(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;—

66

Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse,

"All cut up in cutlets, or hash'd in stews;

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.

4" 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.

"Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," &c., &c.-Quarterly Re

view.

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

7“Might not the archives of the Propaganda possibly, supply the key?"

8 Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

"Their works, a light through ages to go, "Themselves, eaten 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 prime-
With also (as Type in a whisper averr'd it)
"Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as pre-
ferr'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."

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.

Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus
Are going dog-cheap-may be had for a rebus.
Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest ;-
But Venus's also are much in request.

2 Tria Virginis ora Dianæ.

The "shrines" are supposed to have been smel. churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples; "ædiculæ, in quil us statuæ reponebantur."-ERASM.

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare, Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there,

We extract for our readers th' intelligence given,
In our latest accounts from that ci-devant heaven-

That realm of the By-gones, where still sit, in state,
Old god-heads and nod-heads, now long out of date.

Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er,
Seems to find immortality rather a bore;
Though he still asks for news of earth's capers and
crimes,

And reads daily his old fellow-Thund'rer, the
Times.
[peck'd are,

He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still henAnd kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,
And pack'd off to earth on a puff-speculation.
The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim,
Since bards look'd to Bentley and Colburn, not him.
So, he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags,

The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,

Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King;

While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain,

Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord C-rd-g-n

"Tis needless to say, then, how monstrously happy
Old Mars has been made by what's now on the topis
How much it delights him to see the French rally,
In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali;
Well knowing that Satan himself could not find
A confection of mischief much more to his mind
Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw com-
bined.

Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were

attackers,

Whatever their cause, that they didn't find backers;
While any slight care for Humanity's woes
May be sooth'd by that " Art Diplomatique," which
shows

How to come, in the most approved method, to blows

Mags;

somehow,

Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:" But the joke wouldn't take-the whole world had got wiser;

Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser; And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot, Without very well knowing for whom or for what.

Could equal the scene that took place t'other day "Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs— The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied, And whose worship not ev'n among Christians

declines,

But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well-equipp'd
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be :-
It being enjoin'd on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books-and readers, too.
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend-it can't be blink d--
The Patron is a race extinct;
As dead as any Megatherion
That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering, in this age,

Our praise for pence and patronage,
We authors, now, more prosperous elves,
Have learn'd to patronize ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made
The life of song, the soul of trade,
More frugal of our praises grown,
We puff no merits-bat-our-own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse, now, taking to the till,
Has open'd shop on Ludgate Hill,
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows;)
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,
While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."

What Steam is on the deep-and more-
Is the vast power of Puff on shore;
Which jumps to glory's future tenses
Before the present even commences;
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.

In old times, when the God of Song Drove his own two-horse team along,

trived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," &c. &c.-SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the Bishop of London.