absurd, or pernicious.
Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about,
When he's out, be an In-when he's in, be an Out.
Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night
and day,

Like an Irish barometer turn'd the wrong way :If he's up, you may swear that foul weather is

nigh;

If he's down, you may look for a bit of blue sky. Never mind what debaters or journalists say, Only ask what he thinks, and then think t'other

way.

Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely The Small-note Bill's a blessing, though you don't

know why.

Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man. Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan. Is he all for the Turks? then, at once, take the whole

Russian Empire (Czar, Cossacks, and all) to your soul.

In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks, or is,
Be your thoughts, words, and essence the contrast

of his.

knew,

"Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, Do the very reverse, and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides, are the Brunswicker throng;

In their thought words, and deeds, so instinctively

wrong,

That, whatever they counsel, act, talk, or indite, Take the opposite course, and you're sure to be right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you— Were you even more doltish than any given man is, More soft than N-wc-stle, more twaddling than

Van is,

I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions,
To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying
Tory-

Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,

All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white

ones

If ev'n, by the chances of time or of tide,
Your Tory, for once, should have sense on his side,
Even then stand aloof-for, be sure that Old Nick,
When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is-and, in one single verse,

I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse. Be all that a Brunswicker is not, nor could be, And then-you'll be all that an honest man should

be.

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE,

FROM A SLAVE-LORD TO A COTTON-LORD.

ALAS! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!

How unjustly we both are despoil'd of our rights!

Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs, Nor must you any more work to death little

whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller Of Kings, Lords, and cotton mills, Public Opinion,

No more shall you beat with a big-billy-roller,

Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffer'd to do as we please With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,

We might range them alternate, like harpsichord

keys,

And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;-farewell to the zest
Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip;
Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best,
And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the
whip.

Farewell, too, the Factory's white picaninniesSmall, living machines, which, if flogg'd to their tasks,

Mix so well with their namesakes, the "Billies" and "Jennies,"

That which have got souls in 'em nobody asks ;—

Little Maids of the Mill, who, themselves but illfed,

Are obliged, 'mong their other benevolent cares, To "keep feeding the scribblers," and better, 'tis said,

Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.

All this is now o'er, and so dismal my loss is,

So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the thong, That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process)

To take to whipp'd syllabub all my life long.

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

Ah quoties dubius Scriptis exarsit amator!—Ovid.

THE Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,

1 One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.

And he said, in a voice that thrill'd the fame, "If ever the sound of Marathon's name "Hath fired thy blood or flush'd thy brow, "Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed-
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired his blood, it flush'd his eye,
And oh, 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose-so much per cent.,
(As we see in a glass, that tells the weather,
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from his pocket whisper'd "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again ;-

He smiled, as the pale moon smiles through rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost-how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)
"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,
Then, melting away, like a night-dream, fled!

The Benthamite hears-amazed that ghosts
Could be such fools,-and away he posts,
A patriot still? Ah no, ah no-
Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,
And, warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par.
The Benthamite's ardor fast decays,
By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,
And wishes the d-1 had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss.
They quote him the Stock of various nations,
But, spite of his classic associations,

Lord, how he loathes the Greek quotations!
"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?”
Is now the theme of the patriot's lip,
As he runs to tell how hard his lot is
To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,
And says,
"Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,
"Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break
"Those dark, unholy bonds of thine-
"If you'll only consent to buy up mine!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came once more ;-
His brow, like the night, was lowering o'er,
And he said, with a look that flash'd dismay,
"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they,
"Who turn to a trade her cause divine,
"And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"
Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry-
And vanish'd away to the Stygian ferry!

ALARMING INTELLIGENCE- REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY - ONE GALT AT THE HEAD OF IT.

Now, talks of a mystery, wrapp'd in a sheet,
With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it!

We shudder in tracing these terrible lines; Something bad they must mean, though we can't make it out;

assault;

Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer;

And accounts have just reach'd us that one Mr. Galt Has declared open war against English and Grammar!

He had long been suspected of some such design,
And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at,
Had lately 'mong C-lb-n's troops of the line
(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.

There school'd, with a rabble of words at command, Scotch, English, and slang, in promiscuous alli

ance,

He, at length, against Syntax has taken his stand, And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.

Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford;

In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord,

And whom he'll next murder the Lord only knows.

Wednesday Evening.

Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene; Though the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder-no, Puff Magazine, And th' explosions are dreadful in every direction.

What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,

As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) Of lyrical" ichor," "gelatinous" prose,'

And a mixture call'd "amber immortalization."3

Now, he raves of a bard he once happen'd to meet, Seated high "among rattlings," and churning a sonnet ;*

1 "That dark diseased ichor which colored his effusions." -GALT'S Life of Byron.

"That gelatinous character of their effusions."—Ibid. 3 "The poetical embalmment, or rather, amber immortalization."-Ibid.

"Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an marticulate melody."—Ibid.

"He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."-Ibid.

"One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was-" Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture ?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks-"Surely they had a

That they're all Anti-English no Christian can doubt.

RESOLUTIONS

PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF

REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

RESOLVED to stick to every particle
Of every Creed and every Article ;
Reforming naught, or great or little,
We'll stanchly stand by every tittle,"
And scorn the swallow of that soul
Which cannot boldly bolt the whole

Resolved that, though St. Athanasius
In damning souls is rather spacious—
Though wide and far his curses fall,
Our Church" hath stomach for them all;"
And those who're not content with such,
May e'en be d-d ten times as much.
Resolved-such liberal souls are we-
Though hating Nonconformity,
We yet believe the cash no worse is
That comes from Nonconformist purses.
Indifferent whence the money reaches
The pockets of our reverend breeches,
To us the Jumper's jingling penny
Chinks with a tone as sweet as any;
And even our old friends Yea and Nay
May through the nose for ever pray,
If also through the nose they'll pay.

Resolved, that Hooper," Latimer,
And Cranmer, all extremely err,