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And then with a white waistcoat and red face,
Rise, with some stupid, mumbling, common-place,
And join the ladies,' bowing, for some tea,
With nauseous looks, half lust, half irony."

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.

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"I'd have two rooms, in one of which, as weather
Or fancy chose, we all might come together,
With liberty for each one nevertheless

To wander in and out, and taste the lawns and trees.
One of the rooms should face a spot of spots,
Such as would please a squirrel with his nuts;

I mean a slope, looking upon a slope,

Wood-crown'd, and dell'd with turf, a sylvan cup.
Here, when our moods were quietest, we'd praise
The scenic shades, and watch the doves and jays."

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.
Here, with a more immediate consciousness,
Would we feel all that blesses us, and bless;
And lean on one another's heart, and make
Sweet resolutions, ever, for love's sake;
And recognise the eternal Good and Fair,
Atoms of whose vast active spirit we are,

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
In my own ground's most solitary shade;
Not for the gloom, much less to be alone,

But solely as a room that still might seem my own.
There should my friends come still, as to a place

That held me yet, and bring me a kind face:

There should they bring me still their griefs and joys,
And hear in the swell'd breeze a little answering noise.
Had I renown enough, I'd choose to lie,
As Hafiz did, bright in the public eye,

1823.]

THE TORIES.

With marble grace inclosed, and a green shade,
And young and old should read me, and be glad.”

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,
And contemplate the sum of her glories;

You must share in my delight, for whoever is is right—
Oh! the prime ones are every where Tories.

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
When it comes to the counting of noses,

Dear boys!

When it comes to the counting of noses.

2.

Can the gentlemen of Brookes' show a nose, now, like the Duke's,
Who squabashed every Marshal of Boney's;

And at last laid Boney's self on yon snug outlandish shelf,
Just with three or four rips for his cronies?

When the Hollands and the Greys see the garniture of bays
Nodding o'er this invincible Tory,

Can they give the thing the by-go, by directing us to Vigo,
And parading their Corporal's story?

Their negotiating Corporal's story!

3.

Poor Bob!t

"Tis the same way in the law:-in the Chancellor's big paw,
What are all these Whig-praters but rushes?

With one knitting of his brows every whelp of them he cows,
With one sneer all their balaam he crushes.

* 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,"
And behind his back calls him "Bashaw" now-

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;
We in Parliament equally triumph--

When to Canning we but point, Brougham's nose jumpeth out of joint,
And Sir Jammy Macgerald* must cry "humph!"

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-
And our sculptors are Flaxman and Chantrey!

On the stage we've Young and Terry-ay, and Liston the arch-merry,
And great Kitchener chants in our pantry!-

'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
When our Quarterly's splendors we hang up?

Or what Magazine's to mention, of the slenderest pretension,
Beside CHRISTOPHER's princely prime bang-up?

There's but ONE besides in Britain, I consider twould be fitting
To name after and over that rare man,

*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,
And contemplate the sum of her glories.

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

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