For me, I have the Spurzheim mania,
And trace the mystery to their crania.

Now one but first-a serious thing

To choose-upon their names we waver— "Tis done! the gayer's Master Ching— And Master Chang shall be the graver.

Now Chang was slow, he learnt his letters
As if his memory moved in fetters,
Crippled his pace, and made him gain
The goal of Knowledge grain by grain ;
Yet must you not believe at once,
That Chang was therefore quite a dunce;
His memory, like a trusty hound,
Swept, gathering vigour, o'er the ground;
Was firm of foot, and sure of breath,
And ne'er done up before the death.
Besides, he was a deep reflector,
A silent, but a shrewd inspector;
And early loved, with patient ken,
To pry into the hearts of men;
Often-while Ching good things was saying,

Or noisily at drafts was playing;

Often for hours, he sate-so mute,

You'd thought some hand from stone had shaped him,

Yet not a wrinkle in your boot,

A twinkle of your eye, escaped him :

Nor did whate'er he might discover,

Content, or for a while relax him,
But still the shell was brooded over,
Until it burst into a maxim.
His mind thus slowly gathered matter,
Which musing sharpened into satire;
I own I think that the sagacious,
Are very seldom found loquacious;
Balbutius may at times abash us :
But-oh! the mute bite of a Cassius!

But Ching was hasty, quick, and clever,
His soul's glad stream flowed out for ever;
He learnt his tasks by glancing o'er them,
(Though not, like Chang, with care to store them,)
He loved his jest, although a sad one,

Nor shunn'd a bottle, tho' forbade one;

He swore that thought was made for asses,
And talked already of the lasses.

Chang, tho' austere, was mild in bearing,
Calm as a smile from Lady Bury;
But Ching perpetually was swearing,
And fidgetting himself to fury.
Yet Ching's wrath bore not aught unpleasant,
Was up, and o'er, quite effervescent,

No more conceiving of revenge,

Than Siam's masons of Stonehenge;

While rarely Chang, once roused, forgave—
But watched his moment to retaliate,
No nature, like the still and grave,

To form-preserve-collect and rally hate!
Again-Chang's temper was devout,

So long he prayed-I wish you'd seen it—
But Ching, gay wretch! seem'd half without
A single sound religious tenet;

Nay, plainest truths, he called too mystical,
And laughed at Chang as methodistical.
However, Custom softens down

The small asperities that gall us,
And Interest, to ourselves unknown,
Will still unto herself enthrall us;
Thus Chang, and Ching, who early saw
"Twas vain two hostile ways to draw,
Did from their differing minds distill
The spirit of a common will;

And by a compact of compliance,

They bade their very fate defiance:
Just like one flesh where'er they went-or
Dove-tail'd like man, and horse in Centaur;
Or like Sir Thomas Brown and wife, *
Who were so suited to the life,

*Of this pair it is said, that the "lady was of such admirable symmetrical proportion to her worthy husband, that they seemed to come together by a kind of natural magnetism."

So closely knit--so free from schism,

It seemed like "Natural Magnetism."

And yet that good-that great Sir Thomas,
Did marriage once so much displease,

He wish'd to take it wholly from us,

And let us-stock the world-" like trees." *

Yet spite of yielding thus mechanically,
To aught their forms enjoined tyrannically,
Their minds, (tho' deeming that existence
Itself was linked with non-resistance,)
Would 'gainst the yoke sometimes be straining,
And chafe altho' without complaining.

In truth, if differences of temper

The bliss of common twins scarce double; some
To Chang and Ching, conjuncti semper,
Must needs be singularly troublesome.
For, when grave Chang in pensive mood,
Himself without the door was sunning,
Gay Ching some paltry insect viewed,

And whisk'd his brother into running;
And when with some congenial gang
Gay Ching was playing on the road-a
Pious humour seized on Chang,

Who stalk'd him into a pagoda !

* Sir Thomas Browne, author of the "Religio Medici," laments pathetically, that we cannot perpetuate the world like trees. Truly he was a great man.---See Religio Medici, part ii. sect. 8.

'Twas droll to note Chang's doleful eyes, In sad pursuit of butterflies;

And see of mirth that cynic scorner,

Whirl'd like a dry leaf round the corner!

Nor less to mark poor Ching, screw'd firm on
His seat, bemoraled with a sermon,
Or nail'd for hours to hear debate your
Siamese seers on "Human Nature."

Our brothers now were in their teens,
When lo! a stranger on our scenes;
Hodges, the member of a mission,
To probe the Siam trade's condition,
In part a saint, in part a patriot,

He thought in guilt, and grief, as Patmos * ere "Rome was not Rome," did every state riot,

Except in happy England's atmosphere.
There all was virtue, freedom, bravery
Without, all ignorance, crime, and slavery.
Perhaps he thought with old Fitzstephen, †
Our air possest some heavenly leaven,
And that a moral manna falls

From those sweet fogs that cap St. Paul's.

* Whither the Romans were accustomed to banish their criminals. + William Fitzstephen, writing in the reign of Henry II., accounts for the goodness of the London people, by the atmospheric properties. "The calmness of the air, (he says) doth mollify men's minds, not corrupting them, &c., but preserving them from savage and rude behaviour, and seasoning them with a more kind and free temper."