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, THE present Lord K―ny-n (the Peer who writes 'Tis pure apple-pie-ety moves my Lord K—ny—1 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; 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 Mix the brains (though apt to hash ill, And, to keep it company, Take to fools who are charm'd with themselves, Let that conjuror W-nch-ls-a 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, All.-Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, 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 Or praises, note down as absurd, or pernicions. 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, HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN. Be your thoughts, words, and essence the contrast of his. WHENE'ER you're in doubt, said a Sage I once Nay, as Siamese ladies—at least, the polite ones 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, I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse. That, whatever they counsel, act, talk, or indite, 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- 66 The Benthamite hears-amaz'd that ghosts |