In short, 'tis a case for consultation,
If e'er there was one, in this thinking nation;
And therefore I humbly beg to propose,
That those _savans_ who mean, as the rumor goes,
To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case,
Should also Lord Parry's case embrace;
And inform us, in _both_ these patients' states,
Which _ism_ it is that predominates,
Whether magnetism and somnambulism,
Or, simply and solely, mountebankism.
[1] The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London
Hospital.
THE SONG OF THE BOX.
Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans,
And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock;
They were all, I confess, in _my_ eye, Betty Martins
Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.
Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?--Oh, it isn't
By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;--
Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned,
She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.
How snug!--'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions,
Blown _this_ way and _that_, by the "_populi vox_,"
To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,
And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.
Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom--
So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes;
But mute be _our_ troops, when to ambush we lead 'em,
"For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box.
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