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 !***

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 motioned 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 Brougham, 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" 233 perform'd on this Lord of Law-
A pass potential, none can doubt,

As it sent Harry Brougham 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,

Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed,
The whole order of things was found transposed;234
By a lusus naturæ, strange to see,

The liver placed where the heart should be,

shelf)

As diseased and as much out of place as himself.

Grotius

When suffering, in prison, for views heterodox,

Was pack'd up incog., spite of jailers ferocious,237 And sent to his wife,298 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 Grotes Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,299

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 half, 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 Pindaries rambling,
Then into 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,240
When scourged by Holland's silken thong.

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 Act 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.
That hacking, hectoring blade of thine
Dealt much in the Domdaniel line; 241
And 'tis but rendering justice due,
To say that ours and his Tory crew
Damn Daniel most devoutly too.

RIVAL TOPICS.242

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

OH Wellington 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 "Wellington,"
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;—

If down my Lord goes, down go we,
Lord Baron Stanley 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 Graham 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,

And Sir Thomas said, one day, to his wife, "My dear,an't but wish you joy,

"For you pray'd for a boy, and you now have a boy, "Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."

Even such is our own distressing lot,
With the ever-young statesman we have got:-
Nay even still worse; for Master More
Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before,
While ours such power of boyhood shows,
That, the older he gets, the more juvenile he grows,
And, at what extreme old age he'll close
His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;—
Some century hence, should he reach so far,

And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn,

We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,
A whipper-snapper Methusalem;
Nay, ev'n should he make still longer stay of it,
The boy'll want judgment, ev'n to the day of it!
Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction;

And, day and night, with awe I recall

The late Mr Mathews' solemn prediction,

"That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."

THE BOY STATESMAN.

BY A TORY.

"That boy will be the death of me."-Mathews at Home.

Aн, Tories dear, our ruin is near,

With Stanley 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,

LETTER

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN.

ARRAH, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?—

Or, how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf,

When that poor craythur, Bobby-as you were

away

Had to make twice as big a Tom-fool of himself.

Throth, it wasn't at all civil to lave in the lurch

A boy so desarving your tindh'rest affection;— Two such illigant Siamase twins of the Church, As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.

That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd, And (as if somethin'"odd" in their names, too, must be,)

One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod,

Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it, Poisoners by right, (so no more could be said of it,) The cooks, like our lordships, a pretty mess made of it;

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 Brougham and like Durham,

""Tis fit that in this question, we

"Stick each to his own art“That yours should be the sophistry, "And mine the fighting part.

"My creed, I need not tell you, is

"Like that of Wellington,

"To whom no harlot comes amiss,

"Save her of Babylon; 247

"And when we're at a loss for words, "If laughing reasoners flout us, "For lack of sense we'll draw our swords"The sole thing sharp about us.”— "Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, ""Tis true for war thou art meant; "And reasoning-bless that dandy head! "Is not in thy department.

"So leave the argument to me— "And, when my holy labor

"Hath lit the fires of bigotry,

"Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.

"From pulpit and from sentry-box, "We'll make our joint attacks,