BAPTIST CHAPEL.

1833. March 6th, died, John William, the First Earl of Dudley, having been created an Earl, on September 24th, 1827. Aged 52 years.

This nobleman was a distinguished classical writer, for his letters to the Bishop of Llandaff are replete with profound learning, and show the evidences of a very elevated mind. He was appointed Secretary of Foreign Affairs in Mr. Canning’s Administration, and also a short time under the Duke of Wellington’s Government. The nobleman never married, and the title became extinct.

In 1834, Mr. Jno. Campbell having so well disclosed his profound abilities was made Solicitor General, and came down to Dudley to seek re-election. The old Tories girt up their loins, and at once determined to oppose “the aspiring Scotchman,” for they little relished the idea of a foreigner and a stranger “representing their old town.” Mr. Thomas Hawkes, a native of the town and an extensive glass manufacturer, a proclaimed Moderate Reformer was selected by the Tory party to dispute the envied seat with Sir John Campbell. Mr. Hawkes was too glad of the opportunity of showing his zeal and ambition for those high and distinguished honours which had so recently been showered upon Sir John; and he was induced to contest the seat against Her Majesty’s Solicitor-General. This election was especially characteristic as being most violent and riotous, ending in the defeat of Sir John Campbell by a majority of 68 votes. Towards the close of the poll, (4 o’clock) when it became evident that Sir John was beaten, a serious riot arose in the town and it was deemed expedient by the Justices to read the Riot Act, and send off to Birmingham for military assistance; the Dragoons arrived in hot haste, but not before much mischief and violence had been done to both property and persons. It was always alleged that Mr. Foster’s workmen from Shutt End began this senseless destruction of the property of the innocent inhabitants, by tearing down the shutters of the shops in the High Street and Market Place, and smashing the shop windows with the same. Mr. Foster was a strenuous supporter of Sir John Campbell, and was much chagrined at his friend’s defeat. Sir John had to make his escape from the fury of the mob by a rapid and circuitous flight down a dark passage in Hall Street, which to this day is known as “Campbell’s Flight.” The broken heads and bruised bodies of all sorts and conditions of men on this memorable occasion, testified to the intensity of the conflict. The soldiers were quartered upon us for some time for this unruly piece of business.

The result of this election was—

In 1832, the year of the great Reform Bill, Campbell, who had previously been member for Stafford, became member for Dudley. In reference to this he writes—“What a deliverance from Stafford! There has been more bribery there than ever, and the new part of the constituency is worse than the old.” And this after the passing of the Reform Bill! No wonder that every right-thinking man is disgusted with a system which to a large extent perpetuates this state of things. In 1834 Campbell became Attorney-General, and had to seek re-election. He was defeated by Major Hawkes. On this he remarks “I was very generously received by Lord Grey and the Chancellor, but I find that I was blamed by subordinate members of the Government, who said that I ought to have carried the seat at any cost. I would sooner have lost my office and seen the party at once driven from power than have attempted to corrupt such a constituency. The incipient danger of corruption I find to arise from publicans and keepers of beer-shops who were electors, and, without any notion of receiving bribe or voting money, were eager to have their houses opened with a view to the profit on the sale of liquor, and I fear would be thereby influenced in their votes.” This second extract certainly reveals a better state of things, but also gives a glimpse of much that still remains to be remedied.

In 1835, Dudley was doomed to have another election. A Captain Forbes offered his feeble services, and he was floated by the Reformers amid many fears and doubts, because it was fully understood that Mr. Thomas Hawkes was again to run the Tory ticketagainst all comers, and by the hard exertions of his friends, and the personal regard in which he was held by the townspeople, he was returned the second time M.P. for Dudley.

The spirit of Reform, branching out into every thing we had to deal with, awakened in this borough a lively sense of its own backwardness and commercialease and security. The neighbouring hamlets and villages were beginning to show signs of much vitality; new coal mines were opened out; new iron works erected; branches, or arms, of our canal routes were extended, and a great impetus was given to the development of the coal and iron trades in every direction. The shops and shop windows inour thennarrow Market Place began to look antediluvian, weird, and shabby; thus a spirit of rebuilding and renovation set in, and many of our old familiar shops began to change faces. The increase of gas lamps in our main streets and an improved effort made by the Town Commissioners to better our bye-ways and highways, all tended to convince the occasional visitor to Dudley that the old Dudley town had caught the flame of Reform and regeneration and was going ahead in progress and civilisation. The old Middle Row of shops and dwelling houses had long been deemed a nuisance and an encumbrance on the ground, and strenuous, and ultimately successful, efforts were made by both the inhabitants and thosethenhigh in authority to pull down and remove the same, resulting in giving Dudley the largest and most commodious Market Place in the County.

1835. May 14th. This day and night, a violent and boisterous snow storm visited this town and neighbourhood; the snow remained on the ground for some days, the thermometer standing at 30 degrees. Great damage was done to the buildings, grass lands, and gardens, and the like severe weather had not been witnessed before by the oldest inhabitants.

Died, October 1st, 1835, Rev. Luke Booker, M.A., LL.D., many years vicar of the valuable living of St. Thomas’s, the Parish Church of Dudley. Aged 73 years.

Dr. Booker came to Dudley as a young curate of great promise, and was for some time the Incumbent of St. Edmund’s Church. On the death of the Rev. Doctor Cartwright, M.A., the then vicar, his friend and patron, the good Viscount Dudley and Ward, presented Dr. Booker to the living of St. Thomas, and a long life friendship existed between him and his noble patron. Dr. Booker was a gentleman of great classical learning and erudition, and being favoured with a commanding person, his appearance both in and out of the pulpit always commanded attention and respect. He was a sound theological preacher, exercising great energy and zeal, and secured a large share of church attendants. He contributed largely as a writer to many of the leading Christian periodicals of the day; and his firm adhesion to the national principles of Church and State, made him at all times a powerful and welcome advocate on the platform. In politics the Doctor was a pronounced Tory, and at times his persistent interference in political questions did not add to his dignified position as Vicar of Dudley. He was also a poet of considerable beauty of thought and enunciation, a few remains of which are still extant; he also published an History of Dudley Castle and the genealogy of the noble owners. Among the varied remarkable acts that he did was to write a voluminous social and political Diary of the leading events of Dudley and its people in his day, which he did notlive to put in print.

Dr. Booker was a great favourite amongst the weaker sex, for he embraced the privilege of leadingfour blushing bridesto the hymeneal altar during his long and excitable life. The unhappy drawback in the Doctor’s character was the thorough hatred of Dissenters, and his unswerving abhorrence of all Reformers and Radicals, to whom he ascribed all kinds of inconceivable mischief against King, Lords and Church, by theirunlawful machinationsat the time of the Great Reform Agitation to obtain their political freedom. The Rev. Doctor was the main motive power in the destruction of the commodious and historic Old St. Thomas’s Church, and the erection of the present handsome Gothic Parish Church, at a cost of upwards of £20,000. Great opposition was raised by the Parishioners at this time to the demolition of their Parish Church, which was known to be quite large enough for its audience, and which might have been restored to answer all parochial purposes at a much less cost.

The laying of the foundation stone of this new church took place on October 25th, 1816, by the Bishop of Worcester, (The Right Rev. Dr. Folliott,) occasioned an immense Public Procession of School Children, Clergymen, Merchants, Shopkeepers and Inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood, with the Reverend Doctor at their head, which presented such a motley group, as to become a subject of much comment and ridicule by some of the witnesses of that vainglorious ceremony.

The following amusing description of the procession by an eye-witness, who happened to be on a visit to Dudley at the time, will repay a perusal.

THEPROCESSION AND THE BELLS,ORTHE RIVAL POETS,Inscribed to theINHABITANTS OF DUDLEY.THE PROCESSION.“The morning came, nor find I that the sun,As he on other great events hath done,Put on a brighter robe than that he woreTo go his journey in the day before.”Churchill.Thursday was fine beyond expression,And augur’d well for the Procession:At eventide, the sun’s last ray“Gave promise of a golden day.”The D—ct—r went to bed at ten,Lay for an hour, then rose again:With half clos’d eyes he kept awake,Anxious to see the morning break.His best black brigs, and eke his shoes,His long-tail’d coat and silken hose;His buckles bright, and broad-brimm’d hat,His finest shirt, and best cravat.He’d told the servant to prepare,And all were plac’d upon the chair.The thought of what’s at hand forbids,Sound sleep to light upon his lids.Three times he rose, with anxious eye,The beams of morning to descry—Three times he rose,—but all in vain;—Three times he went to bed again.At length, according to report,He slept, and dreamt he was at court,Sceptres and mitres seem’d to riseBefore the D—ct—r’s wond’ring eyes:Orders of knighthood, stars, blue ribbons,Were plenteous as the notes of Gibbons.[2]And sooth, he wish’d that he possess’dA mitre finer than the rest:But, as he reach’d to catch the prize,He snor’d aloud and op’d his eyes.“At length he from his bed arose,—Thrice did he spit, thrice wiped his nose;Thrice strove to smile, thrice strove to frown,And thrice look’d up, and thrice look’d down;”And then forthwith his speech he wrote,—His breakfast hurried down his throat;With eager haste stalk’d through the street,The B——p’s Reverence to meet;And anxious still to see his Grace,Chided the coachman’s tardy pace,Whose stupid, senseless, dull delay,Might spoil the pleasures of the day.But now, behold, the prelate comes!“Sound, sound the trumpets, beat the drums!”From street to street the blast makes way;All hear the summons, and obey.Hundreds on hundreds flock to meet him,With open mouths, as if they’d eat him.“A B——p! aye! that ne’er can beA human thing like you or me,”Says one: “No, no,” replies a second,“A B——p’s more than human reckon’d;He consecrates, Sir, he ordains,Gives orders, if he gives not brains:He keeps beneath his watchful eyeThe clerical fraternity;Reads them a pious charge, and seesThey don’t neglect——their surplice fees.Sometimes he lays his oily handUpon the crowds that round him stand;Who, though they feel the unction come,From ’twixt his finger and his thumb,Will never in this world of sin,Take all its blessed influence in;Will never know the good that’s done,Until their mortal race is run!”Pardon, my friends, this short digression;[3]We hasten now to the Procession.All points of etiquette discuss’d,And gravely fix’d,—a task which mustRequire no little time and pains,And rack the reverend vicar’s brains,—All points of moment now decided,The parties class’d, the ranks divided,From Bl—w—tt’s to the Church they go,Arrang’d in many a martial row;Each, you may naturally suppose,Adorn’d in his best Sunday clothes.Muslin cravats, as white as milk;Nay even stockings made of silk;Capes, black, brown, blue, green, red and grey,Cut out in the most stylish way:And “Day and Martin,”—wond’rous sight!Sent from each foot a blaze of light!Ribbons and medals,—what profusion!Beggars and bankers,—what confusion!Vicars and curates, cobblers, tinkers,Socinians, Churchmen, and Free-thinkers.Carpenters, bellows’-menders, nailors;Glaziers and maltsters; grocers, tailors;And truant from their desks and shops,Spruce journeyman and ’prentice fops;Tatterdemalions, long and short,Big, little, some of every sort.Poor children first,—a woeful sight!—March’d on in pitiable plight,Though ill provided to sustainThe howling wind and pelting rain.[4]Huddled together, see, they go;Collected but to make a show;—Their warmest, neatest, only dress,A rag to hide their nakedness!“Billy the tailor, a brisk fellow,”Came next, beneath a huge umbrella;Sharp as a needle, blithe and gay;He led the band and shew’d the way.No Churchman; but, ’twas best to go;’Twould get him many a job you know[5]—Then came his troop, big, strapping men,Who made the streets resound again.Serpents and clarionets they blewBassoons and flutes, and hautboys too;And humouring the D—ct—r’s whim,Tried to perform “the German Hymn.”But stay,—who’s next?—Some farmer’s wife?O no! the B——p, on my life,In lawn up to his very chin,—Emblem of purity within![6]—Now order ceases first who can,The D—ct—r or his servant man.But chief our Reverend Pastor see,Rigg’d as aforesaid cap-a-pie:Yes, burning with the sacred flame,Among the foremost B—k—r came;By Nature form’d to make a showAbove all those who are below:For, to the wonder of the people,He look’d just like a moving steeple.Bombastes all his pomp display’d,In this august processionade,With such a sanctimonious air,With such a face of solemn care.As might import him to containA world of——room within his brain.His hollow jaws indeed bespeakHow deeply read he is in Greek;His hanging eyebrows also tellHe construes Latin full as well:For, though he never was at college,Who doubts he has these stores of knowledge[7]Much more my Muse could tell in rhyme,The will she has but not the time.Suffice it then,——he stalks alongA giant in the motley throng;With all that empty consequenceWhich fools adopt instead of sense;And, as he stalks, he seems to say,“For all the labours of this day,A something whispers I shall notIn Church preferment be forgot.[8]I’ll hasten down to H—ml—y Hall,And on my noble patron call:From my poetic pan shall rise,[9]Again to blind my Lady’s eyes,Thick clouds of incense, till she seeAll that is excellent in me!Who knows, but, mighty and ador’d,I may become Right Reverend Lord;[10]And spite of all his vast pretences,My rival great Wigorniensis?A mitre,—yea, perhaps the best,May crown my toil and make me blest.If I can get a mitre—nowI care not where I go or how.I’ll hug this hope of future joys,And heed nor rain, nor mire, nor noise.”—These words he had no sooner saidThan thrice he shook his sapient head,And thrice determined to pursueThe pious end he had in view.Next to his giantship, the D—ct—r,With humbler step, came hobbling Pr—ct—r,He hobbled,[11]but his will was good;Could he go better than he could?He raised his legs with mighty pain,And then,—he set them down again.’Tis whisper’d—but my cautious museWill not forget her P’s. and Q’s.:I’ll not indulge in retrospections,But leave him to his own reflections:The darling babe of grace I’ll spare;For other holy souls were there.Mark, then, the next, another priest,Starv’d a whole month for this day’s feast;A little fellow, black his gear;Sharp as the blast which blew him here.[12]His fine-spun coat, as good as new,His trowsers—wide enough for two.His cheek-bones and his jaws declareOat-cake has been his daily fare.The hat he bought for ordination,New-brushed, he sports on this occasion.His dress though threadbare, now ’tis wet,Looks fresh, and good, and black as jet.[13]Now, helter-skelter, all rush on,Stiff Ned, long Dick, and gaping John,Isaac and Tom, as all admit,Two gentlemen of equal wit,Of equal polish, equal grace:The same in modesty of face.I know the town will give it credit,Or else my Muse would not have said it;For all confess that either brotherIs just as wise and great as t’other:Each so demure, so meek, so mild,As gentle as a new-born child.These pious patriots were drestEach with a token on his breast,[14]Of copper wrought, and brighter far,Than Venus or the Morning Star,A female figure took the placeBritannia would, in other case;Whilst, by her side, in small, portray’dA cask of Dudley nails was laid;Containing, we may well suppose,Sparrow-bill, Ten-penny and Rose;Clasp, Flat-points, Flemish-Tack and Clout,Of strictly honest tale no doubt:For as my muse can only guess,She won’t presume to call them less.Enough:—the curious if they pleaseMay find a nobler pair than these.Now, Tom, an Unitarian true,[15]And strange to say, a Churchman too,Like Janus with a double face,Among our heroes found a place.’Twas plain enough how pleas’d the elfWas with that paltry thing, himself;Proud of his intellect and clothes,He felt himself the first of beaux.[16]And, pretty creature, strutted moreThan ever peacock did before.The ladies very loath to miss[17]An opportunity like this,Stretched forth their necks to catch a sightOf one so spruce and so polite.“There goes the charming man,” they cry;And then they laugh, I know not why!And then, all wonder and amaze,At him and at each other gaze.The thing’s confirm’d beyond a doubt,Although the cause is not found out,—The modest ninny thinks his worthHas not his parallel on earth;And justly: for, without a crime,I can’t describe it e’en in rhyme:So nobly bred, so nobly taught,In speech as lib’ral as in thought:News he can tell, untold before,All that he knows, and ten times more:And yet, upon his magpie tongueTruth, sense, and wit alike are hung:His honor——I recall the word,Of that my muse has never heard;Of facts alone I fain would sing,A joke’s a very serious thing!A man may see with half an eyeWhat treasures in his head-piece lie:Why then, dear Sir, such wond’rous painsTo shew the world your lack of brains?Then little Dick, and waddling Tim,And bawling Joe, and long-legg’d Jem;And hundreds more in couples came,The which my muse disdains to name:I’m certain none of Hogarth’s sketchesE’er formed a set of stranger wretches.Among the rest see Doctor Slop,[18]An emblem of a physic shop:So sour, so nauseous, so splenetic,A bolus, blister, or emetic;Decoction, julep, pill and dropAre typified in Doctor Slop.His bones with flesh how poorly clad!How like a map his visage sad![19]Lavater would at once declare,The “City of the Plague” was there:And e’en a less discerning eyeThe “Lake of Brimstone” might descry,Where all those naughty rebels pop,Who don’t agree with Doctor Slop.If sick,—engage him,—give him time,He’ll send you to another clime;For change of air is understoodBy sons of physic to be good.But, oh! my pulse is stopp’d; enoughOf Doctors and of Doctors’ stuff:[20]Though half his worth is yet unsung,My muse would rather hold her tongue.Last came the scarlet troop, as gayAs new-scrap’d carrots for the day:C—w—ll, and all his comrades too:Hibernian H—gh—s, and Dicky Dr—we:Great captains in the fighting trade,Who serv’d their time upon parade.[21]But of such Gentlemen no more:I bless my stars I see the shore!At length, attain’d the sacred spot,Where, side by side, their fathers rot,Half rising from their tombs to seeWhat alter’d things their children be;The massy portal open flies,And each to gain admission tries:—But watchful sentries guard the door,T’admit the great, and drive the poor;For treason ’twere, and deadly sin,To let the herd of vulgar in.No matterhowthey enter: eachIs thrust against his neighbour’s breech.One loses half his coat, and oneFeels that his hat or shoe is gone.Another wild with fury, hoots,“Stop, scoundrel, stop,—I’ve lost my boots.”Another fall’n, for mercy cries,And prays to heav’n they’ll let him rise,But, ah! for naught their lungs they strain:They cry, “Hayloo!” and “stop,”—in vain;The crowd more anxious, forward pressTo catch a glimpse of holiness;And see what ne’er before was known,A Reverend Mason lay a stone,In solemn silence see him stand,The silver trowel in his hand;The ponderous mass at his desire,Descends into the yielding mire;And many a cracking human bone,Confess’d it was a mighty stone,At length, the task perform’d, His GraceMade his best bow, and left the place;And, anxious only to be gone,Stepp’d in his coach, and cried,—“Drive on.”—The boy then smacks his whip, and lo!The B——p’s horses scampering go:The party gaze with wild dismayTo see the chariot roll away!Now, as their breasts with anger burn,Behold the muddy group return;And, as they pace along the street,Resolve each joint themselves to eat,—[22]Their bellies, judging from their faces,As empty as some other places.At Bl—w—tt’s many a dainty dishOf beef and mutton, game and fish,Arrang’d upon the table stood;For Dudley’s sons know what is good.But soon each dainty dish was clear’d,And only fleshless bones appear’d,Each vied with each,[23]and seemed to say,“I’ll have my belly full to-day.”The dinner o’er each takes his glass,And tries his neighbour to surpass:—“For, where’s the use of wine,” say they,“Except to banish care away?”—Forgive my Muse,—her task is o’er;She recollects but little more,She saw the polish’d table shine,With blushing fruit and sparkling wine;She heard the lofty ceiling ringWith three times three, “God save the King.”She look’d again,—one sleeping snor’d,And one was sunk beneath the board;And one, as well as he was able,Was speechifying on the table,A moment pass’d,—again she gaz’d,And saw each arm in contest rais’d[24]The glass in fragments strew’d the floor:—She hung her head, and saw—no more.Qui capit, ille facit.IMPROMPTU,By Dr. Booker, on Reading the above.A certain junto, sore dismay’dOur Christian Church to think on;Look’d on her strong foundation laid,As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.A twig from a rod in pickle.IMPROMPTU,On Reading the Doctor’s Impromptu.A junto, Doctor? No, ’tis oneWho makes,—though hundreds share—the fun;He heeds you not. Your “rod” provide:’Twill serve to sting your own b-cks-de.Yourself shall be “dismay’d” and “sore,”As from your breech descends the gore;And, as I flog with stroke uncivil,I shall be “Lincoln,” you the “Devil.”Again, Sir!—you know where to place it,—I say “Qui capit, ille facit.”ANOTHER.The Doctor raves, and storms, and vows,And looks as wretched as his cows![25]With straining pericranium triesTo write impromptus and replies;But, like his cows and ass profound,His region is the burial ground,Be calm, dear Doctor! Stay your pen!The poet, perhaps may write again!He knows you;[26]every word betrays it;But still, “Qui capit, ille facit.”VERSESINTENDED TO BE CAST UPON THE BELLS OF THIS NEW CHURCH AT DUDLEY;Written by a certain learned Doctor, November, 1817.The Maiden’s Bell.Many a maiden fair gave me,Whose wedding peal I ring with glee:May they in all their future lives,Be happy mothers, happy wives.[27]The Matron’s Bell.Many a matron, grave and good,Or wedded, or in widowhood,Bade me the time of holy pray’rTo many a list’ning flock declare.The Glassman’s Bell.Many a gen’rous man of glassBade me in sound all bells surpass;Bright as their ware be all their days,And bright through time be Dudley’s praise.The Mineman’s Bell.Many a truly gen’rous soul,Men of iron, men of coal,Men of metal bade me soundSweetly to all the hills around.The Vicar’s Bell.For me the vicar preach’d aloudTo many a kind and godly crowd,Who, with a heart devout and willing,Gave their bright guinea and their shilling.The Bishop’s Bell.I, the gift of mitred sage,Sound his praise to many an age:Reverend name! of ancient line;And long on me may Folliot shine.The Patron’s Bell.Me did the manor’s Lord bestow,Who loves to lighten human woe:To doomsday may the name descend,Of Dudley’s and the poor man’s friend.The Regent’s Bell.A princely gift! a prince gave me,The prince of princeliest land and sea—England! His name I nobly ring,And bid thee cry, “God save the King.”EPIGRAM.Premising thatDIVINE POETA!is to be literally renderedPOETIC DIVINE, we address Dr. Booker in the words of Virgil,—“Tale tuum nobis carmin, divine poeta!Quale sopor—”See Rev. of Dr. Booker’s Calista, Ann. Rev. 1803, p. 564.It has been said, we know, there but appearsOneEpic Poet in a thousand years:But B—k—r lives to prove the thing untrue;And to demonstrate that there may be two.Th’ immortal Milton still the first is reckon’d;The thrice immortal B—k—r is the second;And Dudley’s bells eternally shall tollIn matchless notes for his poetic soul.To future ages shall his name be given,—“The saint-like priest who shew’d the way to heav’n,”Yes! children’s children as they drink their liquor,And pay Church levies still—shallblessthe Vicar.Qui capit, ille facit.Nov. 26, 1817.THE LEARNED DOCTOR’S REJOINDER.“N.B.—Though dated Nov. 26, the preceding precious farrago, with characteristic piety, was sent on Sunday, the 7th of December, no doubt with a charitable hope that it would make the Vicar’s mind, on that day, very composed and comfortable. Its authors will be sorry to know that the effect they hoped for was not produced. The delectable performance did not excite a single thought till the next morning, when the following notice was taken of it, certainly more than it deserves.”[28]AN OLD ROD NEW TWIGGED.“Stripes for the back of fools.”—Prov.A few weak infidels dismay’dOur Christian Church to think on,Look on her strong foundations laid,“As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.”But though they look as black as he,And gall for ink he sends them,In which to write their ribaldry,And inspiration lends them:The church her glory shall display,Defended from each evil,In spite of all such fools can sayOr their sage friend the D——l.[29]Yea, she shall have her merry peal,To fill their hearts with sadness;While Christians, at such music, feelAn honest English gladness.Nay, she shall have a lofty spireWith weathercock surmounted,That they may, if ’tis their desire,See what they are accounted.Puff’d here, puff’d there, puff’d every where,Save in a right direction,Or now the culprits would not shareA whipping post correction.Will ye be good, ye scurvy rogues,Ere more your hides I tickle?Well then—put up your dirty brogues;Rod! sleep again in pickle.No snake[30]in the grass.LINESIN REPLY TO SOME VERSES SIGNED “NO SNAKE IN THE GRASS.”He would an elegy composeOn maggots squeezed out of his nose;In lyric numbers write an ode on,His mistress eating a black pudden;And when imprisoned air escaped her,It puffed him with poetic rapture.A carman’s horse could not pass by,But stood tied up to poesy:No porter’s burthen passed alongBut served for burthen to his song.—Hudibrass.Qui capit, ille facit.Repress your fury, sage Divine!Perdition breathes in every line.Dagger and staff in hand you fight,Like Falstaff, Shakespeare’s valiant knight,How like him though in form and dressI leave your Reverence to guess:—How far like his your maxims tooOf honour, Sir, I leave to you.You would attempt in canting strain.My short effusion to explain;And wielding your tremendous birch,To say I stigmatize the Church.That, Sir,in toto, I deny:—In your own style, Sir, ’tis a lie.The Church I honour:—I admireThe holy roof, the lofty spire,The pealing song, the hope sincere,The pray’r of virtue I revere,The Church, with an affection true,I love,—[31]I stigmatize but you.Yes! give the Church a lofty spire,Like your tall self, Sir, I desire:And like yourci-devant chapeau,Give it a weathercock also:—But make it fast, dear Sir, becauseIt may be lost as Gilpin’s was[32]“In judgment,”—(’tis an ancient line,)“Remember mercy,”—O Divine!And, when your enemy lies low,Desist,—strike not another blow.But, since you deign to wield your pen,Achilles-like, and fight again:—But since you deign, O sage divine!Again to court the tuneful Nine;And since, in acrimonious style,You dare my verses to revile,And raise a laugh at my expense,Dear Doctor! take the consequence.“Brave knights are bound to feel no blowsFrom paltry and unequal foes.”The pages of all history shineWith poets, heathen and divine;Whose numbers are so highly priz’d,Their memories are immortaliz’d.The first, whose poems still are saved,Was he who wrote the Psalms, King David.Homer and Virgil, and a scoreOf Greek and Latin poets more,Have sung in such melodious measure,That verses still are read with pleasure.The moderns too have sung their share,Voltaire, Racine, and Molière;And many on Italia’s shore;In Germany a thousand more.In Britain, too, are poets found,For Britain is poetic ground,Milton and Shakespeare are her pride,And Pope and hundreds more beside.E’en now we’ve Southeys, Scots and Byrons,And Moore, whose songs are sweet as syrens’!Another poet, too, have we;The Great L-ke B—k—r, LL. D.!!!When all the rest shall be forgotten;Their poems, like their bodies, rotten;When spills are made of leaves of Pope,And Lalla Rookh shall wrap up soap;When even David’s sacred rhymeShall be destroyed by ruthless time;Thy name, O! B—k—r! still shall beLauded to all eternity!Yes! Dudley’s Vicar shall survive,And like a plant perennial thrive!What melody pervades each line!How rich, harmonious and divine!Read where you will, you’re sure to findSome scintillation of his mind:The finest style, the sweetest wordsThe Doctor’s mother tongue affords!Already, in reality,He’s purchas’d immortality.With sermons pious, heavenly, holy,He drives the heart to melancholy:With magic powers he charms the soul,And bids it into madness roll:With charity dilates the breast,And sinks each sordid view to rest.Or, on a sudden can inspireThe soul with never-quenching fire:In short, the mind with joy can fill,Or with despair,—just which he will.But more,—his pow’r o’er human woesNot only shines in nervous prose;In strains delightful and sublime,He speaks in prose, and writes in rhyme;“And when he writes in rhyme will makeThe one verse for the other’s sake.The one for sense, and one for rhyme,He thinks sufficient at a time.”Yet though his rhymes may be baptiz’d,Nothing but prosing poetiz’d,There’s still some difference between ’em,Which all can tell who’ve ever seen ’em.For prose he gets with conscience clear,Full twice five hundred pounds a year;Yet should his rhymes a folio fill,They’d never pay his printer’s bill;But on his shelf in peace recline,And, but to light his candles, shine.Claudite jam rivos, pueri: sat prata biberunt.Vir.To “No snake in the grass,” on his not replying to the lines lately address’d to him.Contremuit remus.Vir. Lib.The pallid scurvy rogue yet tingling stands,And holds his breeches close with both his hands.Pope.The Doctor trembling and dismay’d,To write another word afraid:In vain implores, with language civil,The aid of “Lincoln” and the “Devil.”He hides, from stroke of “scurvy rogues,”His seat of honour with his “brogues:”The “tuneful nine,” to see him lash’d,Hung down their heads and fled abash’d.“Je suis ce que je suis.”LINES BY * * * * * * *Qui Capit, ever discontented,Envious, jealous, disaffected:To stigmatise our Vicar’s toils,The stigma on himself recoils.Who is he satirical and vain?His unjust impudence of what avail?Qui Capit, know, that God, all just,Ne’er means his creatures to be curs’d.You honour the Church, Qui Capit,—no!Who can believe it?—’tis not so!—“Virtuo consistit in actione.”Sir, henceforth, learn to mend your manners,And ne’er insult your betters.Junius.REPLY TO JUNIUS.“Strange such a difference should be,’Twixt tweedle dum and tweedle dee.”“Junius” to rhyme pray bid adieu,Nor shame the dunghill where you grew,Hear what a friend of “Qui” advises,Stick to your “Latin Exercises,”The muse thy folly will disown,Pray “tarry till thy beard be grown.”ON THE D—CT—R’S SILENCE.Old Argus of an hundred eyes could boast,An hundred fluent tongues had B—k—r’s head,But Argus all his eyes by music lost,At dogger’ll rhyme all B—k—r’s tongues have fled.

THEPROCESSION AND THE BELLS,ORTHE RIVAL POETS,Inscribed to theINHABITANTS OF DUDLEY.

THE PROCESSION.

“The morning came, nor find I that the sun,As he on other great events hath done,Put on a brighter robe than that he woreTo go his journey in the day before.”Churchill.

“The morning came, nor find I that the sun,

As he on other great events hath done,

Put on a brighter robe than that he wore

To go his journey in the day before.”

Churchill.

Thursday was fine beyond expression,And augur’d well for the Procession:At eventide, the sun’s last ray“Gave promise of a golden day.”The D—ct—r went to bed at ten,Lay for an hour, then rose again:With half clos’d eyes he kept awake,Anxious to see the morning break.His best black brigs, and eke his shoes,His long-tail’d coat and silken hose;His buckles bright, and broad-brimm’d hat,His finest shirt, and best cravat.He’d told the servant to prepare,And all were plac’d upon the chair.The thought of what’s at hand forbids,Sound sleep to light upon his lids.Three times he rose, with anxious eye,The beams of morning to descry—Three times he rose,—but all in vain;—Three times he went to bed again.At length, according to report,He slept, and dreamt he was at court,Sceptres and mitres seem’d to riseBefore the D—ct—r’s wond’ring eyes:Orders of knighthood, stars, blue ribbons,Were plenteous as the notes of Gibbons.[2]And sooth, he wish’d that he possess’dA mitre finer than the rest:But, as he reach’d to catch the prize,He snor’d aloud and op’d his eyes.“At length he from his bed arose,—Thrice did he spit, thrice wiped his nose;Thrice strove to smile, thrice strove to frown,And thrice look’d up, and thrice look’d down;”And then forthwith his speech he wrote,—His breakfast hurried down his throat;With eager haste stalk’d through the street,The B——p’s Reverence to meet;And anxious still to see his Grace,Chided the coachman’s tardy pace,Whose stupid, senseless, dull delay,Might spoil the pleasures of the day.But now, behold, the prelate comes!“Sound, sound the trumpets, beat the drums!”From street to street the blast makes way;All hear the summons, and obey.Hundreds on hundreds flock to meet him,With open mouths, as if they’d eat him.“A B——p! aye! that ne’er can beA human thing like you or me,”Says one: “No, no,” replies a second,“A B——p’s more than human reckon’d;He consecrates, Sir, he ordains,Gives orders, if he gives not brains:He keeps beneath his watchful eyeThe clerical fraternity;Reads them a pious charge, and seesThey don’t neglect——their surplice fees.Sometimes he lays his oily handUpon the crowds that round him stand;Who, though they feel the unction come,From ’twixt his finger and his thumb,Will never in this world of sin,Take all its blessed influence in;Will never know the good that’s done,Until their mortal race is run!”Pardon, my friends, this short digression;[3]We hasten now to the Procession.All points of etiquette discuss’d,And gravely fix’d,—a task which mustRequire no little time and pains,And rack the reverend vicar’s brains,—All points of moment now decided,The parties class’d, the ranks divided,From Bl—w—tt’s to the Church they go,Arrang’d in many a martial row;Each, you may naturally suppose,Adorn’d in his best Sunday clothes.Muslin cravats, as white as milk;Nay even stockings made of silk;Capes, black, brown, blue, green, red and grey,Cut out in the most stylish way:And “Day and Martin,”—wond’rous sight!Sent from each foot a blaze of light!Ribbons and medals,—what profusion!Beggars and bankers,—what confusion!Vicars and curates, cobblers, tinkers,Socinians, Churchmen, and Free-thinkers.Carpenters, bellows’-menders, nailors;Glaziers and maltsters; grocers, tailors;And truant from their desks and shops,Spruce journeyman and ’prentice fops;Tatterdemalions, long and short,Big, little, some of every sort.Poor children first,—a woeful sight!—March’d on in pitiable plight,Though ill provided to sustainThe howling wind and pelting rain.[4]Huddled together, see, they go;Collected but to make a show;—Their warmest, neatest, only dress,A rag to hide their nakedness!“Billy the tailor, a brisk fellow,”Came next, beneath a huge umbrella;Sharp as a needle, blithe and gay;He led the band and shew’d the way.No Churchman; but, ’twas best to go;’Twould get him many a job you know[5]—Then came his troop, big, strapping men,Who made the streets resound again.Serpents and clarionets they blewBassoons and flutes, and hautboys too;And humouring the D—ct—r’s whim,Tried to perform “the German Hymn.”But stay,—who’s next?—Some farmer’s wife?O no! the B——p, on my life,In lawn up to his very chin,—Emblem of purity within![6]—Now order ceases first who can,The D—ct—r or his servant man.But chief our Reverend Pastor see,Rigg’d as aforesaid cap-a-pie:Yes, burning with the sacred flame,Among the foremost B—k—r came;By Nature form’d to make a showAbove all those who are below:For, to the wonder of the people,He look’d just like a moving steeple.Bombastes all his pomp display’d,In this august processionade,With such a sanctimonious air,With such a face of solemn care.As might import him to containA world of——room within his brain.His hollow jaws indeed bespeakHow deeply read he is in Greek;His hanging eyebrows also tellHe construes Latin full as well:For, though he never was at college,Who doubts he has these stores of knowledge[7]Much more my Muse could tell in rhyme,The will she has but not the time.Suffice it then,——he stalks alongA giant in the motley throng;With all that empty consequenceWhich fools adopt instead of sense;And, as he stalks, he seems to say,“For all the labours of this day,A something whispers I shall notIn Church preferment be forgot.[8]I’ll hasten down to H—ml—y Hall,And on my noble patron call:From my poetic pan shall rise,[9]Again to blind my Lady’s eyes,Thick clouds of incense, till she seeAll that is excellent in me!Who knows, but, mighty and ador’d,I may become Right Reverend Lord;[10]And spite of all his vast pretences,My rival great Wigorniensis?A mitre,—yea, perhaps the best,May crown my toil and make me blest.If I can get a mitre—nowI care not where I go or how.I’ll hug this hope of future joys,And heed nor rain, nor mire, nor noise.”—These words he had no sooner saidThan thrice he shook his sapient head,And thrice determined to pursueThe pious end he had in view.Next to his giantship, the D—ct—r,With humbler step, came hobbling Pr—ct—r,He hobbled,[11]but his will was good;Could he go better than he could?He raised his legs with mighty pain,And then,—he set them down again.’Tis whisper’d—but my cautious museWill not forget her P’s. and Q’s.:I’ll not indulge in retrospections,But leave him to his own reflections:The darling babe of grace I’ll spare;For other holy souls were there.Mark, then, the next, another priest,Starv’d a whole month for this day’s feast;A little fellow, black his gear;Sharp as the blast which blew him here.[12]His fine-spun coat, as good as new,His trowsers—wide enough for two.His cheek-bones and his jaws declareOat-cake has been his daily fare.The hat he bought for ordination,New-brushed, he sports on this occasion.His dress though threadbare, now ’tis wet,Looks fresh, and good, and black as jet.[13]Now, helter-skelter, all rush on,Stiff Ned, long Dick, and gaping John,Isaac and Tom, as all admit,Two gentlemen of equal wit,Of equal polish, equal grace:The same in modesty of face.I know the town will give it credit,Or else my Muse would not have said it;For all confess that either brotherIs just as wise and great as t’other:Each so demure, so meek, so mild,As gentle as a new-born child.These pious patriots were drestEach with a token on his breast,[14]Of copper wrought, and brighter far,Than Venus or the Morning Star,A female figure took the placeBritannia would, in other case;Whilst, by her side, in small, portray’dA cask of Dudley nails was laid;Containing, we may well suppose,Sparrow-bill, Ten-penny and Rose;Clasp, Flat-points, Flemish-Tack and Clout,Of strictly honest tale no doubt:For as my muse can only guess,She won’t presume to call them less.Enough:—the curious if they pleaseMay find a nobler pair than these.Now, Tom, an Unitarian true,[15]And strange to say, a Churchman too,Like Janus with a double face,Among our heroes found a place.’Twas plain enough how pleas’d the elfWas with that paltry thing, himself;Proud of his intellect and clothes,He felt himself the first of beaux.[16]And, pretty creature, strutted moreThan ever peacock did before.The ladies very loath to miss[17]An opportunity like this,Stretched forth their necks to catch a sightOf one so spruce and so polite.“There goes the charming man,” they cry;And then they laugh, I know not why!And then, all wonder and amaze,At him and at each other gaze.The thing’s confirm’d beyond a doubt,Although the cause is not found out,—The modest ninny thinks his worthHas not his parallel on earth;And justly: for, without a crime,I can’t describe it e’en in rhyme:So nobly bred, so nobly taught,In speech as lib’ral as in thought:News he can tell, untold before,All that he knows, and ten times more:And yet, upon his magpie tongueTruth, sense, and wit alike are hung:His honor——I recall the word,Of that my muse has never heard;Of facts alone I fain would sing,A joke’s a very serious thing!A man may see with half an eyeWhat treasures in his head-piece lie:Why then, dear Sir, such wond’rous painsTo shew the world your lack of brains?Then little Dick, and waddling Tim,And bawling Joe, and long-legg’d Jem;And hundreds more in couples came,The which my muse disdains to name:I’m certain none of Hogarth’s sketchesE’er formed a set of stranger wretches.Among the rest see Doctor Slop,[18]An emblem of a physic shop:So sour, so nauseous, so splenetic,A bolus, blister, or emetic;Decoction, julep, pill and dropAre typified in Doctor Slop.His bones with flesh how poorly clad!How like a map his visage sad![19]Lavater would at once declare,The “City of the Plague” was there:And e’en a less discerning eyeThe “Lake of Brimstone” might descry,Where all those naughty rebels pop,Who don’t agree with Doctor Slop.If sick,—engage him,—give him time,He’ll send you to another clime;For change of air is understoodBy sons of physic to be good.But, oh! my pulse is stopp’d; enoughOf Doctors and of Doctors’ stuff:[20]Though half his worth is yet unsung,My muse would rather hold her tongue.Last came the scarlet troop, as gayAs new-scrap’d carrots for the day:C—w—ll, and all his comrades too:Hibernian H—gh—s, and Dicky Dr—we:Great captains in the fighting trade,Who serv’d their time upon parade.[21]But of such Gentlemen no more:I bless my stars I see the shore!At length, attain’d the sacred spot,Where, side by side, their fathers rot,Half rising from their tombs to seeWhat alter’d things their children be;The massy portal open flies,And each to gain admission tries:—But watchful sentries guard the door,T’admit the great, and drive the poor;For treason ’twere, and deadly sin,To let the herd of vulgar in.No matterhowthey enter: eachIs thrust against his neighbour’s breech.One loses half his coat, and oneFeels that his hat or shoe is gone.Another wild with fury, hoots,“Stop, scoundrel, stop,—I’ve lost my boots.”Another fall’n, for mercy cries,And prays to heav’n they’ll let him rise,But, ah! for naught their lungs they strain:They cry, “Hayloo!” and “stop,”—in vain;The crowd more anxious, forward pressTo catch a glimpse of holiness;And see what ne’er before was known,A Reverend Mason lay a stone,In solemn silence see him stand,The silver trowel in his hand;The ponderous mass at his desire,Descends into the yielding mire;And many a cracking human bone,Confess’d it was a mighty stone,At length, the task perform’d, His GraceMade his best bow, and left the place;And, anxious only to be gone,Stepp’d in his coach, and cried,—“Drive on.”—The boy then smacks his whip, and lo!The B——p’s horses scampering go:The party gaze with wild dismayTo see the chariot roll away!Now, as their breasts with anger burn,Behold the muddy group return;And, as they pace along the street,Resolve each joint themselves to eat,—[22]Their bellies, judging from their faces,As empty as some other places.At Bl—w—tt’s many a dainty dishOf beef and mutton, game and fish,Arrang’d upon the table stood;For Dudley’s sons know what is good.But soon each dainty dish was clear’d,And only fleshless bones appear’d,Each vied with each,[23]and seemed to say,“I’ll have my belly full to-day.”The dinner o’er each takes his glass,And tries his neighbour to surpass:—“For, where’s the use of wine,” say they,“Except to banish care away?”—Forgive my Muse,—her task is o’er;She recollects but little more,She saw the polish’d table shine,With blushing fruit and sparkling wine;She heard the lofty ceiling ringWith three times three, “God save the King.”She look’d again,—one sleeping snor’d,And one was sunk beneath the board;And one, as well as he was able,Was speechifying on the table,A moment pass’d,—again she gaz’d,And saw each arm in contest rais’d[24]The glass in fragments strew’d the floor:—She hung her head, and saw—no more.Qui capit, ille facit.

Thursday was fine beyond expression,

And augur’d well for the Procession:

At eventide, the sun’s last ray

“Gave promise of a golden day.”

The D—ct—r went to bed at ten,

Lay for an hour, then rose again:

With half clos’d eyes he kept awake,

Anxious to see the morning break.

His best black brigs, and eke his shoes,

His long-tail’d coat and silken hose;

His buckles bright, and broad-brimm’d hat,

His finest shirt, and best cravat.

He’d told the servant to prepare,

And all were plac’d upon the chair.

The thought of what’s at hand forbids,

Sound sleep to light upon his lids.

Three times he rose, with anxious eye,

The beams of morning to descry—

Three times he rose,—but all in vain;—

Three times he went to bed again.

At length, according to report,

He slept, and dreamt he was at court,

Sceptres and mitres seem’d to rise

Before the D—ct—r’s wond’ring eyes:

Orders of knighthood, stars, blue ribbons,

Were plenteous as the notes of Gibbons.[2]

And sooth, he wish’d that he possess’d

A mitre finer than the rest:

But, as he reach’d to catch the prize,

He snor’d aloud and op’d his eyes.

“At length he from his bed arose,—

Thrice did he spit, thrice wiped his nose;

Thrice strove to smile, thrice strove to frown,

And thrice look’d up, and thrice look’d down;”

And then forthwith his speech he wrote,—

His breakfast hurried down his throat;

With eager haste stalk’d through the street,

The B——p’s Reverence to meet;

And anxious still to see his Grace,

Chided the coachman’s tardy pace,

Whose stupid, senseless, dull delay,

Might spoil the pleasures of the day.

But now, behold, the prelate comes!

“Sound, sound the trumpets, beat the drums!”

From street to street the blast makes way;

All hear the summons, and obey.

Hundreds on hundreds flock to meet him,

With open mouths, as if they’d eat him.

“A B——p! aye! that ne’er can be

A human thing like you or me,”

Says one: “No, no,” replies a second,

“A B——p’s more than human reckon’d;

He consecrates, Sir, he ordains,

Gives orders, if he gives not brains:

He keeps beneath his watchful eye

The clerical fraternity;

Reads them a pious charge, and sees

They don’t neglect——their surplice fees.

Sometimes he lays his oily hand

Upon the crowds that round him stand;

Who, though they feel the unction come,

From ’twixt his finger and his thumb,

Will never in this world of sin,

Take all its blessed influence in;

Will never know the good that’s done,

Until their mortal race is run!”

Pardon, my friends, this short digression;[3]

We hasten now to the Procession.

All points of etiquette discuss’d,

And gravely fix’d,—a task which must

Require no little time and pains,

And rack the reverend vicar’s brains,—

All points of moment now decided,

The parties class’d, the ranks divided,

From Bl—w—tt’s to the Church they go,

Arrang’d in many a martial row;

Each, you may naturally suppose,

Adorn’d in his best Sunday clothes.

Muslin cravats, as white as milk;

Nay even stockings made of silk;

Capes, black, brown, blue, green, red and grey,

Cut out in the most stylish way:

And “Day and Martin,”—wond’rous sight!

Sent from each foot a blaze of light!

Ribbons and medals,—what profusion!

Beggars and bankers,—what confusion!

Vicars and curates, cobblers, tinkers,

Socinians, Churchmen, and Free-thinkers.

Carpenters, bellows’-menders, nailors;

Glaziers and maltsters; grocers, tailors;

And truant from their desks and shops,

Spruce journeyman and ’prentice fops;

Tatterdemalions, long and short,

Big, little, some of every sort.

Poor children first,—a woeful sight!—

March’d on in pitiable plight,

Though ill provided to sustain

The howling wind and pelting rain.[4]

Huddled together, see, they go;

Collected but to make a show;—

Their warmest, neatest, only dress,

A rag to hide their nakedness!

“Billy the tailor, a brisk fellow,”

Came next, beneath a huge umbrella;

Sharp as a needle, blithe and gay;

He led the band and shew’d the way.

No Churchman; but, ’twas best to go;

’Twould get him many a job you know[5]—

Then came his troop, big, strapping men,

Who made the streets resound again.

Serpents and clarionets they blew

Bassoons and flutes, and hautboys too;

And humouring the D—ct—r’s whim,

Tried to perform “the German Hymn.”

But stay,—who’s next?—Some farmer’s wife?

O no! the B——p, on my life,

In lawn up to his very chin,—

Emblem of purity within![6]—

Now order ceases first who can,

The D—ct—r or his servant man.

But chief our Reverend Pastor see,

Rigg’d as aforesaid cap-a-pie:

Yes, burning with the sacred flame,

Among the foremost B—k—r came;

By Nature form’d to make a show

Above all those who are below:

For, to the wonder of the people,

He look’d just like a moving steeple.

Bombastes all his pomp display’d,

In this august processionade,

With such a sanctimonious air,

With such a face of solemn care.

As might import him to contain

A world of——room within his brain.

His hollow jaws indeed bespeak

How deeply read he is in Greek;

His hanging eyebrows also tell

He construes Latin full as well:

For, though he never was at college,

Who doubts he has these stores of knowledge[7]

Much more my Muse could tell in rhyme,

The will she has but not the time.

Suffice it then,——he stalks along

A giant in the motley throng;

With all that empty consequence

Which fools adopt instead of sense;

And, as he stalks, he seems to say,

“For all the labours of this day,

A something whispers I shall not

In Church preferment be forgot.[8]

I’ll hasten down to H—ml—y Hall,

And on my noble patron call:

From my poetic pan shall rise,[9]

Again to blind my Lady’s eyes,

Thick clouds of incense, till she see

All that is excellent in me!

Who knows, but, mighty and ador’d,

I may become Right Reverend Lord;[10]

And spite of all his vast pretences,

My rival great Wigorniensis?

A mitre,—yea, perhaps the best,

May crown my toil and make me blest.

If I can get a mitre—now

I care not where I go or how.

I’ll hug this hope of future joys,

And heed nor rain, nor mire, nor noise.”—

These words he had no sooner said

Than thrice he shook his sapient head,

And thrice determined to pursue

The pious end he had in view.

Next to his giantship, the D—ct—r,

With humbler step, came hobbling Pr—ct—r,

He hobbled,[11]but his will was good;

Could he go better than he could?

He raised his legs with mighty pain,

And then,—he set them down again.

’Tis whisper’d—but my cautious muse

Will not forget her P’s. and Q’s.:

I’ll not indulge in retrospections,

But leave him to his own reflections:

The darling babe of grace I’ll spare;

For other holy souls were there.

Mark, then, the next, another priest,

Starv’d a whole month for this day’s feast;

A little fellow, black his gear;

Sharp as the blast which blew him here.[12]

His fine-spun coat, as good as new,

His trowsers—wide enough for two.

His cheek-bones and his jaws declare

Oat-cake has been his daily fare.

The hat he bought for ordination,

New-brushed, he sports on this occasion.

His dress though threadbare, now ’tis wet,

Looks fresh, and good, and black as jet.[13]

Now, helter-skelter, all rush on,

Stiff Ned, long Dick, and gaping John,

Isaac and Tom, as all admit,

Two gentlemen of equal wit,

Of equal polish, equal grace:

The same in modesty of face.

I know the town will give it credit,

Or else my Muse would not have said it;

For all confess that either brother

Is just as wise and great as t’other:

Each so demure, so meek, so mild,

As gentle as a new-born child.

These pious patriots were drest

Each with a token on his breast,[14]

Of copper wrought, and brighter far,

Than Venus or the Morning Star,

A female figure took the place

Britannia would, in other case;

Whilst, by her side, in small, portray’d

A cask of Dudley nails was laid;

Containing, we may well suppose,

Sparrow-bill, Ten-penny and Rose;

Clasp, Flat-points, Flemish-Tack and Clout,

Of strictly honest tale no doubt:

For as my muse can only guess,

She won’t presume to call them less.

Enough:—the curious if they please

May find a nobler pair than these.

Now, Tom, an Unitarian true,[15]

And strange to say, a Churchman too,

Like Janus with a double face,

Among our heroes found a place.

’Twas plain enough how pleas’d the elf

Was with that paltry thing, himself;

Proud of his intellect and clothes,

He felt himself the first of beaux.[16]

And, pretty creature, strutted more

Than ever peacock did before.

The ladies very loath to miss[17]

An opportunity like this,

Stretched forth their necks to catch a sight

Of one so spruce and so polite.

“There goes the charming man,” they cry;

And then they laugh, I know not why!

And then, all wonder and amaze,

At him and at each other gaze.

The thing’s confirm’d beyond a doubt,

Although the cause is not found out,—

The modest ninny thinks his worth

Has not his parallel on earth;

And justly: for, without a crime,

I can’t describe it e’en in rhyme:

So nobly bred, so nobly taught,

In speech as lib’ral as in thought:

News he can tell, untold before,

All that he knows, and ten times more:

And yet, upon his magpie tongue

Truth, sense, and wit alike are hung:

His honor——I recall the word,

Of that my muse has never heard;

Of facts alone I fain would sing,

A joke’s a very serious thing!

A man may see with half an eye

What treasures in his head-piece lie:

Why then, dear Sir, such wond’rous pains

To shew the world your lack of brains?

Then little Dick, and waddling Tim,

And bawling Joe, and long-legg’d Jem;

And hundreds more in couples came,

The which my muse disdains to name:

I’m certain none of Hogarth’s sketches

E’er formed a set of stranger wretches.

Among the rest see Doctor Slop,[18]

An emblem of a physic shop:

So sour, so nauseous, so splenetic,

A bolus, blister, or emetic;

Decoction, julep, pill and drop

Are typified in Doctor Slop.

His bones with flesh how poorly clad!

How like a map his visage sad![19]

Lavater would at once declare,

The “City of the Plague” was there:

And e’en a less discerning eye

The “Lake of Brimstone” might descry,

Where all those naughty rebels pop,

Who don’t agree with Doctor Slop.

If sick,—engage him,—give him time,

He’ll send you to another clime;

For change of air is understood

By sons of physic to be good.

But, oh! my pulse is stopp’d; enough

Of Doctors and of Doctors’ stuff:[20]

Though half his worth is yet unsung,

My muse would rather hold her tongue.

Last came the scarlet troop, as gay

As new-scrap’d carrots for the day:

C—w—ll, and all his comrades too:

Hibernian H—gh—s, and Dicky Dr—we:

Great captains in the fighting trade,

Who serv’d their time upon parade.[21]

But of such Gentlemen no more:

I bless my stars I see the shore!

At length, attain’d the sacred spot,

Where, side by side, their fathers rot,

Half rising from their tombs to see

What alter’d things their children be;

The massy portal open flies,

And each to gain admission tries:—

But watchful sentries guard the door,

T’admit the great, and drive the poor;

For treason ’twere, and deadly sin,

To let the herd of vulgar in.

No matterhowthey enter: each

Is thrust against his neighbour’s breech.

One loses half his coat, and one

Feels that his hat or shoe is gone.

Another wild with fury, hoots,

“Stop, scoundrel, stop,—I’ve lost my boots.”

Another fall’n, for mercy cries,

And prays to heav’n they’ll let him rise,

But, ah! for naught their lungs they strain:

They cry, “Hayloo!” and “stop,”—in vain;

The crowd more anxious, forward press

To catch a glimpse of holiness;

And see what ne’er before was known,

A Reverend Mason lay a stone,

In solemn silence see him stand,

The silver trowel in his hand;

The ponderous mass at his desire,

Descends into the yielding mire;

And many a cracking human bone,

Confess’d it was a mighty stone,

At length, the task perform’d, His Grace

Made his best bow, and left the place;

And, anxious only to be gone,

Stepp’d in his coach, and cried,—“Drive on.”—

The boy then smacks his whip, and lo!

The B——p’s horses scampering go:

The party gaze with wild dismay

To see the chariot roll away!

Now, as their breasts with anger burn,

Behold the muddy group return;

And, as they pace along the street,

Resolve each joint themselves to eat,—[22]

Their bellies, judging from their faces,

As empty as some other places.

At Bl—w—tt’s many a dainty dish

Of beef and mutton, game and fish,

Arrang’d upon the table stood;

For Dudley’s sons know what is good.

But soon each dainty dish was clear’d,

And only fleshless bones appear’d,

Each vied with each,[23]and seemed to say,

“I’ll have my belly full to-day.”

The dinner o’er each takes his glass,

And tries his neighbour to surpass:—

“For, where’s the use of wine,” say they,

“Except to banish care away?”—

Forgive my Muse,—her task is o’er;

She recollects but little more,

She saw the polish’d table shine,

With blushing fruit and sparkling wine;

She heard the lofty ceiling ring

With three times three, “God save the King.”

She look’d again,—one sleeping snor’d,

And one was sunk beneath the board;

And one, as well as he was able,

Was speechifying on the table,

A moment pass’d,—again she gaz’d,

And saw each arm in contest rais’d[24]

The glass in fragments strew’d the floor:—

She hung her head, and saw—no more.

Qui capit, ille facit.

IMPROMPTU,

By Dr. Booker, on Reading the above.

A certain junto, sore dismay’dOur Christian Church to think on;Look’d on her strong foundation laid,As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.A twig from a rod in pickle.

A certain junto, sore dismay’d

Our Christian Church to think on;

Look’d on her strong foundation laid,

As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.

A twig from a rod in pickle.

IMPROMPTU,

On Reading the Doctor’s Impromptu.

A junto, Doctor? No, ’tis oneWho makes,—though hundreds share—the fun;He heeds you not. Your “rod” provide:’Twill serve to sting your own b-cks-de.Yourself shall be “dismay’d” and “sore,”As from your breech descends the gore;And, as I flog with stroke uncivil,I shall be “Lincoln,” you the “Devil.”Again, Sir!—you know where to place it,—I say “Qui capit, ille facit.”

A junto, Doctor? No, ’tis one

Who makes,—though hundreds share—the fun;

He heeds you not. Your “rod” provide:

’Twill serve to sting your own b-cks-de.

Yourself shall be “dismay’d” and “sore,”

As from your breech descends the gore;

And, as I flog with stroke uncivil,

I shall be “Lincoln,” you the “Devil.”

Again, Sir!—you know where to place it,—

I say “Qui capit, ille facit.”

ANOTHER.

The Doctor raves, and storms, and vows,And looks as wretched as his cows![25]With straining pericranium triesTo write impromptus and replies;But, like his cows and ass profound,His region is the burial ground,Be calm, dear Doctor! Stay your pen!The poet, perhaps may write again!He knows you;[26]every word betrays it;But still, “Qui capit, ille facit.”

The Doctor raves, and storms, and vows,

And looks as wretched as his cows![25]

With straining pericranium tries

To write impromptus and replies;

But, like his cows and ass profound,

His region is the burial ground,

Be calm, dear Doctor! Stay your pen!

The poet, perhaps may write again!

He knows you;[26]every word betrays it;

But still, “Qui capit, ille facit.”

VERSES

INTENDED TO BE CAST UPON THE BELLS OF THIS NEW CHURCH AT DUDLEY;

Written by a certain learned Doctor, November, 1817.

The Maiden’s Bell.Many a maiden fair gave me,Whose wedding peal I ring with glee:May they in all their future lives,Be happy mothers, happy wives.[27]The Matron’s Bell.Many a matron, grave and good,Or wedded, or in widowhood,Bade me the time of holy pray’rTo many a list’ning flock declare.The Glassman’s Bell.Many a gen’rous man of glassBade me in sound all bells surpass;Bright as their ware be all their days,And bright through time be Dudley’s praise.The Mineman’s Bell.Many a truly gen’rous soul,Men of iron, men of coal,Men of metal bade me soundSweetly to all the hills around.The Vicar’s Bell.For me the vicar preach’d aloudTo many a kind and godly crowd,Who, with a heart devout and willing,Gave their bright guinea and their shilling.The Bishop’s Bell.I, the gift of mitred sage,Sound his praise to many an age:Reverend name! of ancient line;And long on me may Folliot shine.The Patron’s Bell.Me did the manor’s Lord bestow,Who loves to lighten human woe:To doomsday may the name descend,Of Dudley’s and the poor man’s friend.The Regent’s Bell.A princely gift! a prince gave me,The prince of princeliest land and sea—England! His name I nobly ring,And bid thee cry, “God save the King.”

The Maiden’s Bell.

Many a maiden fair gave me,

Whose wedding peal I ring with glee:

May they in all their future lives,

Be happy mothers, happy wives.[27]

The Matron’s Bell.

Many a matron, grave and good,

Or wedded, or in widowhood,

Bade me the time of holy pray’r

To many a list’ning flock declare.

The Glassman’s Bell.

Many a gen’rous man of glass

Bade me in sound all bells surpass;

Bright as their ware be all their days,

And bright through time be Dudley’s praise.

The Mineman’s Bell.

Many a truly gen’rous soul,

Men of iron, men of coal,

Men of metal bade me sound

Sweetly to all the hills around.

The Vicar’s Bell.

For me the vicar preach’d aloud

To many a kind and godly crowd,

Who, with a heart devout and willing,

Gave their bright guinea and their shilling.

The Bishop’s Bell.

I, the gift of mitred sage,

Sound his praise to many an age:

Reverend name! of ancient line;

And long on me may Folliot shine.

The Patron’s Bell.

Me did the manor’s Lord bestow,

Who loves to lighten human woe:

To doomsday may the name descend,

Of Dudley’s and the poor man’s friend.

The Regent’s Bell.

A princely gift! a prince gave me,

The prince of princeliest land and sea—

England! His name I nobly ring,

And bid thee cry, “God save the King.”

EPIGRAM.

Premising thatDIVINE POETA!is to be literally renderedPOETIC DIVINE, we address Dr. Booker in the words of Virgil,—

“Tale tuum nobis carmin, divine poeta!Quale sopor—”

“Tale tuum nobis carmin, divine poeta!

Quale sopor—”

See Rev. of Dr. Booker’s Calista, Ann. Rev. 1803, p. 564.

It has been said, we know, there but appearsOneEpic Poet in a thousand years:But B—k—r lives to prove the thing untrue;And to demonstrate that there may be two.Th’ immortal Milton still the first is reckon’d;The thrice immortal B—k—r is the second;And Dudley’s bells eternally shall tollIn matchless notes for his poetic soul.To future ages shall his name be given,—“The saint-like priest who shew’d the way to heav’n,”Yes! children’s children as they drink their liquor,And pay Church levies still—shallblessthe Vicar.Qui capit, ille facit.Nov. 26, 1817.

It has been said, we know, there but appearsOneEpic Poet in a thousand years:But B—k—r lives to prove the thing untrue;And to demonstrate that there may be two.

It has been said, we know, there but appears

OneEpic Poet in a thousand years:

But B—k—r lives to prove the thing untrue;

And to demonstrate that there may be two.

Th’ immortal Milton still the first is reckon’d;The thrice immortal B—k—r is the second;And Dudley’s bells eternally shall tollIn matchless notes for his poetic soul.

Th’ immortal Milton still the first is reckon’d;

The thrice immortal B—k—r is the second;

And Dudley’s bells eternally shall toll

In matchless notes for his poetic soul.

To future ages shall his name be given,—“The saint-like priest who shew’d the way to heav’n,”Yes! children’s children as they drink their liquor,And pay Church levies still—shallblessthe Vicar.

To future ages shall his name be given,—

“The saint-like priest who shew’d the way to heav’n,”

Yes! children’s children as they drink their liquor,

And pay Church levies still—shallblessthe Vicar.

Qui capit, ille facit.

Nov. 26, 1817.

THE LEARNED DOCTOR’S REJOINDER.

“N.B.—Though dated Nov. 26, the preceding precious farrago, with characteristic piety, was sent on Sunday, the 7th of December, no doubt with a charitable hope that it would make the Vicar’s mind, on that day, very composed and comfortable. Its authors will be sorry to know that the effect they hoped for was not produced. The delectable performance did not excite a single thought till the next morning, when the following notice was taken of it, certainly more than it deserves.”[28]

AN OLD ROD NEW TWIGGED.

“Stripes for the back of fools.”—Prov.

A few weak infidels dismay’dOur Christian Church to think on,Look on her strong foundations laid,“As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.”But though they look as black as he,And gall for ink he sends them,In which to write their ribaldry,And inspiration lends them:The church her glory shall display,Defended from each evil,In spite of all such fools can sayOr their sage friend the D——l.[29]Yea, she shall have her merry peal,To fill their hearts with sadness;While Christians, at such music, feelAn honest English gladness.Nay, she shall have a lofty spireWith weathercock surmounted,That they may, if ’tis their desire,See what they are accounted.Puff’d here, puff’d there, puff’d every where,Save in a right direction,Or now the culprits would not shareA whipping post correction.Will ye be good, ye scurvy rogues,Ere more your hides I tickle?Well then—put up your dirty brogues;Rod! sleep again in pickle.No snake[30]in the grass.

A few weak infidels dismay’dOur Christian Church to think on,Look on her strong foundations laid,“As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.”

A few weak infidels dismay’d

Our Christian Church to think on,

Look on her strong foundations laid,

“As the Devil look’d o’er Lincoln.”

But though they look as black as he,And gall for ink he sends them,In which to write their ribaldry,And inspiration lends them:

But though they look as black as he,

And gall for ink he sends them,

In which to write their ribaldry,

And inspiration lends them:

The church her glory shall display,Defended from each evil,In spite of all such fools can sayOr their sage friend the D——l.[29]

The church her glory shall display,

Defended from each evil,

In spite of all such fools can say

Or their sage friend the D——l.[29]

Yea, she shall have her merry peal,To fill their hearts with sadness;While Christians, at such music, feelAn honest English gladness.

Yea, she shall have her merry peal,

To fill their hearts with sadness;

While Christians, at such music, feel

An honest English gladness.

Nay, she shall have a lofty spireWith weathercock surmounted,That they may, if ’tis their desire,See what they are accounted.

Nay, she shall have a lofty spire

With weathercock surmounted,

That they may, if ’tis their desire,

See what they are accounted.

Puff’d here, puff’d there, puff’d every where,Save in a right direction,Or now the culprits would not shareA whipping post correction.

Puff’d here, puff’d there, puff’d every where,

Save in a right direction,

Or now the culprits would not share

A whipping post correction.

Will ye be good, ye scurvy rogues,Ere more your hides I tickle?Well then—put up your dirty brogues;Rod! sleep again in pickle.

Will ye be good, ye scurvy rogues,

Ere more your hides I tickle?

Well then—put up your dirty brogues;

Rod! sleep again in pickle.

No snake[30]in the grass.

LINES

IN REPLY TO SOME VERSES SIGNED “NO SNAKE IN THE GRASS.”

He would an elegy composeOn maggots squeezed out of his nose;In lyric numbers write an ode on,His mistress eating a black pudden;And when imprisoned air escaped her,It puffed him with poetic rapture.A carman’s horse could not pass by,But stood tied up to poesy:No porter’s burthen passed alongBut served for burthen to his song.—Hudibrass.

He would an elegy compose

On maggots squeezed out of his nose;

In lyric numbers write an ode on,

His mistress eating a black pudden;

And when imprisoned air escaped her,

It puffed him with poetic rapture.

A carman’s horse could not pass by,

But stood tied up to poesy:

No porter’s burthen passed along

But served for burthen to his song.—Hudibrass.

Qui capit, ille facit.

Repress your fury, sage Divine!Perdition breathes in every line.Dagger and staff in hand you fight,Like Falstaff, Shakespeare’s valiant knight,How like him though in form and dressI leave your Reverence to guess:—How far like his your maxims tooOf honour, Sir, I leave to you.You would attempt in canting strain.My short effusion to explain;And wielding your tremendous birch,To say I stigmatize the Church.That, Sir,in toto, I deny:—In your own style, Sir, ’tis a lie.The Church I honour:—I admireThe holy roof, the lofty spire,The pealing song, the hope sincere,The pray’r of virtue I revere,The Church, with an affection true,I love,—[31]I stigmatize but you.Yes! give the Church a lofty spire,Like your tall self, Sir, I desire:And like yourci-devant chapeau,Give it a weathercock also:—But make it fast, dear Sir, becauseIt may be lost as Gilpin’s was[32]“In judgment,”—(’tis an ancient line,)“Remember mercy,”—O Divine!And, when your enemy lies low,Desist,—strike not another blow.But, since you deign to wield your pen,Achilles-like, and fight again:—But since you deign, O sage divine!Again to court the tuneful Nine;And since, in acrimonious style,You dare my verses to revile,And raise a laugh at my expense,Dear Doctor! take the consequence.“Brave knights are bound to feel no blowsFrom paltry and unequal foes.”The pages of all history shineWith poets, heathen and divine;Whose numbers are so highly priz’d,Their memories are immortaliz’d.The first, whose poems still are saved,Was he who wrote the Psalms, King David.Homer and Virgil, and a scoreOf Greek and Latin poets more,Have sung in such melodious measure,That verses still are read with pleasure.The moderns too have sung their share,Voltaire, Racine, and Molière;And many on Italia’s shore;In Germany a thousand more.In Britain, too, are poets found,For Britain is poetic ground,Milton and Shakespeare are her pride,And Pope and hundreds more beside.E’en now we’ve Southeys, Scots and Byrons,And Moore, whose songs are sweet as syrens’!Another poet, too, have we;The Great L-ke B—k—r, LL. D.!!!When all the rest shall be forgotten;Their poems, like their bodies, rotten;When spills are made of leaves of Pope,And Lalla Rookh shall wrap up soap;When even David’s sacred rhymeShall be destroyed by ruthless time;Thy name, O! B—k—r! still shall beLauded to all eternity!Yes! Dudley’s Vicar shall survive,And like a plant perennial thrive!What melody pervades each line!How rich, harmonious and divine!Read where you will, you’re sure to findSome scintillation of his mind:The finest style, the sweetest wordsThe Doctor’s mother tongue affords!Already, in reality,He’s purchas’d immortality.With sermons pious, heavenly, holy,He drives the heart to melancholy:With magic powers he charms the soul,And bids it into madness roll:With charity dilates the breast,And sinks each sordid view to rest.Or, on a sudden can inspireThe soul with never-quenching fire:In short, the mind with joy can fill,Or with despair,—just which he will.But more,—his pow’r o’er human woesNot only shines in nervous prose;In strains delightful and sublime,He speaks in prose, and writes in rhyme;“And when he writes in rhyme will makeThe one verse for the other’s sake.The one for sense, and one for rhyme,He thinks sufficient at a time.”Yet though his rhymes may be baptiz’d,Nothing but prosing poetiz’d,There’s still some difference between ’em,Which all can tell who’ve ever seen ’em.For prose he gets with conscience clear,Full twice five hundred pounds a year;Yet should his rhymes a folio fill,They’d never pay his printer’s bill;But on his shelf in peace recline,And, but to light his candles, shine.

Repress your fury, sage Divine!

Perdition breathes in every line.

Dagger and staff in hand you fight,

Like Falstaff, Shakespeare’s valiant knight,

How like him though in form and dress

I leave your Reverence to guess:—

How far like his your maxims too

Of honour, Sir, I leave to you.

You would attempt in canting strain.

My short effusion to explain;

And wielding your tremendous birch,

To say I stigmatize the Church.

That, Sir,in toto, I deny:—

In your own style, Sir, ’tis a lie.

The Church I honour:—I admire

The holy roof, the lofty spire,

The pealing song, the hope sincere,

The pray’r of virtue I revere,

The Church, with an affection true,

I love,—[31]I stigmatize but you.

Yes! give the Church a lofty spire,

Like your tall self, Sir, I desire:

And like yourci-devant chapeau,

Give it a weathercock also:—

But make it fast, dear Sir, because

It may be lost as Gilpin’s was[32]

“In judgment,”—(’tis an ancient line,)

“Remember mercy,”—O Divine!

And, when your enemy lies low,

Desist,—strike not another blow.

But, since you deign to wield your pen,

Achilles-like, and fight again:—

But since you deign, O sage divine!

Again to court the tuneful Nine;

And since, in acrimonious style,

You dare my verses to revile,

And raise a laugh at my expense,

Dear Doctor! take the consequence.

“Brave knights are bound to feel no blows

From paltry and unequal foes.”

The pages of all history shine

With poets, heathen and divine;

Whose numbers are so highly priz’d,

Their memories are immortaliz’d.

The first, whose poems still are saved,

Was he who wrote the Psalms, King David.

Homer and Virgil, and a score

Of Greek and Latin poets more,

Have sung in such melodious measure,

That verses still are read with pleasure.

The moderns too have sung their share,

Voltaire, Racine, and Molière;

And many on Italia’s shore;

In Germany a thousand more.

In Britain, too, are poets found,

For Britain is poetic ground,

Milton and Shakespeare are her pride,

And Pope and hundreds more beside.

E’en now we’ve Southeys, Scots and Byrons,

And Moore, whose songs are sweet as syrens’!

Another poet, too, have we;

The Great L-ke B—k—r, LL. D.!!!

When all the rest shall be forgotten;

Their poems, like their bodies, rotten;

When spills are made of leaves of Pope,

And Lalla Rookh shall wrap up soap;

When even David’s sacred rhyme

Shall be destroyed by ruthless time;

Thy name, O! B—k—r! still shall be

Lauded to all eternity!

Yes! Dudley’s Vicar shall survive,

And like a plant perennial thrive!

What melody pervades each line!

How rich, harmonious and divine!

Read where you will, you’re sure to find

Some scintillation of his mind:

The finest style, the sweetest words

The Doctor’s mother tongue affords!

Already, in reality,

He’s purchas’d immortality.

With sermons pious, heavenly, holy,

He drives the heart to melancholy:

With magic powers he charms the soul,

And bids it into madness roll:

With charity dilates the breast,

And sinks each sordid view to rest.

Or, on a sudden can inspire

The soul with never-quenching fire:

In short, the mind with joy can fill,

Or with despair,—just which he will.

But more,—his pow’r o’er human woes

Not only shines in nervous prose;

In strains delightful and sublime,

He speaks in prose, and writes in rhyme;

“And when he writes in rhyme will make

The one verse for the other’s sake.

The one for sense, and one for rhyme,

He thinks sufficient at a time.”

Yet though his rhymes may be baptiz’d,

Nothing but prosing poetiz’d,

There’s still some difference between ’em,

Which all can tell who’ve ever seen ’em.

For prose he gets with conscience clear,

Full twice five hundred pounds a year;

Yet should his rhymes a folio fill,

They’d never pay his printer’s bill;

But on his shelf in peace recline,

And, but to light his candles, shine.

Claudite jam rivos, pueri: sat prata biberunt.Vir.

To “No snake in the grass,” on his not replying to the lines lately address’d to him.

Contremuit remus.Vir. Lib.

Contremuit remus.

Vir. Lib.

The pallid scurvy rogue yet tingling stands,And holds his breeches close with both his hands.Pope.

The pallid scurvy rogue yet tingling stands,

And holds his breeches close with both his hands.

Pope.

The Doctor trembling and dismay’d,To write another word afraid:In vain implores, with language civil,The aid of “Lincoln” and the “Devil.”He hides, from stroke of “scurvy rogues,”His seat of honour with his “brogues:”The “tuneful nine,” to see him lash’d,Hung down their heads and fled abash’d.“Je suis ce que je suis.”

The Doctor trembling and dismay’d,

To write another word afraid:

In vain implores, with language civil,

The aid of “Lincoln” and the “Devil.”

He hides, from stroke of “scurvy rogues,”

His seat of honour with his “brogues:”

The “tuneful nine,” to see him lash’d,

Hung down their heads and fled abash’d.

“Je suis ce que je suis.”

LINES BY * * * * * * *

Qui Capit, ever discontented,Envious, jealous, disaffected:To stigmatise our Vicar’s toils,The stigma on himself recoils.Who is he satirical and vain?His unjust impudence of what avail?Qui Capit, know, that God, all just,Ne’er means his creatures to be curs’d.You honour the Church, Qui Capit,—no!Who can believe it?—’tis not so!—“Virtuo consistit in actione.”Sir, henceforth, learn to mend your manners,And ne’er insult your betters.Junius.

Qui Capit, ever discontented,

Envious, jealous, disaffected:

To stigmatise our Vicar’s toils,

The stigma on himself recoils.

Who is he satirical and vain?

His unjust impudence of what avail?

Qui Capit, know, that God, all just,

Ne’er means his creatures to be curs’d.

You honour the Church, Qui Capit,—no!

Who can believe it?—’tis not so!—

“Virtuo consistit in actione.”

Sir, henceforth, learn to mend your manners,

And ne’er insult your betters.

Junius.

REPLY TO JUNIUS.

“Strange such a difference should be,’Twixt tweedle dum and tweedle dee.”

“Strange such a difference should be,

’Twixt tweedle dum and tweedle dee.”

“Junius” to rhyme pray bid adieu,Nor shame the dunghill where you grew,Hear what a friend of “Qui” advises,Stick to your “Latin Exercises,”The muse thy folly will disown,Pray “tarry till thy beard be grown.”

“Junius” to rhyme pray bid adieu,

Nor shame the dunghill where you grew,

Hear what a friend of “Qui” advises,

Stick to your “Latin Exercises,”

The muse thy folly will disown,

Pray “tarry till thy beard be grown.”

ON THE D—CT—R’S SILENCE.

Old Argus of an hundred eyes could boast,An hundred fluent tongues had B—k—r’s head,But Argus all his eyes by music lost,At dogger’ll rhyme all B—k—r’s tongues have fled.

Old Argus of an hundred eyes could boast,

An hundred fluent tongues had B—k—r’s head,

But Argus all his eyes by music lost,

At dogger’ll rhyme all B—k—r’s tongues have fled.

1835. November. The Rev. W. H. Cartwright, M.A., a grandson of the late Doctor Cartwright, a former vicar of Dudley, was nominated to the valuable living of the parish church, as the successor to the late Dr. Booker. Mr. Cartwright held the living for ten years, and then suddenly exchanged livings with the Rev. James Caulfield Browne, M.A., Rector of Compton Marten, in Somersetshire. Doctor J. C. Browne, held the living for 25 years, and died universally revered and respected, March 11th, 1870. Aged 65 years.

1835. December 16th, died, the Rev. William Humbel Baron Ward, of Birmingham. Aged 54 years. This nobleman was the father of the present Earl of Dudley; but only enjoyed the title and estates a very short time.

Another Borough election in 1837 again set the town alive, and as the great spirit of Reform had received innumerable checks throughout the country; Dudley participated in a modified Reforming declension, and again was unsuccessful in returning a Reformer. A Mr. Merryweather Turner was the Reform candidate brought against the old member, Mr. Hawkes, with the following result:

1838. The Rev. John Davies, M.A., was appointed the incumbent of St. Edmund’s Church. This highly esteemed, hard-working, and truly Christian pastor, held this living for the long period of Thirty-one years, and died April 21st, 1869, universally esteemed and regretted, aged 65 years.

1839. This substantial brick building was erected in 1777, and considerably enlarged in 1839, at a cost of £700; in 1880, further improvements and alterations were made, adding much to the comfort and convenience of the congregation. The Rev. William Rogers, a true specimen of a Welshman, was the zealous minister of this Chapel for many years. There is also a good Sunday School in vigorous operation held in the vestry room. The Baptist connexion have also another Chapel situate at Cinder Bank, Netherton, which is said to be of considerable antiquity. The Rev Geo. M. Michael, B.A., is the present minister.

On the following page will be seen the way in which Holy Mother Church was supported in Dudley in these days of civil and religious liberty!!!

CHURCH RATES!

SEIZURES IN DUDLEY DURING THE YEAR 1837.

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