The Well Of Truth

'TWAS sunset--(much ill-usèd hour,

And Southey swears it's yellow!)--

And so I lay and smoked the weed--

Immaculate Havannah!--

And watch'd a spider nobbling flies

In an artistic manner.

And mused in speculative vein

On England, and her story;

Why Palmerston was dubb'd a Whig,

And Derby was a Tory;--

Which diff'ring Poets tell you

Is ev'ry shade from green to red,

Why Manchester detested war,

And cottons took delight in;

Why Cobden's voice was all for peace,

And Horsman's all for fighting;--

Why England sent out Bibles' store,

To teach our pig-tail'd brother;

And gave him Gospel with one hand,

And Opium with the other;--

And why the Church was always poor,

And Lawyers lived in clover,

And why my tailor made me pay

His last.. account.. twice... over...

And why------

Perhaps it was the scent

That hover'd round my bow'r?

Perhaps it was the flies that haunt

That soul-subduing hour?

Or else those interesting gnats,

Which sting one so severely,

Made dreamy music round my head,

Until I slept--or nearly:--

But lo! I floated on a pool,

Beneath a monstrous funnel,

Whose crowning disc shone faint above,

Like sun-light thro' a tunnel;

And forms and faces quaint and strange

Swept by me ev'ry minute;

And ev'ry breast transparent lay

And had a window in it.

Then sudden thro' my mind it flash'd--

What mania could have got'em--

The place was truth's historic well,

And I--was at the bottom!

And first I mark'd a sombre man *

Of aspect wondrous saintly,

Whose pious eyes look'd shock'd and good,

If Sin but whisper'd faintly;

* Sir John Paul.

And every Sunday in the plate,

His clinking gold was given

With such an air--the righteous vow'd

His alms had conquer'd Heaven!

And such his godly wrath'gainst all

Who betted, swore, or liquor'd,--

Old women said around his head

An Angel halo flicker'd.

But looking through his heart I saw

A blank, dark, moral torpor,--

And while he gave his princely alms

He cursed the needy pauper.

And all men grovell'd at his feet

With coax, and crawl, and wheedle;--

But I thought of Dives' burning tongue

And the parabolic needle.

And next I spied a priestly band,

In cassock, cope, and mitre,

Who diff'ring slightly from the Church,

Lent all their wits to spite her,--

With some who thought church-music gave

The Devil grievous handles;

And some who lit Polemic War

By lighting altar-candles;

And one who held a certain place

Most probable to get to,

Unless he preach'd in a scarlet cloak

And pray'd in a falsetto!--

But one thing I could plainly read,

On ev'ry breast displaying;--

The rev'rend men took more delight

In quarrelling than praying!

They pass'd--and lo! an Hebrew youth,

To ebon locks confessing,

The sturdy yeomanry of Bucks

In honey'd phrase addressing.

And so enthusiastic wax'd

The sleek bucolic charmer;

As if his body, soul, and brains,

Had all been born a farmer.

And he felt "glad" and "proud," he said,

To meet his friends again--

"His valued friends!"--and in his heart

He wished himself in Spain;--

Of all spots in the world, he said,

To see them there he'd rather,--

And inly sent them ev'ry one

To Jericho--or farther.

And so he gave their right good health--

And off it went in toppers;

And call'd them "Men and Patriots,"

And in his heart "Clodhoppers."--

And then--with very blandest smiles--

From self and boon carousers,

Gave prizes to some model louts,

And one a pair of trousers!! *

* Vide "Times" of 4 Nov. 1857, giving an account of the meeting of the Amersham and Chesham Agricultural Association.

And as he cried "Take, fine old man,

"These best of merit's brandings,"--

He thought "Was ever such a Calf

"On such thin understandings!"

Just then roll'd by, so bluff and bold,

A tar--from truck to kelson--

And prophesied such vast exploits,

Men cried--"Another Nelson!"

"You'll see," quoth he, "I'll shortly be

"In Heav'n or Cronstadt reckon'd"--

But never meant to chance the first,

Or go too near the second.

And then I lost him in the crowd,

Nor could the question try on;

If I'd heard the voice of Balaam's ass

Or the roar of Britain's lion;

But when I thought what bumping things

The hero had been saying,

I felt I knew what Gray must mean

By the din of battle braying.--

PERILS OF THE FINE ARTS.

OOD gracious, Julia! wretched girl,

What horror do I see?

What frantic fiend has done the

deed

That rends your charms from

me?

Those matchless charms which like

the sun

Lit up Belinda Place--

What fiend, I ask, in human mask

Has dared to black your face?

Your cheeks that once out-bloom'd the rose

Are both of ebon hue;

Your chin is green--your lips are brown--

Your nose is prussian blue!

This mom the very driven snow

Was not so stainless pure,--

And now, alack! you're more a black,

Than any black-a-more.

Some wretch has painted you! Oh, Jove,

That I could clutch his throat!--

That I could give his ears a cuff,

Who gave your face a coat:

If there is justice in the land--

But no:--the law is bosh:

Altho' it's tme you're black and blue

That remedy "won't wash."

Revenge, I say!--yet hold, no rage--

I will be calm, sweet wife--

Calm--icy calm------------Speak, woman, speak,

That I may have his life!!

Who did the deed?--

"Oh! Charles,'twas you!

"Nay, dearest, do not shrink--

"This face and chin!--I've wash'd it in

"Your Photographic Ink!"