For that's the man, if waked from his shelf
To conserve and swaddle this world, like himself.

Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames
Who've met in committee, and given their names
(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 rais'd, 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

* See Congreve's Love for Love.

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-favour'd and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbours,
He still continues his Quarterly labours;
And often has strong No-Popery fits,

Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits.
Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play*,
"Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day;
Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Denst,
And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;
Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter)
Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter.

Beaux Stratagem.

†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.

"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.

'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 ! †

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.

* "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," &c. &c.- Quarterly Review. "Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns."

- Ibid.

"Might not the archives of the Propaganda possibly supply the key?"

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,
Drest, 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.

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

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; "Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse, "All cut up in cutlets, or hash'd in stews; "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 tidbits to each other: