Chapter XLIX: Letter VII: Page 588 (1)

The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book,"[1] of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. Lackington and Co. This rejected Drama however possesses considerable merit and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner--_Time_, three o'clock in the morning--_Scene_, the Bourbon Chamber[2] in Carleton House-- Enter the Prince Regent _solus_--After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:--

Away--Away--
Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,
I meet thee--trace thee, whereso'er I look.
I see thy damned _ink_ in Eldon's brows--
I see thy _foolscap_ on my Hertford's Spouse--
Vansittart's head recalls thy _leathern_ case,
And all thy _blank-leaves_ stare from R--d--r's face!
While, turning here (_laying his hand on his heart_,)
I find, ah wretched elf,
Thy _List_ of dire _Errata_ in myself.
(_Walks the stage in considerable agitation_.)
Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa!
Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!
Delicious drams! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing _Book-worm_ in my heart?

He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and "by the light of two magnificent candelabras" discovers the following unconnected words, "_Wife neglected"--"the Book"--"Wrong Measures"--"the Queen"--"Mr. Lambert"--"the Regent_."

Ha! treason in my house!--Curst words, that wither
My princely soul, (_shaking the papers violently_) what Demon
brought you hither?
"My Wife;"--"the Book" too!--stay--a nearer look--
(_holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras_)
Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book--
Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, "to maintain the becoming splendor of his office."[3] The Regent produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream:

'Tis scarcely two hours since
I had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!--
Methought I heard thee midst a courtly crowd
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,
"Worship my whiskers!"--(_weeps_) not a knee was there
But bent and worshipt the Illustrious Pair,
Which curled in conscious majesty! (_pulls out his handkerchief_)--
while cries
Of "Whiskers; whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.--
Just in that glorious hour, me-thought, there came,
With looks of injured pride, a Princely Dame
And a young maiden, clinging by her side,
As if she feared some tyrant would divide
Two hearts that nature and affection tied!
The Matron came--within her _right_ hand glowed
A radiant torch; while from her _left_ a load
Of Papers hung--(_wipes his eyes_) collected in her veil--
The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,
The wounding hint, the current lies that pass
From _Post_ to _Courier_, formed the motley mass;
Which with disdain before the Throne she throws,
And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose.

(_Weeps_.)

Heavens, how it blazed!--I'd ask no livelier fire,
(With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!--
But ah! the Evidence--_(weeps again)_ I mourned to see--
Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee:
And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung,
And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;
While _Post_ and _Courier_, faithful to their fame,
Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame.
When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,
Now singes _one_ now lights the _other_ whisker.
Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurls
Her fairy standard in defence of curls?
Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke,
The watchman cried "Past One," and--I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held-- all the Servants, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine _clinquant_ in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]--but as this forms the _under_ plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "_exeunt_ severally" to Prison:--

Go to your prisons--tho' the air of Spring
No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;
Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away,
And all your portion of the glorious day
May be some solitary beam that falls
At morn or eve upon your dreary walls--
Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed,
To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!
Yet go--for thoughts as blessed as the air
Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there;
Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crew
In rich conservatories _never_ knew;
Pure self-esteem--the smiles that light within--
The Zeal, whose circling charities begin
With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near,
And spread till all Mankind are in its sphere;
The Pride that suffers without vaunt or plea.
And the fresh Spirit that can warble free
Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board--Their task evidently of a _royal_ nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc., that lie about--They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down."

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees,
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,
While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers),
The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors!
Derry down, down, down
derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,
While _His_ short cut to fame is--the cut of his coat;
Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul,
But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole.
Derry down, etc.

Look thro' all Europe's Kings--those, at least, who go loose--
Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose.
So, God keep him increasing in size and renown,
Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town!
Derry down, etc.

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development--the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced and skilfully laid beside the others, the following _billet-doux_ is the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,

Honored Colonel--my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns,
Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns.
She sent the wrong Measures too--shamefully wrong--
They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young;
But, bless you! they wouldnt go half round the Regent--
So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery--the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all parties.

[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled, "_Liber de tribus impostoribus_." (See Morhof. Cap. "_de Libris damnatis_.")

[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe") with _fleurs de-lys_.

[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to maintain it in becoming splendor." (_A loud laugh_.)--Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill_.

[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person
from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it."
--Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment,
April 14, 1812_.

Last night I tost and turned in bed, But could not sleep--at length I said, "I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh, "And of his speeches--that's the way." And so it was, for instantly I slept as sound as sound could be. And then I dreamt--so dread a dream! Fuseli has no such theme; Lewis never wrote or borrowed Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state Before me at his breakfast sate; On one side lay unread Petitions, On t'other, Hints from five Physicians! _Here_ tradesmen's bills,--official papers, Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors _There_ plans of Saddles, tea and toast. Death-warrants and _The Morning Post_.

When lo! the Papers, one and all. As if at some magician's call. Began to flutter of themselves From desk and table, floor and shelves, And, cutting each some different capers, Advanced, oh jacobinic papers! As tho' they said, "Our sole design is "To suffocate his Royal Highness!" The Leader of this vile sedition Was a huge Catholic Petition, With grievances so full and heavy, It threatened worst of all the bevy; Then Common-Hall Addresses came In swaggering sheets and took their aim Right at the Regent's well-drest head, As if _determined_ to be read. Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly, And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high; Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best Be lively too and join the rest.

But, oh the basest of defections! His letter about "predilections"!-- His own dear letter, void of grace, Now flew up in its parent's face! Shocked with this breach of filial duty, He just could murmur "_et_ Tu _Brute_?" Then sunk, subdued upon the floor At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked--and prayed, with lifted hand, "Oh! never may this Dream prove true; "Tho' paper overwhelms the land, "Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by; And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better To wait till the Irish affairs are decided-- (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and digestion)-- For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two _other_ Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2] A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me, A more _limited_ Monarchy could not well be. I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle. To choose my own Minister--just as they muzzle A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son, Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3] So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in, The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching: For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4] Would loose all their beauty if purified once; And think--only think--if our Father should find. Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5] That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser-- That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser-- That R--d--r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter-- Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter-- What a shock to his old royal heart it would be! No!--far were such dreams of improvement from me: And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6] There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,[7] That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy, And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I _would_, By the law of last sessions I _might_ have done good. I _might_ have withheld these political noodles From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles; I _might_ have told Ireland I pitied her lot, Might have soothed her with hope--but you know I did not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous, But find that while he has been laid on the shelf We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself. You smile at my hopes--but the Doctors and I Are the last that can think the King _ever_ will die.[8]

A new era's arrived[9]--tho' you'd hardly believe it-- And all things of course must be new to receive it. New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends)-- New saddles, new helmets, and--why not _new friends_?

* * * * *

I repeat it, "New Friends"--for I cannot describe The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe. Such capering!--Such vaporing!--Such rigor!--Such vigor! North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure, That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears, And leave us no friends--but Old Nick and Algiers.

When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains, 'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains. It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches, But think how we find our Allies in new breeches! We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted, But then we've got Java, an island much wanted, To put the last lingering few who remain, Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain. Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother! _For_ Papists the one and _with_ Papists the other; _One_ crushing Napoleon by taking a City, While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee. Oh deeds of renown!--shall I boggle or flinch, With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch. No--let _England's_ affairs go to rack, if they will, We'll look after the affairs of the _Continent_ still; And with nothing at home but starvation and riot, Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.

I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10] My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections Are just danced about for a moment or two, And the _finer_ they are, the more sure to run thro'; Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill To mortal--except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel, Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion, To cut _me_ and bring the old King into fashion. This is all I can lay to my conscience at present; When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant, So royally free from all troublesome feelings, So little encumbered by faith in my dealings (And that I'm consistent the world will allow, What I was at Newmarket the same I am now). When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking), I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking, "To meet with the generous and kind approbation "Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation."

By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter, (No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,) 'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11] With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong, Would a few of them join me--mind, only a few-- To let _too_ much light in on me never would do; But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid, While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade; Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm, While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm. As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it. Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it! Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit, And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit: And against all the pure public feeling that glows Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose! So in short if they wish to have Places, they may, And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12] Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose) By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news; And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection), Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13] Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!

[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13, 1812.

[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.--_Prince's Letter_.

[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."-- _Ibid_.

[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.-- _Prince's Letter_.

[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment," etc--_Ibid_.

[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon.

[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."--_Prince's Letter_.

[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction," etc.--_Ibid_.

[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,--no resentments to gratify."-- _Prince's Letter_.

[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government"-- _Prince's Letter_.

[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."-- _Prince's Letter_.

[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."- _Prince's Letter_.

ANACREONTIC

TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan, Best of Plumists (if you can With your art so far presume) Make for me a Prince's Plume-- Feathers soft and feathers rare, Such as suits a Prince to wear.

First thou downiest of men, Seek me out a fine Pea-hen; Such a Hen, so tall and grand, As by Juno's side might stand, If there were no cocks at hand. Seek her feathers, soft as down, Fit to shine on Prince's crown; If thou canst not find them, stupid! Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due, Pluck me next an old Cuckoo; Emblem of the happy fates Of easy, kind, cornuted mates. Pluck him well--be sure you do-- _Who_ wouldnt be an old Cuckoo, Thus to have his plumage blest, Beaming on a Royal crest?

Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird Shall we find for Plume the third? You must get a learned Owl, Bleakest of black-letter fowl-- Bigot bird that hates the light,[1] Foe to all that's fair and bright. Seize his quills, (so formed to pen Books[2] that shun the search of men; Books that, far from every eye, In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,) Stick them in between the two, Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo. Now you have the triple feather, Bind the kindred stems together With a silken tie whose hue Once was brilliant Buff and Blue; Sullied now--alas, how much! Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

There--enough--thy task is done; Present, worthy George's Son; Now, beneath, in letters neat, Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

_Wednesday_.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now-- Met the _old yellow chariot_[1] and made a low bow. This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil, But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil! How unlucky!--_incog_. he was travelling about, And I like a noodle, must go find him out. _Mem_.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride, To remember there _is_ nothing princely inside.

_Thursday_.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder-- What _can_ be come over me lately, I wonder? The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife-- "Fine weather," says he--to which I, who _must_ prate, Answered, "Yes, Sir, but _changeable_ rather, of late." He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff, And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough, That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off, And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

_Mem_.--to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers--sure road to promotion![3]

_Saturday_.

Last night a Concert--vastly gay-- Given by Lady Castlereagh. My Lord loves music, and we know Has "two strings always to his bow."[4] In choosing songs, the Regent named "_Had I a heart for falsehood framed_." While gentle Hertford begged and prayed For "_Young I am and sore afraid_."

[1] The _incog_. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse-- "Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"-- The Prince's _Purse_! no, no, you fool, You mean the Prince's _Ridicule_.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings,
(At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do heterodox things,
And at last took to worshipping _Images_ sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed
In his father's old _Cabinet_, pleased him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'--such was his taste!--
They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!--
But his People disdaining to worship such things
Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack--
"You'll not do for _us_, tho' you _may_ do for _Kings_."

Then trampling these images under their feet,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar!
"We're willing to worship; but only entreat
"That you'll find us some _decenter_ godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack--so they furnisht him models
Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back;
Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles,
In short they were all _much_ too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old Idols again,
And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of Gods and of man,
Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

_Quest_. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? _Answ_. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his,
"Why refuse us the _Veto_, dear Catholic Neddy?"
"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
"You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers-- Or, (if sweeter that abode) From the King's well-odored Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud. Hither come and gayly twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us, Those who rule and (some say) fool us-- Flora, sure, will love to please England's Household Deities![1]

First you must then, willy-nilly, Fetch me many an orange lily-- Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply;-- Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, To crown the head of Liverpool. 'Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs, Which they suffered (what a pity!) On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown, Bring me from the County Down, Withered Shamrocks which have been Gilded o'er to hide the green-- (Such as Headfort brought away From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]-- Stitch the garland thro' and thro' With shabby threads _of every hue_-- And as, Goddess!--_entre nous_-- His Lordship loves (tho' best of men) A little _torture_ now and then, Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough--away, away-- Had I leisure, I could say How the _oldest rose_ that grows Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose-- How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile Crowned with wreaths of camomile. But time presses--to thy taste I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The _sobriquet_ given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look
"If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."--
"We've lost the _Court Guide_, Ma'am, but here's _the Red Book_.
"Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour _Places_ in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains,
About what your old crony,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:
Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may; For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, And then people get fat, And infirm, and--all that, And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!--alas, even they,
Tho' so rosy they burn,
Too quickly must turn
(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget
Your mind about matters you dont understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
Because "_you_," forsooth, "_have the pen in your hand_!"

Think, think how much better
Than scribbling a letter,
(Which both you and I
Should avoid by the by,)
How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just
As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.
To Crown us, Lord Warden,
In Cumberland's garden
Grows plenty of _monk's hood_ in venomous sprigs:
While Otto of Roses
Refreshing all noses
Shall sweetly exhale from our
whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau
In that streamlet delicious,
That down midst the dishes,
All full of gold fishes,
Romantic doth flow?--
Or who will repair
Unto Manchester Square,
And see if the gentle _Marchesa_ be there?

Go--bid her haste hither, And let her bring with her The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going-- Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of--Ackerman's Dresses for May!

[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public--entitled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

[2] Charles Fox.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

The man who keeps a conscience pure,
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Thro' toil and danger walks secure,
Looks big and black and never winces.

No want has he of sword or dagger,
Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb;
Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger,
He doesnt care one single damn.

Whether midst Irish chairmen going.
Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim,
Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,
No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late,
Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish Papist darted
Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big--
I did but frown and off he started,
Scared at me even without my wig.

Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog
Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal-blood of Tara;
Or place me where Dick Martin rules
The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]

Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, So lovingly upon a hill-- Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]

[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "_malus Jupiter_" of him.

[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

Jack fell down,
And broke his _Crown_,
And Jill came tumbling after.

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

--_nova monstra creavit_.
OVID. "_Metamorph_." 1. i. v. 417.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac, With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back. And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni-- "Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext With the duties of empire,) "whom _shall_ I dress next?"

He looks in the glass--but perfection is there, Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;[1] Not a single _ex_-curl on his forehead he traces-- For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is, The _falser_ they are, the more firm in their places. His coat he next views--but the coat who could doubt? For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out; Every pucker and seam were made matters of state, And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother, Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other? And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes. Ah! no--here his ardor would meet with delays, For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays, So complete for the winter, he saw very plain 'Twould be devilish hard work to _un_pack him again.

So what's to be done?--there's the Ministers, bless 'em!-- As he _made_ the puppets, why shouldnt he _dress_ 'em? "An excellent thought!--call the tailors--be nimble-- "Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble; "While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers, "The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."

So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest. While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition, Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!") And first _puts in hand_ my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

[1] That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW[1] ON ONE'S SIDE."

_The Gentleman's Proposal_.

_Legge aurea,
S'ei piace, ei lice_."

Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy
To one frigid owner be tied;
Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy,
But, dearest, we've _Law_ on our side.

Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial,
Whom no dull decorums divide;
Their error how sweet and their raptures how _venial_,
When once they've got Law on their side.

'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too:
Then why should it now be decried?
If the Father has done it why shouldnt the Son too?
For so argues Law on our side.

And even should our sweet violation of duty
By cold-blooded jurors be tried,
They can _but_ bring it in "misfortune," my beauty,
As long as we've Law on our side.

_The Lady's Answer_.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly;
For grant me so faithless a bride,
Such sinners as we, are a little too _lovely_,
To hope to have Law on our side.

Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em
The People should look for their guide,
Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum--
You'd always have Law on your side.

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary,
Whose heart tho' it long ago died
To the _pleasures_ of vice, is alive to its _glory_--
You still would have Law on your side.

But for _you_, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles;
By _my_ advice therefore abide,
And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles
Who have _such_ a _Law_ on their side.

[1] In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

This day a New House for your edification We open, most thinking and right-headed nation! Excuse the materials--tho' rotten and bad, They're the best that for money just now could be had; And if _echo_ the charm of such houses should be, You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

As for actors, we've got the old Company yet, The same motley, odd, tragicomical set; And considering they all were but clerks t'other day, It is truly surprising how well they can play. Our Manager,[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst, And sung _Erin go Bragh_ for the galleries first, But on finding _Pitt_-interest a much better thing, Changed his note of a sudden to _God save the King_,) Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever, Himself and his speeches as _lengthy_ as ever. Here offers you still the full use of his breath, Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

You remember last season, when things went perverse on. We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on) One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person, Who's also employed for this season to play, In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."[2] We expect too--at least we've been plotting and planning-- To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning; And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts Like a good _single combat_ brought in 'twixt the acts, If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham, Get up new _diversions_ and Canning should stop 'em, Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers, "Grand fight--second time--with additional capers."

Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad, There is plenty of each in this House to be had. Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be, For a _dead hand at tragedy_ always was he; And there never was dealer in dagger and cup, Who so _smilingly_ got all his tragedies up. His powers poor Ireland will never forget, And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.

So much for the actors;--for secret machinery, Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery, Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find, To transact all that trickery business behind. The former's employed too to teach us French jigs, Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

In taking my leave now, I've only to say, A few _Seats in the House_, not as yet sold away, May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

[1] Lord Castlereagh.

[2] He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

_Instrumenta regni_.--TACITUS.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies, They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is; (Except it be _Cabinet-making_;--no doubt, In that delicate service they're rather worn out; Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will, Would have bungled away with them joyously still.) You see they've been pretty well _hackt_--and alack! What tool is there job after job will not hack? Their edge is but dullish it must be confest, And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best; But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying, Were't but for their _brass_ they are well worth the buying; They're famous for making _blinds_, _sliders_, and _screens_, And are some of them excellent _turning_ machines.

The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a _Chancellor_), Heavy concern to both purchaser _and_ seller. Tho' made of pig iron yet worthy of note 'tis, 'Tis ready to _melt_ at a half minute's notice.[1] Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest; 'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist; Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall Of some church that old women are fearful will fall; Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,) A heavy _drag-chain_ for some Lawyer's old _Tandem_. Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir-- Once, twice,--going, going,--thrice, gone!--it is yours, Sir. To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest, As a _bill_ at _long date_ suits the Chancellor best.

Come, where's the next Tool?-- Oh! 'tis here in a trice-- This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a _Vice_; (A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;) But it since has received a new coating of _Tin_, Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in. Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on, We'll the sooner get rid of it--going--quite gone. God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down, Might at last cost their owner--how much? why, a _Crown_!

The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or Trial as yet and is _also_ a Chancellor-- Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross; Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to _shave close_, And like _other_ close shavers, some courage to gather, This _blade_ first began by a flourish on _leather_.[2] You shall have it for nothing--then, marvel with me At the terrible _tinkering_ work there must be, Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it) Is placed by ill luck at the top of _the Budget_!

[1] An allusion to Lord Eldon's lachrymose tendencies.

[2] Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."--_Ann. Register_.

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

A BALLAD.

_To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid."_

DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT.

_arcades ambo et cantare pares_

1813.

There was a little Man and he had a little Soul,
And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try.
"Whether it's within our reach
"To make up a little Speech,
"Just between little you and little I, I, I,
"Just between little you and little I!"

Then said his little Soul,
Peeping from her little hole,
"I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,
"But, if it's not uncivil,
"Pray tell me what the devil,
"Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,
"Must our little, little speech be about?"

The little Man lookt big,
With the assistance of his wig,
And he called his little Soul to order, order, order,
Till she feared he'd make her jog in
To jail, like Thomas Croggan,
(As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her,
As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.

The little Man then spoke,
"Little Soul, it is no joke,
"For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup,
"I will tell the Prince and People
"What I think of Church and Steeple.
"And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,
"And my little patent plan to prop them up."

Away then, cheek by jowl,
Little Man and little Soul
Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,
And the world all declare
That this priggish little pair
Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little.
Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

_suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites_.
VERGIL.

1813.

As recruits in these times are not easily got And the Marshal _must_ have them--pray, why should we not, As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him, Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him? There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear, Any men we could half so conveniently spare; And tho' they've been helping the French for years past, We may thus make them useful to England at last. Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces, Being used to the _taking_ and _keeping_ of _places_; And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining, Might show off his talent for sly _under-mining_. Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride, Old Headfort at _horn-works_ again might be tried, And as Chief Justice make a _bold charge_ at his side: While Vansittart could victual the troops _upon tick_, And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf: Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass, Yet who could resist, if he bore down _en masse_? And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove, Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1] Yet there's _one_ thing in war of advantage unbounded, Which is, that he could not with ease be _surrounded_.

In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment: At present no more, but--good luck to the shipment!

[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

_odi profanum, valgus et arceo;
favete linguis: carmina non prius
audila Musarum sacerdos
virginibus puerisque canto.
regum timendorum in proprios greges,
reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis_.

1813.

I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;
To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,
Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,
And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses.
Oh! it _is_ not high rank that can make the heart merry,
Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:
Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,
Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT.

_persico odi, puer, adparatus;
displicent nexae philyra coronae;_
mitte sectari, _Rosa_ quo locorum
sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries. Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries-- Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late-- But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait, Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

* * * * *

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,
While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,
While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child
With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do; For while _they_'re in the Council and _you_ in the Field. We've the _babies_ in _them_, and the _thunder_ in _you_!

The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this volume.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

_effare causam nominis,
utrumne mores hoc tui
nomen dedere, an nomen hoc
secuta morum regula_. AUSONIUS.

1816.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson _Low_,
(By name, and ah! by nature so)
As thou art fond of persecutions,
Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated,
How Captain Gulliver was treated,
When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down--these little men did-- And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!--upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches: And how some _very_ little things, That past for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches,

Alas, alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!-- Tho' different too these persecutions; For Gulliver, _there_, took the nap, While, _here_, the _Nap_, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks
You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;
When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks,
And enjoyed the endearing _advances_ I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free,
To do all that a dashing young couple should do,
A law against _paying_ was laid upon me,
But none against _owing_, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?--that "hour (as Othello
So happily calls it) of Love and _Direction_?"
And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,
Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be;
This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing:
We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee
There must soon be a stop to our _bill_ing and cooing.

Propagation in reason--a small child or two--
Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to;
The issue of some folks is moderate and few--
But _ours_, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So--hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already
Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence;
And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1]
So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense--

The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus,
When--high as we once used to carry our capers--
Those soft _billet-doux_ we're now passing between us,
Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

And when--if we _still_ must continue our love,
(After all that has past)--our amour, it is clear,
Like that which Miss Danäe managed with Jove,
Must all be transacted in _bullion_, my dear!

_February, 1826_.

[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or _Golden_ Venus.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

_"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres
agna lupos, capreaeque leones."_--HOR.

Said a Sovereign to a Note,
In the pocket of his coat,
Where they met in a neat purse of leather,
"How happens it, I prithee,
"That, tho' I'm wedded _with_ thee,
"Fair Pound, we can never live together?

"Like your sex, fond of _change_
"With Silver you can range,
"And of lots of young sixpences be mother;
"While with _me_--upon my word,
"Not my Lady and my Lord
"Of Westmouth see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied
(Lying crumpled by his side),
"Shame, shame, it is _yourself_ that roam, Sir--
"One cannot look askance,
"But, whip! you're off to France,
"Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

"Your scampering began
"From the moment Parson Van,
"Poor man, made us _one_ in Love's fetter;
"'For better or for worse'
"Is the usual marriage curse,
"But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

"In vain are laws past,
"There's nothing holds you fast,
"Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you--
"At the smallest hint in life,
"You forsake your lawful wife,
"As _other_ Sovereigns did before you.

"I flirt with Silver, true--
"But what can ladies do,
"When disowned by their natural protectors?
"And as to falsehood, stuff!
"I shall soon be _false_ enough,
"When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

The Sovereign, smiling on her,
Now swore upon his honor,
To be henceforth domestic and loyal;
But, within an hour or two,
Why--I sold him to a Jew,
And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

_"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"_
VERGIL.

1826.

How _can_ you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1]
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"--
At once so confounded _domestic_ and _foreign_.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)
Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest
Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
A humor endowed with effects so provoking,
That when the whole House looks unusually grave
You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth--
Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
'Twixt those who have _heir_looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk _now_ of starving!"--as great Athol said[3]--
(And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)
"When some years ago he and others had fed
"Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"