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,

letters,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his

debtors)

Hath one little oddity, well worth reciting,

Which puzzleth observers, even more than his

writing.

Whenever Lord K-ny-n doth chance to behold A cold Apple-pie-mind, the pie must be coldHis 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 For the service that pie-crust hath done to his 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-honour'd shade;
As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)
Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green peas, 1
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.

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 characterises his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to the expeLAR of a diphthong on his father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus: -"Mors janua vija,” 3" Let us form Clubs."

4 Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes."

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 begin 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
Colour'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.

Watch well how he dines, during any great Question

What makes him feed gaily, what spoils his digestion.

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 pernicions.
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 revers'd 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,

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 thoughts, words, and deeds, so instinctively

wrong,

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,

right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide youWere 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,

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

And he said, in a voice, that thrill'd the frame, "If ever the sound of Marathon's name "Hath fir'd 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 fir'd 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 smil'd, 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!

66

The Benthamite hears-amaz'd 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 ardour fast decays,
By turns he weeps, and swears, and prays,
And wishes the d-1 had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forc'd 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!