Originally published in Douglas Jerrold's Shilling Magazine (Punch) vol.3 #14 (Feb 1846).
The Devil uneasy sat in his state,
Revolving the news from earth of late.
Cries he, "I must have later:
I shall visit the earth;" and as he spoke
Around him he threw his travelling cloak,
And with rumble and groan,
On a red hot stone,
Rode up from Mount Etna's crater.
He spread his wings, and away he flew
O'er Sicily, to Malta;
But alighted not, as a fresh wind blew,
Till a favourite haunt came into view,
A stepping-stone, where to rest his shoe—
The rock of fam'd Gibraltar.
Cloudless and starlight, the brilliant sky,
As o'er sea and land he roll'd his eye,
And his quick glance scour'd the coast afar,
From Cape St. Vincent to Trafalgar;
"There!" cries the Devil, "my temples are."
On Africa now he turn'd his gaze,
"Yonder," said he, "my altars blaze,
And hecatombs, as in ancient days,
Are offered at my shrine.
Ye priests! of Dahra's murderous caves,
Heed not your victims' whine,
But pile the faggots higher;
Until by hundreds the wretched slaves
Roast, and expire,
And from the pyre,
Spreading o'er all the world its human flame,
In deathless characters shall spread Pelissier's name.
Once more, the Devil is on his way,
Flying o'er Biscay's foaming bay,
Dropping a glance from his onward soar,
As he passed the banks of the fatal Loire;
Whence there rose to his ear, as he thought, the wild
And drowning shriek of mother and child.
And now the Devil's voyage is over,
He has furl'd his wings on the cliff of Dover,
And blithe as a bridegroom before his marriage,
Takes his seat for town in a first-class carriage.
'Twas night; and the Devil contrived to steal
Into the House, as Sir Robert Peel
Made his free-trade oration:
Oh! could you have seen him writhe and smart,
As each duty discarded pierced his heart,
And he groaned out with vexation,
"Curse their free-trade—for wars will cease:
Buyer and seller must dwell in peace:
I had hoped to have set America on
To fight with England for Oregon,
But my blood-red standard may now be furl'd,
Goodwill must reign throughout the world."
And the Devil with anger storm'd and shook,
As from the house his way he took.—
He saw a huge crowd by a prison wall
Waiting the gibbet's festival;
They had waited there from set of sun,
And as yet the day had not begun.
Hark! the death-bell tolls—
Back the vast crowd rolls—
A moment's pause, like the silence of death;
Even the Devil held his breath:
Then a murmuring shout, it rent the air—
A woman hung strangled and quivering there;
And the Devil glared on the crowd below,
And he joy'd at the fruit of the murderous show.
Thieves, by dozens, were plying their trade,
Women were fighting, or drunken laid.
These are the scenes that I love right well,"
Thought the Devil; "they serve to people Hell."
Now he takes 'mong the city streets his range
And marks a crowd, anxious and dense,
Thronging around the Stock Exchange,
With eagerness most intense;
As if hung the life of each needy wretch
On the price his scrip that day would fetch.
"Hurra!" cried the Devil, "man's never content:
With the sober rate of five per cent.;
To get rich without labour, is now the desire
Of noble and beggar, parson and squire;
Sinner and saint all join the dance;
But to-morrow I'll play to them, "Off to France."
And now for a moment quiet and still,
The Devil he lurk'd in the smoke of a mill:
Where spindles were turning,
And gaslights were burning,
And children their day's bread were busily earning.
Thought he, "What a conscience these Englishmen have!
They give millions of money to free the poor slave,
And then to his master they turn round and cry,
Though you whip your slave till he's ready to die,
In raising your cotton, that cotton we'd buy."
The mill is stopp'd, the work is done:
Away the weary children run
Quoth the Devil with a hellish grin,
As he stroked his finger upon his chin—
"That child is gone to purchase gin."
But pale he turn'd, when he saw the libel,
The child has not purchased gin but—a Bible.
Still paler he turn'd, and scarce could speak,
When he found ten thousand were sold that week.[1]
Confounded, he spread his wings on high,
And shot like a meteor through the sky,
Till over Mount Etna he stopp'd,
When with rumble and groan,
Like a red-hot stone,
He once more down the crater dropp'd.
1. Alluding to the present extraordinary demand for Bibles at Manchester.