1829.] Affairs in General. 303 
A dwarfish tribe appeared the crew ; 
The Whigs great-grandsons were so small, 
That only by their rags I knew 
The pigmies who could scarcely crawl: 
Fox, but a shadow of the shade 
Of Charles Fox, preterea nil ; 
But bright the magic glass displayed 
The Whigs in opposition still. 
What crowds of little tiny souls! 
Here little Broughams full of bile ; 
And little, little Humes in shoals, 
All doing shabby tricks the while: 
The Burdetts, Russells, Caves, had shrunk 
To creeping nothings—but my quill 
Must tell that they, thus sadly sunk, 
Were Whigs in opposition still. 
All, all was little—Brookes’s clan 
Had into antlike insects dwindled, 
And here and there they crawled or ran, 
The swindlers petty as the swindled : 
All were a knot of Mammon’s slaves, 
Who act obedient to his will ; 
But -while they live, the elfish knaves 
Will be in opposition still. 
Such did the magic glass unfold ; 
At last to close this sight of pain, 
A giant Tory we behold, 
Whom scarcely can a world contain ! 
He comes and puts this tribe so small, 
With gentle but resistless skill, 
Into his pouch—yet one and all 
Would be in opposition still —[[Age. 
Sir Anthony Hart, an old goose, more tedious than Chancery itself, 
more crabbed than blackletter, as much a Christian as Lord Holland, 
and as much a lawyer as Lord King, is making himself remembered by 
the only contrivance open to such intellects. He had already distin- 
guished his office by the appointment of Messrs. O'Gorman and Steele 
to the magistracy ; and he is now receiving the distinction of being the 
pis-aller of all the puns of all the punsters of Ireland. Old Lord 
Norbury still fires a shot a head of him now and then. Blake the 
popish barrister, the confidential councillor, and depository of the suc- 
cessive brains of Lords Wellesley, and Anglesey, and now of Hart, was 
called the sham-rock, in some allusion to the captain. “ No,” said 
Norbury, “ sham won't do, call him heart’ s-ease.” 
India will soon be as regular a place for disposing of our superfluous 
clergy, as our superfluous cousins. There is some unlucky planet about 
the business: either the labour is so enormous, the space to be traversed 
so vast, or the climate is so fatal to the bodies of English-fed parsons, 
that they all seem to go like the governors of Sierra Leone, to take 
measure -of their final beds, in India. The third bishop, Dr. James, 
has just died, at 43, an amiable man, and a loss. Heber, too, was a 
