The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 243

_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-- And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt, Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out.

It is true in these days such a drug is renown, We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town; And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die."

Still let England but once try _our_ authors, she'll find How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind; And how truly the toils of Alcides were light, Compared with _his_ toil who can read all they write.

In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade, How fast immortalities now may be made; Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One,"

As long as the public continues a Buying One; And the company hope yet to witness the hour.

When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power, A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise, May be written, launched, read and--forgot, in three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity, Which--to the no small relief of posterity-- Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame, Nor troubles futurity even with a name (A project that won?t as much tickle Tom Tegg as _us_, Since 'twill rob _him_ of his second-priced Pegasus); We, the Company--still more to show how immense Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, s.h.i.+llings, and pence; And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day, Could get up a _lay_ without first an _out_-lay-- Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare, In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware, And it doesn?t at all matter in either of these lines, How _sham_ is the article, so it but _s.h.i.+nes_,-- We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand, To write off, in any given style, at command.

No matter what bard, be he living or dead, Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said: There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts, One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;-- Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens, While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons.

Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call), And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all).

In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be, We've a Bottom who'll copy his _roar_[2] to a T, And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N. B.--The company, since they set up in this line, Have moved their concern and are now at the sign Of the Muse's Velocipede, _Fleet_ Street, where all Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go."

[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale."

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

From tongue to tongue the rumor flew; All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?"

But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable: And still the unholy rumor ran, From Tory woman to Tory man, Tho' none to come at the truth was able-- Till, lo! at last, the fact came out, The horrible fact, beyond all doubt, That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table; Had flesht his Popish knife and fork In the heart of the Establisht mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation That news produced in this orthodox nation?

Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed, If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed, 'Twas clearly _all up_ with the Protestant creed!

There hadn?t indeed such an apparition Been heard of in Dublin since that day When, during the first grand exhibition Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play, There appeared, as if raised by necromancers, An _extra_ devil among the dancers!

Yes--every one saw with fearful thrill That a devil too much had joined the quadrille; And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball, And the poor _sham_ devils didn?t like it at all; For they knew from whence the intruder had come, Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home.

This fact, we see, is a parallel case To the dinner that some weeks since took place.

With the difference slight of fiend and man, It shows what a nest of Popish sinners That city must be, where the devil and Dan May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners!

But mark the end of these foul proceedings, These demon hops and Popish feedings.

Some comfort 'twill be--to those, at least, Who've studied this awful dinner question-- To know that Dan, on the night of that feast, Was seized with a dreadful indigestion; That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest To come and absolve the suffering sinner, For eating so much at a heretic dinner; And some good people were even afraid That Peel's old confectioner--still at the trade-- Had poisoned the Papist with _orangeade_.

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

With all humility we beg To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-- Known for his s.p.u.n.ky speculations In buying up dead reputations, And by a mode of galvanizing Which, all must own, is quite surprising, Making dead authors move again, As tho' they still were living men;-- All this too managed, in a trice, By those two magic words, "Half Price,"

Which brings the charm so quick about, That worn-out poets, left without A second _foot_ whereon to stand, Are made to go at second _hand_;-- 'Twill please the public, we repeat, To learn that Tegg who works this feat, And therefore knows what care it needs To keep alive Fame's invalids, Has oped an Hospital in town, For cases of knockt-up renown-- Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic _fits_ (By some called _Cantoes_), stabs from wits; And of all wounds for which they're nurst, _Dead cuts_ from publishers, the worst;-- All these, and other such fatalities, That happen to frail immortalities, By Tegg are so expertly treated, That oft-times, when the cure's completed, The patient's made robust enough To stand a few more rounds of _puff_, Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay He's puft into thin air away!

As t.i.tled poets (being phenomenons) Don?t like to mix with low and common 'uns, Tegg's Hospital has separate wards, Express for literary lords, Where _prose_-peers, of immoderate length, Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength, And poets, whom their friends despair of, Are--put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story Now current both with Whig and Tory, That Doctor Warburton, M.P., Well known for his antipathy, His deadly hate, good man, to all The race of poets great and small-- So much, that he's been heard to own, He would most willingly cut down The holiest groves on Pindus' mount, To turn the timber to account!-- The story actually goes, that he Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary; And oft not only stints for spite The patients in their copy-right, But that, on being called in lately To two sick poets suffering greatly, This vaticidal Doctor sent them So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham, That one of the poor bards but cried, "Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died; While t'other, tho' less stuff was given, Is on his road, 'tis feared, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant, Tegg means to say no more at present,-- Intending shortly to prepare A statement of the whole affair, With full accounts, at the same time, Of some late cases (prose and rhyme), Subscribed with every author's name, That's now on the Sick List of Fame.

RELIGION AND TRADE.

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House."

--_Church Extension_, May 22, 1830.

Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty, Who first in a statute this libel conveyed; And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee, As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed; For none but thyself or some pluralist brother, Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed, Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other.

And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone, One is forced to confess on maturer reflection That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection.

Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land, Whose civil list all is in "G.o.d-money" paid; And where the whole people, by royal command, Buy their G.o.ds at the government mart, ready made;[1]--

There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is) Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine, To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses-- Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine.

But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood; And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny That priests love to do the _least_ possible good For the largest _most_ possible quantum of money.

"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given, "Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"-- "By _me_," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven-- "Give as much as you will--more will still be desired."