And then with a white waistcoat and red face, The last line in this quotation speaks of something beyond our experience or observation-but may, nevertheless, show Mr. Hunt's familiar knowledge of the human heart. To prevent the possibility of such enormities, he suggests a very notable expedient. "I'd have two rooms, in one of which, as weather To wander in and out, and taste the lawns and trees. I mean a slope, looking upon a slope, Wood-crown'd, and dell'd with turf, a sylvan cup. Besides the ordinary and necessary out-houses, such as hen-house, pig-sty, dog-kennel, "and the rest," Mr. Hunt proposes to build a chapel." This made us wink again; for nothing makes him so irritable as to be suspected of Christianity. But list-oh! list-if ever you did the dear Cockney love "Greek beauty should be there, and Gothic shade; And brave as anger, gentle as a maid, The name on whose dear heart my hope's worn cheek was laid. And try by what great yearnings we could force The globe on which we live to take a more harmonious course.” But, gentle reader, out with your pocket-handkerchief-and if you have any tears, prepare to shed them now. For, woe is me! and alack! alack-a-day! poor dear Mr. Hunt has taken to his bed is going to die-is dead. "And when I died, 'twould please me to be laid But solely as a room that still might seem my own. That held me yet, and bring me a kind face: There should they bring me still their griefs and joys, 1823.] THE TORIES. With marble grace inclosed, and a green shade, 357 No-no-no. It must not-shall not be. Buried in your own grounds! No-no-no! It is too far from town-and the WusterHeavy would be perpetually overloaded with pilgrims seeking the shrine where thou wert laid. We insist on your submitting to a public funeral, and in WESTMINSTER Abbey. Tickler. After all, we must succumb, Odoherty. North is North. He is our master in all things, and above all in good humor. Odoherty. An admirable lecture indeed. Put round the bottles, and I shall repay Great Christopher with a chant. Omnes. Do-do-do. Odoherty (sings). THE TORIES-A NATIONAL MELODY. * 1. "Tis with joy and exultation I look round about this nation, You must share in my delight, for whoever is is right— Start whatever game ye please, you'll be satisfied in these The just pride of the Island reposes Whigs in ambushes may chaff, but the Tories have the laugh Dear boys! When it comes to the counting of noses. 2. Can the gentlemen of Brookes' show a nose, now, like the Duke's, And at last laid Boney's self on yon snug outlandish shelf, When the Hollands and the Greys see the garniture of bays Can they give the thing the by-go, by directing us to Vigo, Their negotiating Corporal's story! 3. Poor Bob!t "Tis the same way in the law:-in the Chancellor's big paw, With one knitting of his brows every whelp of them he cows, * By Dr. Maginn.-M. ↑ Sir Robert Wilson.-M. They got silkers from the Queen; but in ragged bombazeen They must all be contented to jaw, now. Hence, the virulence that wags twenty clappers at "Old Bags," Poor dears! They behind his back call him "Bashaw" now! 4. Stout Sir Walter in Belles Lettres has, I'm bold to say, no betters; Even the base Buff-and-Blue don't deny this Why? Because their master, Constable, would be packing off for Dun stable, The first pup of the pack that durst try this. "You shan't breakfast, dine, nor sup" ties their ugly muzzles up From the venture of such a vagary; But a sulky undergrowl marks the malice of the foul, And we see and enjoy their quandary, Poor curs! We all see and enjoy their quandary. 5. Thus, in Letters, Law, and Arms, we exhibit peerlees charms; When to Canning we but point, Brougham's nose jumpeth out of joint, Then we've Peel, too, and we've Croker, who upraised the "holy poker” O'er thy crockery, lately, Joe Hume! 'Neath our eloquence and wit, Duck-in-thunder-like they sit, And await the completion of doom— They await the completion of doom. 6. Poor things! We've the President to paint-we've the Wilberforce for Saint- On the stage we've Young and Terry-ay, and Liston the arch-merry, 'Mong the heroes of the ring, we've a Jackson and a Spring We've a Bull to gore all the Whig news-folk Among preachers we've a Phillpotts-an O'Doherty 'mong swill-potsAnd Saul Rothschild to tower o'er the Jews-folk, Dear boys! Baron Rothschild to tower o'er the Jews-folk. 7. What Review can Whig-sty furnish, but is sure to lose its burnish Or what Magazine's to mention, of the slenderest pretension, There's but ONE besides in Britain, I consider twould be fitting *Sir James Mackintosh.-M. 1823.] THE TORIES. 359 "Tis the TORY on the throne-for his heart is all our own, And 'tis this keeps their elbows so bare, man, Poor souls! Their hearts low, and their breeches so bare, man! 8. Oh! with joy and exultation we look round about the nation, Oh! how just is our delight! Oh! whoever is is right, Oh! the prime ones are every where TORIES! Look whatever way you please, 'tis in these, and only these, All the pride of the Island reposes We've the corn and they've the chaff,-they've the scorn and we've the laugh, They've the nettles and ours are the roses, Dear boys! They've the nettles and we have the roses. 360 No. XII.-OCTOBER, 1823. SCENE I-The Chaldee Closet. Enter NORTH and MR. AMBROSE. Mr. Ambrose. I hope, my dear sir, you will not be offended; but I cannot conceal my delight in seeing you lighten my door again, after two months' absence. God bless you, sir, it does my heart good to see you so strong, so fresh, so ruddy. I feared this wet autumn might have been too much for you in the country. But Heaven be praised -Heaven be praised-here you are again, my gracious sir! What can I do for you?-What will you eat?-What will you drink?-Oh dear! let me stir the fire; the poker is too heavy for you. North. Too heavy!-Devil a bit. Why, Ambrose, I have been in training, out at Mr. Hogg's, you know. Zounds, I could fell a buffalo. Well, Ambrose, how goes the world? Mr. Ambrose. No reason to complain, sir. Oysters never were better; and the tap runs clear as amber. Let me hang up your crutch, my dear sir. There now, I am happy. The house looks like itself now. Goodness me, the padding has had a new cover! But the wood-work has seen service. North. That it has, Ambrose. Why, you rogue, I got a threepronged fork fastened to the end on't, and I used it as a lister. Mr. Ambrose. A lister, sir?—I ask your pardon. North. Ay, a lister. I smacked it more than once into the side of a salmon; but the water has been so drumly, that Sandy Ballantyne himself could do little or nothing. Mr. Ambrose. Nothing surprises me now, sir, that you do. We have a pretty pheasant in the larder. Shall I venture to roast him for your honor? North. At nine o'clock I expect a few friends; so add a stubble-goose, some kidneys, and hodge-podge; for the night is chilly; and a delicate stomach like mine, Ambrose, requires coaxing. Glenlivet. Mr. Ambrose. Here, sir, is your accustomed caulker. (NORTH drinks, while MR. AMBROSE keeps looking upon him with a smile of delighted deference, and exit.) North (solus). What paper have we here?-Morning Chronicle |