2 THE DEVIL.

The Devil, I safely can aver,

Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;

Nor is he, as some sages swear,

A spirit, neither here nor there,

In nothing — yet in everything.

He is — what we are; for sometimes

The Devil is a gentleman;

At others a bard bartering rhymes

For sack; a statesman spinning crimes;

A swindler, living as he can;

A thief, who cometh in the night,

With whole boots and net pantaloons,

Like some one whom it were not right

To mention;— or the luckless wight

From whom he steals nine silver spoons.

But in this case he did appear

Like a slop-merchant from Wapping,

And with smug face, and eye severe,

On every side did perk and peer

Till he saw Peter dead or napping.

He had on an upper Benjamin

( For he was of the driving schism )

In the which he wrapped his skin

From the storm he travelled in,

For fear of rheumatism.

He called the ghost out of the corse;—

It was exceedingly like Peter,—

Only its voice was hollow and hoarse —

It had a queerish look of course —

Its dress too was a little neater.

The Devil knew not his name and lot;

Peter knew not that he was Bell:

Each had an upper stream of thought,

Which made all seem as it was not;

Fitting itself to all things well.

Peter thought he had parents dear,

Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies,

In the fens of Lincolnshire;

He perhaps had found them there

Had he gone and boldly shown his

Solemn phiz in his own village;

Where he thought oft when a boy

He'd clomb the orchard walls to pillage

The produce of his neighbour's tillage,

With marvellous pride and joy.

And the Devil thought he had,

‘ Mid the misery and confusion

Of an unjust war, just made

A fortune by the gainful trade

Of giving soldiers rations bad —

The world is full of strange delusion —

That he had a mansion planned

In a square like Grosvenor Square,

That he was aping fashion, and

That he now came to Westmoreland

To see what was romantic there.

And all this, though quite ideal,—

Ready at a breath to vanish,—

Was a state not more unreal

Than the peace he could not feel,

Or the care he could not banish.

After a little conversation,

The Devil told Peter, if he chose,

He'd bring him to the world of fashion

By giving him a situation

In his own service — and new clothes.

And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud,

And after waiting some few days

For a new livery — dirty yellow

Turned up with black — the wretched fellow

Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's chaise.