by Thomas Moore
Quite a new sort of creature — so harmless and tame,
That zoölogists might, for the first time, maintain ’em
To be near akin to the genius humanum,
And the experiment, tried so successfully then,
Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again.
1 A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, etc.
2 The zoölogical term for a tithe-eater.
3 The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the Deluge (“homo diluvii testis”), but who turned out, I am sorry to say, to be merely a great lizard.
4 Particularly the formation called Transition Trap.
* * * * *
SONG OF THE CHURCH.
No. 1.
LEAVE ME ALONE.
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
“We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, ‘leave us alone.’ The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more: — let us alone.” — Letter in The Times, Nov. 1838.
1838.
Come, list to my pastoral tones,
In clover my shepherds I keep;
My stalls are well furnisht with drones,
Whose preaching invites one to sleep.
At my spirit let infidels scoff,
So they leave but the substance my own;
For in sooth I’m extremely well off
If the world will but let me alone.
Dissenters are grumblers, we know; —
Tho’ excellent men in their way,
They never like things to be so,
Let things be however they may.
But dissenting’s a trick I detest;
And besides ’tis an axiom well known,
The creed that’s best paid is the best,
If the unpaid would let it alone.
To me, I own, very surprising
Your Newmans and Puseys all seem,
Who start first with rationalizing,
Then jump to the other extreme.
Far better, ‘twixt nonsense and sense,
A nice half-way concern, like our own,
Where piety’s mixt up with pence,
And the latter are ne’er left alone.
Of all our tormentors, the Press is
The one that most tears us to bits;
And now, Mrs. Woolfrey’s “excesses”
Have thrown all its imps into fits.
The devils have been at us, for weeks,
And there’s no saying when they’ll have done; —
Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks
Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!
If any need pray for the dead,
’Tis those to whom post-obits fall;
Since wisely hath Solomon said,
’Tis “money that answereth all.”
But ours be the patrons who live;-
For, once in their glebe they are thrown,
The dead have no living to give,
And therefore we leave them alone.
Tho’ in morals we may not excel,
Such perfection is rare to be had;
A good life is, of course, very well,
But good living is also-not bad.
And when, to feed earth-worms, I go.
Let this epitaph stare from my stone,
“Here lies the Right Rev. so and so;
“Pass, stranger, and — leave him alone.”
EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.
Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London,
You’ve sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane,
No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you’ve read
What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said —
That he ne’er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet,
Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street,
Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces,
Didnt burst out a laughing in each other’s faces.
What Cato then meant, tho’ ’tis so long ago,
Even we in the present times pretty well know;
Having soothsayers also, who — sooth to say, John —
Are no better in some points than those of days gone,
And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me),
Might laugh in their sleeves, too — all lawn tho’ they be.
But this, by the way — my intention being chiefly
In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly,
That, seeing how fond you of Tuum1 must be,
While Meum’s at all times the main point with me,
We scarce could do better than form an alliance,
To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance:
You, John, recollect, being still to embark,
With no share in the firm but your title and mark;
Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined
To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldnt much mind;
While my church as usual holds fast by your Tuum,
And every one else’s, to make it all Suum.
Thus allied, I’ve no doubt we shall nicely agree,
As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we;
Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast,
(See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest:
Both mettlesome chargers, both brisk pamphleteers,
Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears;
And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer
By any given cause than I found it the stronger,
And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel,
When the tone ecclesiastic wont do, try the civil.
In short (not to bore you, even jure divino)
We’ve the same cause in common, John — all but the rhino;
And that vulgar surplus, whate’er it may be,
As you’re not used to cash, John, you’d best leave to me.
And so, without form — as the postman wont tarry —
I’m, dear Jack of Tuain,
Yours,
EXETER HARRY.
1 So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand,
frequently chants: —
“Had every one Suum,
You wouldnt have Tuum,
But I should have Meum,
And sing Te Deum.”
SONG OF OLD PUCK.
“And those things do best please me,
That befall preposterously.”
PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Who wants old Puck? for here am I,
A mongrel imp, ‘twixt earth and sky,
Ready alike to crawl or fly;
Now in the mud, now in the air,
And, so ’tis for mischief, reckless where.
As to my knowledge, there’s no end to’t,
For, where I haven’t it, I pretend to’t:
And, ‘stead of taking a learned degree
At some dull university,
Puck found it handier to commence
With a certain share of impudence,
Which passes one off as learned and clever,
Beyond all other degrees whatever;
And enables a man of lively sconce
To be Master of all the Arts at once.
No matter what the science may be —
Ethics, Physics, Theology,
Mathematics, Hydrostatics,
Aerostatics or Pneumatics —
Whatever it be, I take my luck,
’Tis all the same to ancient Puck;
Whose head’s so full of all sorts of wares,
That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears
If I had but of law a little smattering,
I’d then be perfect — which is flattering.
My skill as a linguist all must know
Who met me abroad some months ago;
&nb
sp; (And heard me abroad exceedingly,
In the moods and tenses of parlez vous)
When, as old Chambaud’s shade stood mute,
I spoke such French to the Institute
As puzzled those learned Thebans much,
To know if ’twas Sanscrit or High Dutch,
And might have past with the unobserving
As one of the unknown tongues of Irving.
As to my talent for ubiquity,
There’s nothing like it in all antiquity.
Like Mungo (my peculiar care)
“I’m here, I’m dere, I’m ebery where.”
If any one’s wanted to take the chair
Upon any subject, any where,
Just look around, and — Puck is there!
When slaughter’s at hand, your bird of prey
Is never known to be out of the way:
And wherever mischief’s to be got,
There’s Puck instanter, on the spot.
Only find me in negus and applause,
And I’m your man for any cause.
If wrong the cause, the more my delight;
But I dont object to it, even when right,
If I only can vex some old friend by’t;
There’s Durham, for instance; — to worry him
Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!
(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)
Those who are anxious to run a muck
Cant do better than join with Puck.
They’ll find him bon diable — spite of his phiz —
And, in fact, his great ambition is,
While playing old Puck in first-rate style,
To be thought Robin Good-fellow all the while.
POLICE REPORTS.
CASE OF IMPOSTURE.
Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week,
Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected,
Who has lately been passing off coins as antique,
Which have proved to be sham ones, tho’ long unsuspected.
The ancients, our readers need hardly be told,
Had a coin they called “Talents,” for wholesale demands;
And ’twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold
As to fancy he’d got, God knows how, in his hands.
People took him, however, like fools, at his word;
And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,)
Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd
Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation.
Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised,
“Black swans”— “Queen Anne farthings” — or even “a child’s caul” —
Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized,
“Stanley’s talents” outdid them — swans, farthings and all!
At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad;
Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it;
Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud —
And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it.
Others, wishing to break the poor prodigy’s fall,
Said ’twas known well to all who had studied the matter,
That the Greeks had not only great talents but small,
And those found on the youngster were clearly the latter.
While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin —
Seeing counterfeits pass thus for coinage so massy,
By way of a hint to the dolts taken in,
Appropriately quoted Budaeus “de Asse.”
In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out,
And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call,
Proved a mere lackered article — showy, no doubt,
But, ye gods! not the true Attic Talent at all.
As the impostor was still young enough to repent,
And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection,
Their Worships — considerate for once — only sent
The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.
REFLECTIONS.
ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review.
I’m quite of your mind; — tho’ these Pats cry aloud
That they’ve got “too much Church,” ’tis all nonsense and stuff;
For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed
That even too much of it’s not quite enough.
Ay! dose them with parsons, ‘twill cure all their ills; —
Copy Morrison’s mode when from pill-box undaunted he
Pours thro’ the patient his black-coated pills,
Nor cares what their quality, so there’s but quantity.
I verily think ’twould be worth England’s while
To consider, for Paddy’s own benefit, whether
’Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.
The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;
The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,1
And now if King William would make them a present
To t’other chaste lady — ye Saints, just imagine it!
Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,
Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches;
While colonels in black would afford some relief
From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench’s.
Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein)
The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!
How General Blomfield, thro’ thick and thro’ thin,
To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!
For in one point alone do the amply fed race
Of bishops to beggars similitude bear —
That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,
And they’ll ride, if not pulled up in time — you know where.
But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much,
Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way;
And a good stanch Conservative’s system is such
That he’d back even Beelzebub’s long-founded sway.
I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind; —
Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let’s pour:
And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.
The more let’s repeat it— “Black dose, as before.”
Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand
With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother;
And, covering with prisons and churches the land,
All that won’t go to one, we’ll put into the other.
For the sole, leading maxim of us who’re inclined
To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously,
Is to treat her like ladies who’ve just been confined
(Or who ought to be so), and to church her prodigiously.
1 Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.
NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.
Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view
An exact and natural representation
(Like Siburn’s Model of Waterloo1)
Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.
There they are — all cut out in cork —
The “Collective Wisdom” wondrous to see;
My eyes! when all them heads are at work,
What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.
As for the “wisdom,” — that may come anon;
Tho’, to say truth, we sometimes see
(And I find the phenomenon no uncommon ‘un)
A man who’s M.P. with a head that’s M.T.
Our Lords are rather too small, ’tis true;
But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves;
And, besides, —
what’s a man with creeturs to do
That make such werry small figures themselves?
There — dont touch those lords, my pretty dears — (Aside.)
Curse the children! — this comes of reforming a nation:
Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers,
I must lay in more cork for a new creation.
Them yonder’s our bishops— “to whom much is given,”
And who’re ready to take as much more as you please:
The seers of old time saw visions of heaven,
But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.
Like old Atlas2(the chap, in Cheapside, there below,)
’Tis for so much per cent, they take heaven on their shoulders;
And joy ’tis to know that old High Church and Co.,
Tho’ not capital priests, are such capital-holders.
There’s one on ’em, Phillpotts, who now is away,
As we’re having him filled with bumbustible stuff,
Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day,
When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.
’Twould do your heart good, ma’am, then to be by,
When, bursting with gunpowder, ‘stead of with bile,
Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry,
“How like the dear man, both in matter and style!”
Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow,
As presents to friends, we can recommend these: —
Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know,
And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.
Those of bottle-corks made take most with the trade,
(At least ‘mong such as my Irish writ summons,)
Of old whiskey corks our O’Connells are made,
But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are rum ‘uns.
So, step in, gentlefolks, etc.
Da Capo.
1 One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the day.
2 The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.
Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times,
Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes,
A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan,
First proposed by the great firm of Catch-’em-who-can,
Beg to say they’ve now ready, in full wind and speed,
Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed —
Such as not he who runs but who gallops may read —
