TO THE EDITOR OF THE MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
(You don't know me-although p'r'aps you may
When I burst on the world in the blaze of noon-day.)
I write you this little epistle, to say
If you think what I've writ, which I herewith enclose,
(I'm a somewhat great man-but that's under the rose-
In fact, 'tis a secret that nobody knows)—
you think what I've writ
For your pages is fit,
Or by any means likely to turn out a hit,
You're exceedingly welcome to publish it ;
And if when that's o'er
You've a fancy for more,
Why more you shall have,-I've a very large store.
My name to the world, as you'll see, is " Young Phiz;
But if you wish to know what my name really is,
A hint to "Young Phiz" in your next Magazine,
With pride and with pleasure of heart will be seen,
And promptly complied with by one who has been
From the first your admirer-whose honour it is
To sign himself, much at your service-
London, Oct. 15, 1841.
MR. JUPITER SLOGGS.
Mr. Jupiter Sloggs was a very nice man ;—
That is, as times go-
But the sequel shall show,
And that's the best way I can prove it, you know.
I deem it my duty to prove when I can,
Whatever I say,
As I pass through life's way,—
So that always I may
Be ready to answer whoever says "nay:"
So, reader, I now,
If you'll kindly allow,
prove the assertion with which I began,
That the said Mr. Sloggs was a very nice man.
There's a rather large class of humanity's sons-
Exceedingly funny and singular ones-
Who are christened "sly dogs,"—and, as far as I find,
By the general voice and consent of mankind;
An elderly bachelor suddenly wed,
With the silver of fifty-five years on his head,
He's called a "sly dog" by the people that quiz-
And a very sly dog he undoubtedly is;
Or a young one who marries unknown to his pa,
And without even saying a word to his ma,-
Who has courted, but kept it all secret the while,
And looked as demure as a post or a stile,
He's another "sly dog,"-but I'm sure you must know
So many sly dogs, that no more I need show.
There's another large body (Fate only knows why)
Who are nicknamed "rum dogs" very un-like the sly.
A rum dog's a dog that stays out late o' nights,
And rather approveth blind hookey and fights;
Who flooreth policemen, and ringeth street bells,
And wrencheth off knockers, and visiteth hells,
And shouteth and yelleth as home he doth jog-
There can't be a question that he's a "rum dog."
Some are counted rum dogs who deserve not the name—
Who filch the distinction, possessing no claim;-
As, for instance, young shopmen, all beardless and childish,
Or strutting apprentice boys, apish and wildish-
Who think that to swear, and to riot and revel,
And to puff their cigars, and to go to the devil,
To wear stylish rings
To glitter in guard-chains of copper or steel,
And down the Haymarket at midnight to reel,-
To take Sunday dinners and teas in an arbour,
And yield their soft heads up as blocks to the barber,—
To dance at assemblies-to strut and grimace,
Till they're sore in the feet and red-hot in the face,—
To cultivate side-locks, and whiskers, and that,-
To patronize bear's-grease, or rather pig's-fat,
To lounge about town in a shocking bad hat,
And to shoot-sometimes sparrows, and sometimes the cat.With a thousand things more,
Which I cannot run o'er,
To do such as this, it is thought by the throng,
rum dog," but the blockheads are wrong: Such creatures as these, tho' they try, p'r'aps, to bark, Are nothing but puppies, I beg to remark.
queer dogs"-a very strange race— Who are odd in their doings, and grave in the face; These are jocular chaps,
Who will fetch you smart raps,
As you're stooping, it may be, to button your straps,
And swear till they're blue that they didn't, perhaps,-
Stick pins in their chairs,
Some doomed one sits down there, he something like swearsOr at all events certainly don't say his
These wretches accurst,
Oh! for vengeance I thirst!
Are the chosen apostles of April the first;
They are never so happy as when they have made
April fools of their friends-nay, so fond of their trade
Are these very delightful and fool-making elves,
That they even submit to make fools of themselves.
However, no more
I need say on this score
I dare say you've seen,
What these doggerels mean:
So now to sum up-Mr. Jupiter Sloggs
Was the slyest-the rummest-the queerest of dogs.
Mr. Sloggs was in height
Four feet seven-not quite,
It may seem rather short-but I'm sure I am right;
His body was long, and his legs they were short,
And he spoke with a kind of a snuffle or snort;
He was punchy and fat,
With a face rather flat,
He wore a white hat,
He look'd very tall when at table he sat,
And he never would wipe his wet boots on the mat;
He was partial to tripe,
Had a liking for brandy
Was fond of a pipe,
And his small-clothes were bandy.
His small-clothes I say,
Tho' the question it begs,
For mark, I distinctly refuse to convey,
As I cannot afford for a libel to pay,
Any slander, reproach, or aught verging that way,
On Jupiter's warranto-libellous legs.
Now these warranto-libellous legs-Mr. Sloggs-
The said most amusing and slyest of dogs-
Was accustomed to show,
In buckskins and tops-which as some p'r'aps may know,
Was the rage about twenty years backward, or so.
Now the buckskins referred to,
And boots as I've heard too,
Were very remarkable things in their way,
And produced, as the wise ones no doubt will dare say, A splendid effect on a beautiful day;
The buckskins were tight,
Tight as buckskins could be,-
And the boots were so bright,
From the sole to the knee,
That a blind man to shave himself in them might see:
Indeed I assure you, with serious mind,
That the buckskins, the tops, and the legs all combined,
Beat everything else ever known of the kind;
Nay, so well they were known,
But for fifteen miles round the renowned City Stone,-
That whoever beheld them, where'er it might be,
By the Thames-the Canal-the New River-the Lea—
In Summer-in Winter-in Autumn-in Spring—
At morn, when the larks learn to court and to sing-
At night, when the larks give repose to the wing-
In sunshine and shadow-in damp and in fogs-
In rain, when the streets are all turned into bogs,
Only fit to be traversed by mudlarks and hogs-
When the lanes in the country yield mushrooms and frogs-
When pretty feet patter by dozens in clogs-
When men get ill-tempered and growl at their dogs-
When the schoolboy goes late, and the schoolmaster flogs-
How distant soe'er,
Not quite out of sight, you'd be ready to swear,
With your hand on the Bible before the Lord Mayor,
That those boots and those buckskins-those legs and that air-
Could only belong to our friend Mr. Sloggs.
Besides all I've said,
Mr. Sloggs kept a gig―
Though that, by the bye, does 'nt matter a fig—
So therefore I'll say nothing more on that head-
I've only to add,
-It had long been well known
In fact, since our friend Mr. Sloggs was a lad-
He'd a very large share of that singular bone
Or bump, or what not, at the back of the head,
On which the Phrenologists often have been
Exceedingly witty,-although what they mean
Of course I don't know-for they never have said;
But this much I'm sure of-and tell it to you,
It has with the Latin verb "amo" to do;
So I think you'll agree
With the Sloggses and me,
That (supposing you are not too close in your scan)
Mr. Jupiter Sloggs was a very nice man.
Mrs. Jupiter Sloggs-I solicit your pardon !-
The task of describing the lady's a hard 'un;
If I had tho' to weigh
What she was, I should say
She was half Mrs. Weller, and half Mrs. Varden;
She made a great feint
Yet scolded so sore,
Nay--some said that she swore !—
That you'd think that Religion had little to do
With this pious blasphemer and sanctified shrew,-
Inasmuch as religion-I think so don't you?
Doth exercise over the temper restraint.
Now this lady, you see—
As all good saints should be,
Was exceedingly partial to scandal and tea-
(Six shilling Souchong and five ditto Bohea)
It was hinted by some that she liked something shorter-
I do not mean ale, nor I do not mean porter,—
But one evening her husband, on coming home, caught her
Discussing a tumbler of brandy and water!
So the world shook its head
"Ah! she tipples-she used to before she was wed." And towards that conclusion appearances led,
For really her nose was exceedingly red.
But if she did drink, why it never could be
A spot or a stain on her piety;
For love of the bottle-I speak without bias-
Has always been known to belong to the pious.
Mistake not my meaning, dear Reader! I seek
Not to utter a sneer on Religion's fair name;
Could you see the deep flush that suffuses my cheek
As fearing you think so-the thought I disclaim—
You'd acquit me at once of so wicked an aim.
When I talk of" the pious"-of that class I speak
Who use not Religion to bind or to bless,-
But to threaten free-thinkers with fury and flame,
And expect God's great love to them nevertheless;
Whose only Religion it is to profess-
Whose Piety only consists in the name;
"Tis to these that I wish to refer, when I say
That a love for the bottle" the pious" display.
I know you'll admit, upon candid review,
That of worthies like these, the assertion is true.
Imagine a lady of fifty, save one,
Her weight I forget,-'twas a good many stone-
Tall, strapping and stout,
Five feet eight or about,
With a very red face and a much redder nose,
The usual number of fingers and toes,
A very loose manner of wearing her clothes-
A huge parasol-and a reticule, made
So large, that a tablecloth 'twould have conveyed
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