1830.] Affairs in General. 325 



The election of the reverend gentleman, now parish sexton of St. 

 Giles's, has not yet passed away from the memory of mankind ; and 

 the industrious determination of so worthy a personage, to take care of 

 the bodies as well as the souls of men, will, we hope, recommend him to 

 the love of the bishops. 



A Flanders mail announces the departure of a vessel, a few days 

 since, with " a cargo of rather a novel description, consisting of dead 

 human bodies, for the resurrection-men on the banks of the Thames. 

 The wits are merciless on the Election and have illustrated the event 

 with several intolerable puns. One of them observes, that though this 

 reverend person's office has excited a good mimber of enemies in the 

 parish, as well as a good deal of ridicule out of it, he is in the happiest 

 situation to make the laughers " grave men," and is ready to bury all 

 animosities. Another observes, that his having played his game so well 

 is entirely owing to his having " spades" in his hand, which gave him 

 the command of king, queen, and knave. Another, that, notwith- 

 standing the contrivances of his canvass, he may be relied on for 

 plain speaking, as no man is more likely to call a " spade a spade." 

 Another, that if his knowledge of books be but shallow, no man can 

 look more profoundly into human nature. Another, that his humility is 

 worthy of all admiration, for he is the very first of his cloth who 

 voluntarily chose his station six feet below the lowest of living mankind. 

 Another, that he deserves to be honoured for exploring a new source 

 of clerical substance. Another Wit has embodied his panegyric in 

 immortal rhyme. 



STRANGER, loquitur. 

 Digger, in the shovel-hat, 

 Tell me what the deuce you're at ; 



Digging, delving, 



Sweating, shelving^ 



Night and day ; 



Six feet in clay, 



Tossing bones, 



Picking stones, 



Startling worm, and rousing rat ; 

 Tell me, what the deuce you're at ! 



SEXTON, loquitur. 

 Digging, in this shovel-hat, 

 Here I lay St. Giles's flat. 



What are all men, 



Short or tall men ? 



Flowers in May, 



Sons of clay, 



High and low, 



Down they go. 



Wives of farmers, 



London charmers, 



Are all laid 



By my spade. 



Winter, June-light, 



Sunshine, moonlight, 

 See me neck-deep in the grave, 

 Leaving scarcely time to shave ; 

 Working on through deal and lead ; 

 Turning dust and bones to bread. 

 Ask you why I bustle here ? 

 'Tis for fifty pounds a year ! 



