"Then hush all suspicion," the Cavalier said,
"Believe me, this heart's all your own;
For whilst I am living, if you be not dead,
I swear by these whiskers, that none in your stead,
Shall sit by my side on the throne."+

*Lord Stewart at a dinner in Ireland proposed as a toast "the health of the Prince Regent, the first cavalry officer in Europe."

It was generally supposed that the Prince Regent's whiskers were artificial. But as the Prince was never true to either his word, his oath, his wife, or his mistress, it matters little by what, or by whom, he swore.

The Poems of M. G. Lewis were deemed worthy of imitation by the authors of The Rejected Addresses, and Horace Smith accordingly wrote one entitled "Fire and Ale," of which Lord Jeffrey said in the Edinburgh Review, "Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror."

FIRE AND ALE.

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst,

Away to Parnassus I'm beckoned;

List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed,
I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first,
And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt;
He mounted his hot copper filly;

His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt
Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt
With the heat of the copper colt's belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his !

When an infant 'twas equally horrid ;

For the water, when he was baptised, gave a fizz, And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz! As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols;

Sir William Harcourt.

His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry,
It rattled against them, as though you should try
To play the piano in thimbles.
From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows,
Which scorches wherever it lingers;

A snivelling fellow he's call'd by his foes,
For he can't raise his paw up to blow his red nose,
For fear it should blister his fingers.

His wig is of flames curling over his head,
Well powder'd with white smoking ashes;

He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead,
Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread,
Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields,
'Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying ;
He spit in the Tenter-ground near Spital-fields,
And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields,
Make a capital lime-kiln for drying.

When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing),

But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpassed A shot manufactory flaring.

He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatch His bride, little dreaming of danger;

His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse's left eye was a patch,

To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral
In his cinder-producing alliance?
'Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall,
Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,
If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan knee-pan he clattering roll'd. And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon!

Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might,
For Vinegar Yard was before her ;

But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight,
Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light,

To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch,
Whose votaries scorn to be sober;

He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch;
Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march,
And froths at the mouth in October.

His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung;

He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis.

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire,

Mr. Whitbread, the brewer, who was very active in the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre.

But Water-and Shaw-are the things he must dread, And at sight of an engine he shakes his red head, And his teeth like a lunatic gnashes.

But his fire-gnomes he multiplies lately so fast
That the task of repressing them 's trying;

The flare that they make and the heat that they cast,
Are so great that the Fiend seems resolved in one blast
To set the Metropolis frying.

He blazes and blazes; Shaw gallops to snatch
His prey from its desperate danger;
But the Demon's a deuce of a rider to catch,
And it taxes brave Shaw to continue a match
For the fiery noctivagant ranger.

And if London is wise she assistance will cali,
For the Water King needs the alliance
Of hands that are sturdy and limbs that are tall,
To give the Fire Demon a rattling good fall,
And set all his imps at defiance.

(Eight verses omitted.)

Punch. August 20, 1887.

"Tales of Wonder," written and collected by M. G. Lewis, contained two ballads entitled "The Erl King and The Cloud King," both written by Lewis in his accustomed style of grim horror, with thunder, shrieks, and fury, and in the same volume he inserted an anonymous burlesque of these entitled "The Cinder King,' the humour of which would not be very apparent unless the two first-named poems were reprinted in full. They are neither of sufficient interest to merit the space this would require. A somewhat similar parody may be found in "The Blue Bag; or Toryana." London; Effingham Wilson, 1832. It is called "The Fire King, The Water King, and The Cotton King," and relates the quarrels of some politicians, well-known sixty years since, but now well nigh forgotten.

One more parody of Lewis remains to be noted, it occurs in an exceedingly scarce volume of poems, "The School for Satire." London, 1802, and is exceedingly interesting on account of its allusions to Monk Lewis's personal appearance, and his literary productions:

THE OLD HAG IN A RED CLOAK.
(Inscribed to Matthew G. Lewis, Esq., M.P.)
MAT LEWIS was little, Mat Lewis was young,
The words they lisp'd prettily over his tongue;
A spy-glass he us'd, for he could not well see,
A spy-glass he us'd, for near sighted was he.

With his spy-glass once spying in Parliament Street,
He chane'd an old Hag in a red cloak to meet;
When the Hag in a red cloak thus awfully said,
"Pray give me a sixpence to buy me some bread."

"No sixpence I'll give thee to buy thee some bread,"
To the Hag in a red cloak Mat feelingly said;
Then down to the House in a huff strutted he,
Sure all the world knows little Mat's an M. P.

But as onward he strutted, and push'd thro' the crowd,
The Hag in a red cloak still curst him aloud;
Strange words of mysterious intent struck his ear,
And could he be frighten'd he'd then have known fear,

"Depriv'd of a corner to hide my old head,
I wander'd about, begging e'en for my bread;
When thou too, my child, to complete my despair,
Refused my own spoils with thy mother to share.

"But vain are thy hopes to supplant me on earth,
For know that immortal I am in my birth.
Can defeat all thy arts by a magical spell,
And all thy productions in paper dispel.

"Ye ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes,
Ye lions, and wolves, and ye griffins and apes,
Ye strange jumbled figures from river or den,
Ye fire-born monsters, and fishified men.

"Ye raw-heads and bloody-bones, spectres and shades,
And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids,
As your grandmother's curses on each of you fall,
To hell and the devil fly one and fly all!"

Then the ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes,
And lions and wolves, and the griffins and apes,
And strange jumbled figures from river or den,
And fire-born monsters, and fishified men,

And raw-heads and bloody bones, spectres and shades, And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids,

When they heard the goose curses on each of them fall, To bell and the devil fled one, and fled all.

Fled in fire and in water, in smoke and in hail,
Some green, and some red, some black and some pale,
Fled in accents of horror, of spirit, of wit,
Tralira, tralara, or fal-de-ral tit.

While as fast as away Matty's progeny flew,
Mother Goose summon'd up her original crew,
Who with loud peals of laughter and sallies of fun,
Quizz'd, pinch'd, and tormented her reprobate son.

A Kuight led them on, who was first to assail,
Who was arm'd cap-a-pie in a dear coat of mail.
Sir Horn-Book hight he; at the very first glance
Mat saw he was Lord o'er the Field of Romance.