All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong,

From Eve's fig leaf down to the petti

coat,

Almost as scanty, of days less remote.

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds Assembled, and exclaim'd, "My

friends of all The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst

these clouds;

So let's to business: why this general call?

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds,

And 'tis for an election that they bawl, Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat! Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?"

"Sir," replied Michael, "you mistake; these things

Are of a former life, and what we do Above is more august; to judge of kings Is the tribunal met: so now you

know." "Then I presume those gentlemen with wings."

Said Wilkes, "are cherubs; and that soul below

Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind

A good deal older-Bless me! is he blind?

I don't like ripping up old stories, since His conduct was but natural in a prince.

"Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress

A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; But then I blame the man himself much less

Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling

To see him punish'd here for their excess, Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in

Their place below for me, I have forgiven,

And vote his habeas corpus' into heaven."

"Wilkes," said the Devil, "I understand all this:

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,

And seem to think it would not be amiss To grow a whole one on the other side Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his

Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide, He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your labor,

For at the best he will but be your neighbor.

Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem

That he was not even one; now many

rays

Were flashing round him; and now a thick steain

Hid him from sight-like fogs on Lon

don days:

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies,

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.

I've an hypothesis-'tis quite my own;
I never let it out till now, for fear
Of doing people harm about the throne,
And injuring some minister or peer,
On whom the stigma might perhaps be
blown;

It is my gentle public, lend thine ear! 'Tis that what Junius we are wont to call

Was really, truly, nobody at all.

I don't see wherefore letters should not be

Written without hands, since we daily

view

But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink

Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd),

I saw a taper, far below me, wink, And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel

No less on history than the Holy Bible. "The former is the devil's scripture, and The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair

Belongs to all of us, you understand.

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there,

And brought him off for sentence out of hand:

I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air

At least a quarter it can hardly be:
I dare say that his wife is still at tea."

Here Satan said, "I know this man of old,

And have expected him for some time here ;

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, Or more conceited in his petty sphere: But surely it was not worth while to fold Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear:

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored

With carriage) coming of his own accord. "But since he's here, let's see what he has done."

"Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates

The very business you are now upon, And scribbles as if head clerk to the

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation:

The angels had of course enough of song When upon service; and the generation Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long

Before, to profit by a new occasion: The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what!

Pye come again? No more-no more of that!"

The tumult grew; an universal cough Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,

When Castlereagh has been up long enough

(Before he was first minister of state, I mean the slaves hear now); some cried "Off, off!"

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose.

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave;

A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace

To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,

Was by no means so ugly as his case; But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, Quite a poetic felony de se."