The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1844-04-30 00:00:00

titeraturt.

P 0 E 'l' R Y.

REPLY TO A JESUITICAL, CANTING, WILY AND WHEED.
LING LYRIC, ADDRESSED TO IRISH PROTESTANTS,
BY THE DUBLIN NATION:

(Pro7n the Dublin Evening Mail.)

MAIL-BAG MELODIES,

" An open enemy's a curse.
But a ..;e ended friend is worse."—GAT.

" We hate the Faxon and the Dane,
And the rude Norman men,—
We curs'd their greed for blood and ga'n,
And we curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish born.man,
If you're to Ireland true,
'We heed not blood, nor cree•l, nor clan,—
We have no curse for you."
Nation, April 13, 1944.

You need not take such wondrous pains .
To make your different castes app !ar,
'Twixt Irish born" arid English " Danes,"
And `• Saxons" there, and " Saxons" here;
We see your scorn behind your smile,
You deep, deceitful Popish crew I
You hate us, one and all ! the v.hile—
But, God be praised, we know you do !

Then welcome be your honest curse,
You c inging, wheedling Gaelic Bard !
We like your proffered b:essings w
But both demand our just regard.
We thank you for your hate professed—
'Tis genuine, and we'll prize it well.
But for your love, just now expressed,
We doubt it—for it smacks of Hal!

111.
What ! think you that of all the lot
One Ingle " Saxon" can be led,
To trust you that you hate him not,
Because he', Irish born and bred
No!—all your love, at twice its worth,
Is hardly value for a laugh !
And the triad game-cocks of the north
Are far too old to peck at chaff.

For many a sly device you search
To rive our empires' triple parts—.
But 'tis the .oyal, twin.born church
You aim at in your real hearts !
What chances of success you have
Let Hillsboro's', cord-book attest—
And those who further knowledge crave
From Henry ,00ke may learn the rest!

Vain ! vain is all your specious cant,
Your quibbl.ng about native earth !
'Tis not the "Dane"—but " Protestant"
You ha e !—atnl hate whe e'er his birth,
For, find his cradle where you wid—
Abroad—at home—on sea or sud—
You hat him !—and you've done so still,
To please your Po, e—and he's your God !

Oh I Rome, you show your inmost soul
lAhene'er we meet you face to face !
We can discern your Jesuit scowl
Out through your Pharisaic grace !
Ay, we can read upon your brow,
And cu ling lip, and sharpset tooth,*
.4,s plain as you do preach them now.
The class-book lesson.; of Maynooth !
VII.
We know you, Rome ! in t eart and skin
We see—we see your fine pretence,
To draw the gaping pio.triot in,
Ann work upon his passive sense !
• So do:Cat once your artful mask—
Your subt est tricks are understood ;
And cease your nice distinctive task
Of analysing British blood !
From root to branch the Norman tree
And every golden fruit it bears .
You hate ! because so fair and free
To Heaven its outspread arms it rears
You hate our Bible -hate our schools—
You hate our clergy—hate our creed—
Aud oath-bound to your murderous rules
Your hate, in word—you prove in deed!

The stake—the scaffold--and the wheel
Have witnessed it in many a clime
And mat.), an age—and now the steel
Is ready—and you " bide your time I"
Bide on ! bide on !—you treacherous band,
From month to month and year to year—
Our eye is fixed upon your band,
And rest assured we'll keep it there I

Oh ! boast away your " year of work"—
Your " shoulder bared" and " girded loin;"
-Your "groups" may line the Lee, at Cork,
But will they dare to stem "the Boyne ?"
No—no—they won't—the bue that lies
In Munster shamrocks fresh and fair,
In Ulster's climate fades and flies,
Too puny for " the lily's" air !

Yes I you may hoist the flag of green !
We have the " Orange and the Blue I"
A banner that sh,ll ne'er be seen,
Unless to make you dearly rue!
And we have hearts, whe e'er you come,
At broad noon-day or depth of night,
To meet and chase your millions tome !
And God, we know, will guard the right !

* "Dens". might properly enough be considered the very
" eye-tooth" of Popery, which, as soon as the young priest has
cut, he can see his way pretty plainly before him.

CHAPTERS ON ADVERTISEMENTS.

No. I.

Amongst the thousands whose chief or only instructors
are the columns of the daily or weekly press, it may with
safety be asserted that there is not one in a hundred who
knows how to read a newspaper—how to gather, from that
luminous record of the every day affairs of this strange
world of ours, the lights and shadows of the picture which
it holds up to our vision. The busy trader, wrapped up
in his dream of avarice, glances over prices of stocks ;
skims over the lists of bankrupts and insolvents; wades
through the City article, and plunges into the whirl of life,
with the conviction that he is fully informed of all its do-
ings. The politician imbibes the editorial wisdom of
leading articles—the mingled " sound and fury", with
which ministers are bombarded and oppositions bespat-
tered—and is happy in the conviction that his knowledge
of the whys and wherefores of statesmanship is as exten-
sive as that of any dozen of the " ins", or " oats", of
Downing-street. The votary of fashion runs over the
court circular and the puffing " cards" of west-end ven-
ders of inercery or bijouterie; and has exhausted his or her
anxiety to know " how the world wags" ' • whilst vulgar
and matter-of-fact people are content to be horrified or
amused by " fatal accidents", police reports, or scanda-
lous on dits, according to their several tastes and stations.
It is the foreground only of the varied panorama of life
which such observers glance over—its well-marked lines
and prominent figures—whilst the objects which lie dimly
shadowed in the background—the wretchedness, the ro-
mance, the wild passion, the mute despair, the fierce hate
and the crime, which inhabit the dark places of the
world—are to them the writing in a sealed book—the
unevoked figures in an enchanter's mirror.
It is not a mere glance over the surface of this terres-
trial ball, which we denominate earth, that can tell us
what primeval fires are glowing in its womb—what floods
heave in its dark cavities—what ores and gems lie hidden
there which the avarice of man shall never drag up to the
light. It is not a passing gaze into the night-heaven
which can tell us of what order of beings are they, who
inhabit the thousand stars bespangling its blue dome—
whether passion and sin and death are there, as in our
,own fallen world. And the unenquiring reader of the do-
ings of his fellow men, as recorded in the columns of a
newspaper, can as little expect thus to unravel the myste-
ries of every day human life as, by such unreflecting and
unenquiring observation, to fathom the globe, or to read
the secrets of the heavens. The events which newspapers
record are but the air bubbles which rise upon the ever-
working cauldron of human passion. They are but
chance developments of the few wrongs and crimes and
miseries which see the light, whilst countless thousands
are hidden from all save the criminal, the victim, and the
eye of Heaven.
Do we wish to view, in the mirror which the press pre-
sents to us, a faithful reflection of the world, or one ap-
proaching to faithfulness, we must seek it—not in its re-
cords of events, its police reports, its political disquisi-
tions, or its narratives of folly and depravity, but—in the
glimpses which it affords us of unacted villanies and un-
developed sufferings : we must seek it in its crowded co-
lumns of advertisements. There is more of the world in
any one of such columns than whole volumes could con-
vey. What strife to exist, what restless plotting, what
ingenuity, what tortuous devices, are in those puffing an-
nouncements ! What misery and unrequited toil—what
wearing of human life, and sacrifice of health add enjoy-
ment and love—what pictures of gaunt and ghastly po-
verty—are associated with those parades of unparallelled
cheapness! What startling evidences of fallen station—
of pride dispelled by the vision of the near and yawning
gulf of utter destitution—of hungry eyes watching the
partition of the last morsel—of the uncomplaining gaze
of attenuated loveliness, or the wolfish glare of selfish
age—are in those "appeals to the charitable and humane!"
And, scattered through the miscellaneous advertisements,
what a strange medley may we observe of human life—its
varied ambitions, passions, and pursuits ; and what les-
sons might the picture which it presents be made to con-
vey, were the pencil of imagination permitted to fill up its
broken shadows, and develope in distinct colours its half-
revealed figures ! Tell us not that such a picture would
not be life—that it would not be our world, but the world
of the novelist and the romance writer. It might have
more of light and shadow—more of startling incongruities
of Colouring—more of hideous contrast of objects—thin
what we are led to believe is our every-day world ; but it
would, nevertheless, if we gave not an undue amount of
licence to thnpainter—imagination—and the filling in was
in good keeping, be that world itself!
We propose, if the reader will give us leave, to present
him with a few of these lessons, sketchily drawn, perhaps,
but whh may still serve to teach him to read aright the
record which is daily in his hands. We take up at ran-
dom a file of that greatest purveyor of advertisements--
the Times—and instinctively we turn to column second of
its front page, the locus in quo of what may be called
masquerade or anonymous announcements, and occasion-
ally of assignations of a very questionable character.
What have we first ?
Ma

A. E.-DISSATISFIED.

Terse and mysterioua! And yet, without great y strain-
ing our ingenuity, we might, perhaps, arrive very near its
meaning and the characters of the parties, between whom
it is meant to communicate. We can imagine ties which
may bind together two human beings, not in love, but ra-
ther in hate and fear ; an outward and horrible friendship,