ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

THOUGH famed was Mesmer, in his day,
Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet,
To say nothing of all the wonders done
By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson,

When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he
Up waves his arm, and-down drops Okey!1

Though strange these things, to mind and sense,
If you wish still stranger things to see-
If you wish to know the power immense
Of the true magnetic influence,

Just go to her Majesty's Treasury,
And learn the wonders working there-
And I'll be hang'd if you don't stare!
Talk of your animal magnetists,

And that wave of the hand no soul resists,

Not all its witcheries can compete

With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street,
Which a Premier gives to one who wishes
To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes.
It actually lifts the lucky elf,
Thus acted upon, above himself;-
He jumps to a state of clairvoyance,
And is placeman, statesman, all, at once!

These effects observe, (with which I begin,)
Take place when the patient's motion'd in;
Far different, of course, the mode of affection,
When the wave of the hand's in the out direction;
The effects being then extremely unpleasant,
As is seen in the case of Lord Bm, at present;
In whom this sort of manipulation
Has lately produced such inflammation,
Attended with constant irritation,

That, in short-not to mince his situation-
It has work'd in the man a transformation
That puzzles all human calculation!

Ever since the fatal day which saw

That "pass" perform'd on this Lord of Law-
A pass potential, none can doubt,

As it sent Harry Bm to the right about-
The condition in which the patient has been
Is a thing quite awful to be seen.
Not that a casual eye could scan

This wondrous change by outward survey; It being, in fact, th' interior man

That's turn'd completely topsy-turvy:— Like a case that lately, in reading o'er 'em, I found in the Acta Eruditorum,

1 The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London Hospital.

2 The technical term for the movements of the magnetizer's hand.

While Gr-te is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet, And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.1

"Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius,2 (A namesake of Gr-te's-being both of Dutch stocks,)

Like Gr-te, too, a genius profound as precocious, Was also, like him, much renown'd for a Box ;

An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius

When suffering, in prison, for views heterodox, Was pack'd up incog., spite of jailers ferocious," And sent to his wife,* carriage free, in a Box!

But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf,
Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks ;-
That Grotius ingloriously saved but himself,
While ours saves the whole British realm by a
Box!

And oh when, at last, even this greatest of Gr-tes Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,

May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes,"

And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.

While long at his shrine, both from county and city, Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks,

And sing, while they whimper, th' appropriate ditty,

"Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep in the Box."

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.

ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

WHEN erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue
The terrible tale of Thalaba sung-
Of him, the Destroyer, doom'd to rout
That grim divan of conjurors out,

Whose dwelling dark, as legends say,
Beneath the roots of the ocean lay,
(Fit place for deep ones, such as they,)
How little thou knew'st, dear Dr. Southey,
Although bright genius all allow thee,
That, some years thence, thy wond'ring eyes
Should see a second Thalaba rise-
As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine,
Though his havoc lie in a different line,
And should find this new, improved Destroyer
Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer;
A sort of an "alien," alias man,
Whose country or party guess who can,
Being Cockney ha f, half Jonathan ;
And his life, to make the thing completer,
Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre,
Loose and irregular as thy feet are ;-
First, into Whig Pindarics rambling,
Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling;
Now love his theme, now Church his glory,
(At once both Tory and ama-tory,)
Now in th' Old Bailey-lay meandering,
Now in soft couplet style philandering;
And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine,
Dragging his wounded length along,
When scourged by Holland's silken thong.

6

In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second
May fairly a match for the First be reckon'd;
Save that your Thalaba's talent lay*
In sweeping old conjurors clean away,
While ours at aldermen deals his blows,
(Who no great conjurors are, God knows,)
Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level,
Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil,
Bullies the whole Milesian race-
Seven millions of Paddies, face to face;
And, seizing that magic wand, himself,
Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf,
Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey
All into foreigners, in a jiffey—

Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em,

Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em!

Never, in short, did parallel

Betwixt two heroes gee so well;

And, among the points in which they fit, There's one, dear Bob, I can't omit.

1 And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. POPE's Rape of the Lock. Groot, or Grote, Latinized into Grotius.

3 For the particulars of this escape of Grotius from the Castle of Louvenstein, by means of a box (only three feet and a half long, it is said) in which books used to be occasionally sent to him and foul linen returned, see any of the Biographical Dictionaries.

4 This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to give him time for escape. Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede, &c.-HORAT "A needless Alexandrine ends the song

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."

That hacking, hectoring blade of thine
Dealt much in the Domdaniel line ;1
And 'tis but rendering justice due,
To say that ours and his Tory crew
Damn Daniel most devoutly too.

RIVAL TOPICS.

Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,

Ye haunt me everywhere. Though Job had patience tough enough, Such duplicates would try it; Till one's turn'd out and t'other off, We shan't have peace or quiet But small's the chance that Law affordsSome folks are daily let off;

And, 'twixt th' Old Bailey and the Lords, They both, I fear, will get off.

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

OH W-ll-ngt-n and Stephenson,
Oh morn and evening papers,

Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,
When will ye cease our ears to stun

With these two heroes' capers? Still"Stephenson" and "W-ll-ngt-n," The everlasting two!Still doom'd, from rise to set of sun, To hear what mischief one has done, And t'other means to do:What bills the banker pass'd to friends, But never meant to pay; What Bills the other wight intends,

As honest, in their way;Bills, payable at distant sight,

Beyond the Grecian kalends,

When all good deeds will come to light, When W-ll-ngt-n will do what's right, And Rowland pay his balance.

To catch the banker all have sought,

But still the rogue unhurt is; While t'other juggler-who'd have thought? Though slippery long, has just been caught By old Archbishop Curtis ;And, such the power of papal crook,

The crosier scarce had quiver'd About his ears, when, lo, the Duke Was of a Bull deliver'd!

Sir Richard Birnie doth decide

That Rowland "must be mad," In private coach, with crest, to ride, When chaises could be had. And t'other hero, all agree, St. Luke's will soon arrive at, If thus he shows off publicly, When he might pass in private.

Oh W-1-ngt-n, oh Stephenson, Ye ever-boring pair,

"Vain are the spells, the Destroyer Treads the Domdaniel floor."

Thalaba, a Metrical Romance.

Ан, Tories dear, our ruin is near,
With St―nl―y to help us, we can't but fall;
Already a warning voice I hear,
Like the late Charles Mathews' croak in my ear,
"That boy-that boy'll be the death of you all."

He will, God help us!-not even Scriblerius

In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be; And our case is growing exceeding serious, For, all being in the same boat as he, If down my Lord goes, down go we, Lord Baron St-nl-y and Company, As deep in Oblivion's swamp below As such "Masters Shallow" well could go; And where we shall all, both low and high, Embalm'd in mud, as forgotten lie As already doth Gr-h-m of Netherby! But that boy, that boy!-there's a tale I know, Which in talking of him comes propos. Sir Thomas More had an only son,

And a foolish lad was that only one,

While, famed for conservative stomachs, th' Egyptians

Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.

It is true, we've among us some peers of the past, Who keep pace with the present most awfully fastFruits, that ripen beneath the new light now arising With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising, Conserves, in whom-potted, for grandmamma

uses

"Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.

"Tis true, too, I fear, midst the general movement, Ev'n our House, God help it, is doom'd to improvement,

And all its live furniture, nobly descended,

But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With moveables 'mong us, like Br―m and like
D-rh―m,

No wonder ev'n fixtures should learn to bestir 'em ;
And, distant, ye gods, be that terrible day,
When-as playful Old Nick, for his pastime,
they say,

Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm-
So ours may be whipp'd off, some night, by Reform;
And, as up, like Loretto's famed house,' through
the air,

Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,

Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by,"
While, perch'd up on clouds, little imps of ple-
beians,

Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Pæans.

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Он, have you heard what happ'd of late?
If not, come len: an ear,
While sad I state the piteous fate
Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All praised his skilful jockeyship,
Loud rung the Tory cheer,
While away, away, with spur and whip,
Went the Reverend Pamphleteer.

The nag he rode-how could it err? "Twas the same that took, last year,

1 The Casa Santa, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.