"Vision," his public career will not be more favorably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt.

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an honest mau) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present. QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.

SAINT PETER sat by the celestial gate: His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,

So little trouble had been given of late; Not that the place by any means was full,

But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight" The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger

6.

pull,

And a pull altogether," as they say At sea-which drew most souls another way.

The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do,

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two, Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue,

Splitting some planet with its playful tail,

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

For some resource to turn himself about,

And claim the help of his celestial peers, To aid him ere he should be quite worn out

By the increased demand for his remarks:

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

This was a handsome board-at least for heaven;

And yet they had even then enough to do,

So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,

So many kingdoms fitted up anew; Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,

Till at the crowning carnage, Water

loo,

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun; A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,

A worse king never left a realm undone!

He died-but left his subjects still behind,

One half as mad-and t'other no less blind.

He died! his death made no great stir on earth:

His burial made some pomp; there was profusion

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

Of aught but tears-save those shed by collusion.

For these things may be bought at their true worth;

Of elegy there was the due infusionBought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show,

Who cared about the corpse? The funeral

Made the attraction, and the black the woe.

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall;

And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

So mix his body with the dust! It might Return to what it must far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;

But the unnatural balsams merely blight What nature made him at his birth,

as bare

As the mere million's base unmummied clay

Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

He's dead--and upper earth with him has done;

He's buried; save the undertaker's bill, Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone

For him, unless he left a German will;

But where's the proctor who will ask his son ?

In whom his qualities are reigning still,

Except that household virtue, most un

common,

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

"God save the king!" It is a large

economy

In God to save the like; but if he will Besaving, all the better; for not one am I Of those who think damnation better still:

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. I know this is unpopular; I know

"Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd

For hoping no one else may e'er be so; I know my catechism; I know we're cramm'd

With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd,

And that the other twice two hundred churches

And synagogues have made a dumn'd bad purchase.

God help us all! God help me too! I am, God knows, as helpless as the devil can

wish,

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, With such a glance of supernatural hate, As made Saint Peter wish himself within ;

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, And sweated through his apostolic skin:

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, Or some such other spiritual liquor.

The very cherubs huddled all together, Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt

A tingling to the tip of every feather, And form'd a circle like Orion's belt Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither

His guards had led him, though they gently dealt

With royal manes (for by many stories, And true, we learn the angels all are Tories).

As things were in this posture, the gate flew

Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges Flung over space an universal hue

Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new

Aurora borealis spread its fringes O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound,

By Captain Parry's crew, in "Melville's Sound."

and ill;

Such was their power, that neither could forget

His former friend and future foe; but still There was a high, immortal, proud regret

In either's eye, as if 't were less their will

Than destiny to make the eternal years Their date of war, and their "champ clos" the spheres.

But here they were in neutral space: wo know

From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so; And that the "sons of God," like those

of clay,

Must keep him company; and we might show

From the same book, in how polite a

way

The dialogue is held between the Powers Of Good and Evil-but 'twould take up hours.

And this is not a theologic tract,

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,

If Job be allegory or a fact,

But a true narrative; and thus I pick From out the whole but such and such

an act

As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.

'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, And accurate as any other vision.

The spirits were in neutral space, before The gate of heaven; like eastern

thresholds is

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er,

And souls despatch'd to that world or to this;

And therefore Michael and the other wore

A civil aspect: though they did not kiss,

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness.

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau,

But with a graceful Oriental bend, Pressing one radiant arm just where below

The heart in good men is supposed to tend;

He turn'd as to an equal, not too low,

But kindly; Satan met his ancient

friend

In this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas Need he thou servest envy me my lot: With all the myriads of bright world. which pass

In worship round him, he may havo forgot

Yon weak creation of such paltry things. I think few worth damnation save theis kings,

"And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to Assert my right as lord: and even had I such an inclination, it were (as you Well know) superfluous; they

grown so bad,

are

That hell has nothing better left to do Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad

And evil by their own internal curse, Heaven cannot make them better, nor 1

worse.