[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.



EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.— Their Menage.—Its Grossness.—Claude Anet.—Reverence with which the spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.—Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.—Impostures of Men of Genius.—Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw Round all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

* * * * *

'Tis worse than weak—'tis wrong, 'tis shame, This mean prostration before Fame; This casting down beneath the car Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, Life's purest, holiest decencies, To be careered o'er as they please. No—give triumphant Genius all For which his loftiest wish can call: If he be worshipt, let it be For attributes, his noblest, first; Not with that base idolatry Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold;—may want that glow Of high romance which bards should know; That holy homage which is felt In treading where the great have dwelt; This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, I fear, I feel, I have it not:— For here at this still hour, to me The charms of this delightful spot, Its calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart would fain forget, This narrow valley and the song Of its small murmuring rivulet, The flitting to and fro of birds, Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden ere the startling words Of man disturbed their orisons, Those little, shadowy paths that wind Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined And lighted only by the breaks The gay wind in the foliage makes, Or vistas here and there that ope Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!— All this, which—could I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise Than the sun's beams can do away The filth of fens o'er which they play— This scene which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest is;— Of Love where self hath only part, As echoing back another's bliss; Of solitude secure and sweet. Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet. Which while it shelters never chills Our sympathies with human woe, But keeps them like sequestered rills Purer and fresher in their flow; Of happy days that share their beams 'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ; Of tranquil nights that give in dreams The moonlight of the morning's joy!— All this my heart could dwell on here, But for those gross mementoes near; Those sullying truths that cross the track Of each sweet thought and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife And vanities of that man's life, Who more than all that e'er have glowed With fancy's flame (and it was his, In fullest warmth and radiance) showed What an impostor Genius is; How with that strong, mimetic art Which forms its life and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, Nor feels itself one throb it wakes; How like a gem its light may smile O'er the dark path by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm the while As crawls at midnight o'er the sod; What gentle words and thoughts may fall From its false lip, what zeal to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all, Lie waste beneath its selfishness; How with the pencil hardly dry From coloring up such scenes of love And beauty as make young hearts sigh And dream and think thro' heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charms, Nor seek nor know a joy above Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast Of their false tongues they want the most; And while with freedom on their lips, Sounding their timbrels, to set free This bright world, laboring in the eclipse Of priestcraft and of slavery,— They may themselves be slaves as low As ever Lord or Patron made To blossom in his smile or grow Like stunted brushwood in his shade. Out on the craft!—I'd rather be One of those hinds that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see The noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all at once that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation!



CORRUPTION,

AND

INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS.

ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.



PREFACE.

The practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of writing very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to me a rather happy invention, as it supplies us with a mode of turning dull poetry to account; and as horses too heavy for the saddle may yet serve well enough to draw lumber, so Poems of this kind make excellent beasts of burden and will bear notes though they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in such cases are so little under the necessity of paying any servile deference to the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic, "quod supra nos nihil ad nos."

In the first of the two following Poems, I have ventured to speak of the Revolution of 1688, in language which has sometimes been employed by Tory writers and which is therefore neither very new nor popular. But however an Englishman might be reproached with ingratitude for depreciating the merits and results of a measure which he is taught to regard as the source of his liberties—however ungrateful it might appear in Alderman Birch to question for a moment the purity of that glorious era to which he is indebted for the seasoning of so many orations—yet an Irishman who has none of these obligations to acknowledge, to whose country the Revolution brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recollects that the book of Molyneux was burned by order of William's Whig Parliament for daring to extend to unfortunate Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was professedly founded—an Irishman may be allowed to criticise freely the measures of that period without exposing himself either to the imputation of ingratitude or to the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish remains of Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for ever than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James had weakened and degraded the national character. The bold notions of popular right which had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the First and his Parliament were gradually supplanted by those slavish doctrines for which Lord Hawkesbury eulogizes the churchmen of that period, and as the Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the Revolution came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages accordingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By rendering unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative,—that unwieldy power which cannot move a step without alarm,—it diminished the only interference of the Crown, which is singly and independently exposed before the people, and whose abuses therefore are obvious to their senses and capabilities. Like the myrtle over a celebrated statue in Minerva's temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from the public eye the only obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, however, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute, it amply compensated by the substitution of a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it is more secret in its operations. In the disposal of an immense revenue and the extensive patronage annexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the Crown were laid; the innovation of a standing army at once increased and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act of Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually removed during the Whiggish reigns that succeeded; till at length this spirit of influence has become the vital principle of the state,—an agency, subtle and unseen, which pervades every part of the Constitution, lurks under all its forms and regulates all its movements, and, like the invisible sylph or grace which presides over the motions of beauty,

"illam, quicquid agit, quoquo westigia flectit, componit furlim subsequiturque."

The cause of Liberty and the Revolution are so habitually associated in the minds of Englishmen that probably in objecting to the latter I may be thought hostile or indifferent to the former. But assuredly nothing could be more unjust than such a suspicion. The very object indeed which my humble animadversions would attain is that in the crisis to which I think England is now hastening, and between which and foreign subjugation she may soon be compelled to choose, the errors and omissions of 1688 should be remedied; and, as it was then her fate to experience a Revolution without Reform, so she may now endeavor to accomplish a Reform without Revolution.

In speaking of the parties which have so long agitated England, it will be observed that I lean as little to the Whigs as to their adversaries. Both factions have been equally cruel to Ireland and perhaps equally insincere in their efforts for the liberties of England. There is one name indeed connected with Whiggism, of which I can never think but with veneration and tenderness. As justly, however, might the light of the sun be claimed by any particular nation as the sanction of that name be monopolized by any party whatsoever. Mr. Fox belonged to mankind and they have lost in him their ablest friend.

With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, which I have subjoined, they are but the imperfect beginning of a long series of Essays with which I here menace my readers upon the same important subject. I shall look to no higher merit in the task than that of giving a new form to claims and remonstrances which have often been much more eloquently urged and which would long ere now have produced their effect, but that the minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light is shed upon them.



CORRUPTION,

AN EPISTLE.

Boast on, my friend—tho' stript of all beside, Thy struggling nation still retains her pride: That pride which once in genuine glory woke When Marlborough fought and brilliant St. John spoke; That pride which still, by time and shame unstung, Outlives even Whitelocke's sword and Hawkesbury's tongue! Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle[1] Where Honor mourns and Freedom fears to smile, Where the bright light of England's fame is known But by the shadow o'er our fortunes thrown; Where, doomed ourselves to naught but wrongs and slights,[2] We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights, As wretched slaves that under hatches lie Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky! Boast on, while wandering thro' my native haunts, I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts; And feel, tho' close our wedded countries twine, More sorrow for my own than pride from thine.

Yet pause a moment—and if truths severe Can find an inlet to that courtly ear, Which hears no news but Ward's gazetted lies, And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,— If aught can please thee but the good old saws Of "Church and State," and "William's matchless laws," And "Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"— Things which tho' now a century out of date Still serve to ballast with convenient words, A few crank arguments for speeching lords,— Turn while I tell how England's freedom found, Where most she lookt for life, her deadliest wound; How brave she struggled while her foe was seen, How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen; How strong o'er James and Popery she prevailed, How weakly fell when Whigs and gold assailed.

While kings were poor and all those schemes unknown Which drain the people to enrich the throne; Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied, Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep, Frankly avowed his bold enslaving plan And claimed a right from God to trample man! But Luther's schism had too much roused mankind For Hampden's truths to linger long behind; Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low, Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.[3] That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow To the light talisman of influence now), Too gross, too visible to work the spell Which modern power performs, in fragments fell: In fragments lay, till, patched and painted o'er With fleurs-de-lis, it shone and scourged once more.

'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaft Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught Of passive, prone obedience—then took flight All sense of man's true dignity and right; And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain That Freedom's watch-voice called almost in vain. Oh England! England! what a chance was thine, When the last tyrant of that ill-starred line Fled from his sullied crown and left thee free To found thy own eternal liberty! How nobly high in that propitious hour Might patriot hands have raised the triple tower[4] Of British freedom on a rock divine Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine! But no—the luminous, the lofty plan, Like mighty Babel, seemed too bold for man; The curse of jarring tongues again was given To thwart a work which raised men nearer heaven. While Tories marred what Whigs had scarce begun, While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done. The hour was lost and William with a smile Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinisht pile!

Hence all the ills you suffer,—hence remain Such galling fragments of that feudal chain[5] Whose links, around you by the Norman flung, Tho' loosed and broke so often, still have clung. Hence sly Prerogative like Jove of old Has turned his thunder into showers of gold, Whose silent courtship wins securer joys, Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise. While parliaments, no more those sacred things Which make and rule the destiny of kings. Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown, And each new set of sharpers cog their own. Hence the rich oil that from the Treasury steals Drips smooth o'er all the Constitution's wheels, Giving the old machine such pliant play[6] That Court and Commons jog one joltless way, While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car, So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far; And the duped people, hourly doomed to pay The sums that bribe their liberties away,[7]— Like a young eagle who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,— See their own feathers pluckt, to wing the dart Which rank corruption destines for their heart! But soft! methinks I hear thee proudly say, "What! shall I listen to the impious lay "That dares with Tory license to profane "The bright bequests of William's glorious reign? "Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires, "Whom Hawkesbury quotes and savory Birch admires, "Be slandered thus? shall honest Steele agree "With virtuous Rose to call us pure and free, "Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair "Of wise state-poets waste their words in air, "And Pye unheeded breathe his prosperous strain, "And Canning take the people's sense in vain?"

The people!—ah! that Freedom's form should stay Where Freedom's spirit long hath past away! That a false smile should play around the dead And flush the features when the soul hath fled![8] When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights, When her foul tyrant sat on Capreae's heights,[9] Amid his ruffian spies and doomed to death Each noble name they blasted with their breath,— Even then, (in mockery of that golden time, When the Republic rose revered, sublime, And her proud sons, diffused from zone to zone, Gave kings to every nation but their own,) Even then the senate and the tribunes stood, Insulting marks, to show how high the flood Of Freedom flowed, in glory's bygone day, And how it ebbed,—for ever ebbed away![10]

Look but around—tho' yet a tyrant's sword Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o'er our board, Tho' blood be better drawn, by modern quacks, With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe; Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power Or a mock senate in Rome's servile hour Insult so much the claims, the rights of man, As doth that fettered mob, that free divan, Of noble tools and honorable knaves, Of pensioned patriots and privileged slaves;— That party-colored mass which naught can warm But rank corruption's heat—whose quickened swarm Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky, Buzz for a period, lay their eggs and die;— That greedy vampire which from Freedom's tomb Comes forth with all the mimicry of bloom Upon its lifeless cheek and sucks and drains A people's blood to feel its putrid veins!

Thou start'st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark— "Is there no light?"—thou ask'st—"no lingering spark "Of ancient fire to warm us? Lives there none, "To act a Marvell's part?"[11]—alas! not one. To place and power all public spirit tends, In place and power all public spirit ends; Like hardy plants that love the air and sky, When out, 'twill thrive—but taken in, 'twill die!

Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung From Sidney's pen or burned on Fox's tongue, Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night, While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light; While debts at home excite their care for those Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes, And loud and upright, till their prize be known, They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own. But bees on flowers alighting cease their hum— So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb. And, tho' most base is he who, 'neath the shade Of Freedom's ensign plies corruption's trade, And makes the sacred flag he dares to show His passport to the market of her foe, Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear, That I enjoy them, tho' by traitors sung, And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue. Nay, when the constitution has expired, I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired To chant old "Habeas Corpus" by its side, And ask in purchased ditties why it died?

See yon smooth lord whom nature's plastic pains Would seem to've fashioned for those Eastern reigns When eunuchs flourisht, and such nerveless things As men rejected were the chosen of kings;—[12] Even he, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst!) Dared to assume the patriot's name at first— Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes; Thus devils when first raised take pleasing shapes. But oh, poor Ireland! if revenge be sweet For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit And withering insult—for the Union thrown Into thy bitter cup when that alone Of slavery's draught was wanting[13]—if for this Revenge be sweet, thou hast that daemon's bliss; For sure 'tis more than hell's revenge to fee That England trusts the men who've ruined thee:— That in these awful days when every hour Creates some new or blasts some ancient power, When proud Napoleon like the enchanted shield Whose light compelled each wondering foe to yield, With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free And dazzles Europe into slavery,— That in this hour when patriot zeal should guide, When Mind should rule and—Fox should not have died, All that devoted England can oppose To enemies made fiends and friends made foes, Is the rank refuse, the despised remains Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains Drove Ireland first to turn with harlot glance Towards other shores and woo the embrace of France;— Those hacked and tainted tools, so foully fit For the grand artisan of mischief, Pitt, So useless ever but in vile employ, So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy— Such are the men that guard thy threatened shore, Oh England! sinking England! boast no more.

[1] England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her dependencies. "The severity of her government [says Macpherson] contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family of the Plantagenet than the arms of France."—See his History, vol. i.

[2] "By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691[says Burke], the ruin of the native Irish, and in a great measure, too, of the first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English interested was settled with as solid a stability as anything in human affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke." Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us for "invaluable blessings," etc.

[3] The drivelling correspondence between James I and his "dog Steenie" (the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such illustration, into what doting, idiotic brains the plan at arbitrary power may enter.

[4] Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British constitution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, "a system more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would certainly not prove permanent;" and, in truth, a review of England's annals would dispose us to agree with the great historian's remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the three estates existed; that the nobles predominated till the policy of Henry VII, and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal system of property; that the power of the Crown became then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the fabric altogether; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration; and that lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded court- influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British constitution has never perhaps existed but in mere theory.

[5] The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the 12th of Charles II, which abolished the tenure of knight's service in capite, and which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty.

[6] "They drove so fast [says Wellwood of the ministers of Charles I.], that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke."—(Memoirs p. 86.)

[7] Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1688 marshalled on the side of the Throne, the bugbear of Popery has not been the least convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants, Charles and James, instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power and moreover connected their designs upon the Church so undisguisedly with their attacks upon the Constitution that they identified in the minds of the people the interests of their religion and their liberties. During those times therefore "No Popery" was the watchword of freedom and served to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prerogative.

[8] "It is a scandal [said Sir Charles Sedley in William's reign] that a government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face."

[9] The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage all the business of the public: the money was then and long after coined by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction.

[10] There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already began "bona libertatis incassum disserere."

[11] Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to the ancient mode, took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, since then, much changed their pay-masters.

[12] According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which recommended these creatures to the service of Eastern princes was the ignominious station they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice alone they derived consideration, and in whose favor they might seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind.

[13] Among the many measures, which, since the Revolution, have contributed to increase the influence of the Throne, and to feed up this "Aaron's serpent" of the constitution to its present healthy and respectable magnitude, there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch and Irish Unions.



INTOLERANCE,

A SATIRE.

"This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.

Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain Her classic fingers with the dust profane Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls Which took such freedom once with royal souls,[1] When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade, And kings were damned as fast as now they're made, No, no—let Duigenan search the papal chair For fragrant treasures long forgotten there; And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks, Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale Which wizard Duigenan's gathered sweets exhale. Enough for me whose heart has learned to scorn Bigots alike in Rome or England born, Who loathe the venom whence-soe'er it springs, From popes or lawyers,[2] pastrycooks or kings,— Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns, As mirth provokes or indignation burns, As Canning Vapors or as France succeeds, As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays So near a precipice, that men the while Look breathless on and shudder while they smile— If in such fearful days thou'lt dare to look To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain, While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen remain— If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, Whose wrongs tho' blazoned o'er the world they be, Placemen alone are privileged not to see— Oh! turn awhile, and tho' the shamrock wreathes My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes Live when the memory of her tyrant foes Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn, Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn. When Castlereagh in sleep still more profound Than his own opiate tongue now deals around, Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day Which even his practised hand can't bribe away.

Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now, To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow Smiles that shine out unconquerably fair Even thro' the blood-marks left by Camden there,—[3] Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod, And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave, That warms the soul of each insulted slave, Who tired with struggling sinks beneath his lot And seems by all but watchful France forgot—[4] Thy heart would burn—yes, even thy Pittite heart Would burn to think that such a blooming part Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms And filled with social souls and vigorous arms, Should be the victim of that canting crew, So smooth, so godly,—yet so devilish too; Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips, Blood on their hands and Scripture on their lips, Tyrants by creed and tortures by text, Make this life hell in honor of the next! Your Redesdales, Percevals,—great, glorious Heaven, If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, When here I swear by my soul's hope of rest, I'd rather have been born ere man was blest With the pure dawn of Revelation's light, Yes,—rather plunge me back in Pagan night, And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,[5] Than be the Christian of a faith like this, Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway And in a convert mourns to lose a prey; Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,— Like Danaee's lover mixing god and gold,[6]— Corrupts both state and church and makes an oath The knave and atheist's passport into both; Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know Nor bliss above nor liberty below, Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear, And lest he 'scape hereafter racks him here! But no—far other faith, far milder beams Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams; His creed is writ on Mercy's page above, By the pure hands of all-atoning Love; He weeps to see abused Religion twine Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine; And he, while round him sects and nations raise To the one God their varying notes of praise, Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be, That serves to swell the general harmony.[7]

Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright, That filled, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light; While free and spacious as that ambient air Which folds our planet in its circling care, The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind. Last of the great, farewell!—yet not the last— Tho' Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past, Ierne still one ray of glory gives And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

[1] The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty, by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants and asserting the will of the people to be the only true fountain of power.

[2] When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the controversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he answered, that "he had been bred a lawyer, and had therefore nothing to do with divinity." It were to be wished that some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as Pope Innocent X.

[3] Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:—"To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded with more favorable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.'"

[4] The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice: just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, "because," as they say, "the devil has white ones."

[5] In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, "upon the Souls of the Pagans," the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher might calculate. Consigning to perdition without much difficulty Plato, Socrates, etc., the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many miracles which he performed. But having balanced a little his claims and finding reason to father all these miracles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon damning him also.

[6] Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus condemns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of a state:—"What purpose [he asks] can it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other."

[7] Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause if they had written in an age less distracted by religious prejudices.



THE SCEPTIC,

A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE.



PREFACE.

The Sceptical Philosophy of the Ancients has been no less misrepresented than the Epicurean. Pyrrho may perhaps have carried it to rather an irrational excess;—but we must not believe with Beattie all the absurdities imputed to this philosopher; and it appears to me that the doctrines of the school, as explained by Sextus Empiricus, are far more suited to the wants and infirmities of human reason as well as more conducive to the mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of those systems of philosophy which preceded the introduction of Christianity. The Sceptics may be said to have held a middle path between the Dogmatists and Academicians; the former of whom boasted that they had attained the truth while the latter denied that any attainable truth existed. The Sceptics however, without either asserting or denying its existence, professed to be modestly and anxiously in search of it; or, as St. Augustine expresses it, in his liberal tract against the Manichaeans, "nemo nostrum dicat jam se invenisse veritatem; sic eam quoeramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur." From this habit of impartial investigation and the necessity which it imposed upon them of studying not only every system of philosophy but every art and science which professed to lay its basis in truth, they necessarily took a wider range of erudition and were far more travelled in the regions of philosophy than those whom conviction or bigotry had domesticated in any particular system. It required all the learning of dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learning; and the Sceptics may be said to resemble in this respect that ancient incendiary who stole from the altar the fire with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage over all the other sects is allowed to them even by Lipsius, whose treatise on the miracles of the Virgo Hallensis will sufficiently save him from all suspicion of scepticism. "labore, ingenio, memoria," he says, "supra omnes pene philosophos fuisse.—quid nonne omnia aliorum secta tenere debuerunt et inquirere, si poterunt refellere? res dicit nonne orationes varias, raras, subtiles inveniri ad tam receptas, claras, certas (ut videbatur) sententias evertendas?" etc.—"Manuduct. ad Philosoph. Stoic." Dissert. 4.

Between the scepticism of the ancients and the moderns the great difference is that the former doubted for the purpose of investigating, as may be exemplified by the third book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, while the latter investigate for the purpose of doubting, as may be seen through most of the philosophical works of Hume. Indeed the Pyrrhonism of latter days is not only more subtle than that of antiquity, but, it must be confessed, more dangerous in its tendency. The happiness of a Christian depends so essentially upon his belief, that it is but natural he should feel alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it should steal by degrees into that region from which he is most interested in excluding it, and poison at last the very spring of his consolation and hope. Still however the abuses of doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from indulging mildly and rationally in its use; and there is nothing surely more consistent with the meek spirit of Christianity than that humble scepticism which professes not to extend its distrust beyond the circle of human pursuits and the pretensions of human knowledge. A follower of this school may be among the readiest to admit the claims of a superintending Intelligence upon his faith and adoration: it is only to the wisdom of this weak world that he refuses or at least delays his assent;—it is only in passing through the shadow of earth that his mind undergoes the eclipse of scepticism. No follower of Pyrrho has ever spoken more strongly against the dogmatists than St. Paul himself, in the First Epistle to the Corinthians; and there are passages in Ecclesiastes and other parts of Scripture, which justify our utmost diffidence in all that human reason originates. Even the Sceptics of antiquity refrained carefully from the mysteries of theology, and in entering the temples of religion laid aside their philosophy at the porch. Sextus Empiricus declares the acquiescence of his sect in the general belief of a divine and foreknowing Power:—In short it appears to me that this rational and well-regulated scepticism is the only daughter of the Schools that can safely be selected as a handmaid for Piety. He who distrusts the light of reason will be the first to follow a more luminous guide; and if with an ardent love for truth he has sought her in vain through the ways of this life, he will but turn with the more hope to that better world where all is simple, true and everlasting: for there is no parallax at the zenith;—it is only near our troubled horizon that objects deceive us into vague and erroneous calculations.



THE SCEPTIC

As the gay tint that decks the vernal rose[1] Not in the flower but in our vision glows; As the ripe flavor of Falernian tides Not in the wine but in our taste resides; So when with heartfelt tribute we declare That Marco's honest and that Susan's fair, 'Tis in our minds and not in Susan's eyes Or Marco's life the worth or beauty lies: For she in flat-nosed China would appear As plain a thing as Lady Anne is here; And one light joke at rich Loretto's dome Would rank good Marco with the damned at Rome.

There's no deformity so vile, so base, That 'tis not somewhere thought a charm, a grace; No foul reproach that may not steal a beam From other suns to bleach it to esteem. Ask who is wise?—you'll find the self-same man A sage in France, a madman in Japan; And here some head beneath a mitre swells, Which there had tingled to a cap and bells: Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be, Unknown to Cook and from Napoleon free, Where Castlereagh would for a patriot pass And mouthing Musgrave scarce be deemed an ass!

"List not to reason (Epicurus cries), "But trust the senses, there conviction lies:"[2]— Alas! they judge not by a purer light, Nor keep their fountains more untinged and bright: Habit so mars them that the Russian swain Will sigh for train-oil while he sips Champagne; And health so rules them, that a fever's heat Would make even Sheridan think water sweet.

Just as the mind the erring sense[3] believes, The erring mind in turn the sense deceives; And cold disgust can find but wrinkles there, Where passion fancies all that's smooth and fair. P * * * *, who sees, upon his pillow laid, A face for which ten thousand pounds were paid, Can tell how quick before a jury flies The spell that mockt the warm seducer's eyes.

Self is the medium thro' which Judgment's ray Can seldom pass without being turned astray. The smith of Ephesus[4] thought Dian's shrine, By which his craft most throve, the most divine; And even the true faith seems not half so true, When linkt with one good living as with two. Had Wolcot first been pensioned by the throne, Kings would have suffered by his praise alone; And Paine perhaps, for something snug per ann., Had laught like Wellesley at all Rights of Man.

But 'tis not only individual minds,— Whole nations too the same delusion blinds. Thus England, hot from Denmark's smoking meads, Turns up her eyes at Gallia's guilty deeds; Thus, self-pleased still, the same dishonoring chain She binds in Ireland she would break in Spain; While praised at distance, but at home forbid, Rebels in Cork are patriots at Madrid.

If Grotius be thy guide, shut, shut the book,— In force alone for Laws of Nations look. Let shipless Danes and whining Yankees dwell On naval rights, with Grotius and Vattel. While Cobbet's pirate code alone appears Sound moral sense to England and Algiers.

Woe to the Sceptic in these party days Who wafts to neither shrine his puffs of praise! For him no pension pours its annual fruits, No fertile sinecure spontaneous shoots; Not his the meed that crowned Don Hookham's rhyme, Nor sees he e'er in dreams of future time Those shadowy forms of sleek reversions rise, So dear to Scotchmen's second-sighted eyes. Yet who that looks to History's damning leaf, Where Whig and Tory, thief opposed to thief, On either side in lofty shame are seen,[5] While Freedom's form lies crucified between— Who, Burdett, who such rival rogues can see, But flies from both to Honesty and thee?

If weary of the world's bewildering maze,[6] Hopeless of finding thro' its weedy ways One flower of truth, the busy crowd we shun, And to the shades of tranquil learning run, How many a doubt pursues! how oft we sigh When histories charm to think that histories lie! That all are grave romances, at the best, And Musgrave's but more clumsy than the rest. By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled, We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild;[7] And Fox himself with party pencil draws Monmouth a hero, "for the good old cause!"

Then rights are wrongs and victories are defeats, As French or English pride the tale repeats; And when they tell Corunna's story o'er, They'll disagree in all but honoring Moore: Nay, future pens to flatter future courts May cite perhaps the Park-guns' gay reports, To prove that England triumphs on the morn Which found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn.

In science too—how many a system, raised Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed With lights of fancy and with forms of pride, Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide! Now Earth usurps the centre of the sky, Now Newton puts the paltry planet by; Now whims revive beneath Descartes's[8] pen, Which now, assailed by Locke's, expire again. And when perhaps in pride of chemic powers, We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours, Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles, And turns at once our alkalis to metals. Or should we roam in metaphysic maze Thro' fair-built theories of former days, Some Drummond from the north, more ably skilled, Like other Goths, to ruin than to build, Tramples triumphant thro' our fanes o'erthrown, Nor leaves one grace, one glory of its own.

Oh! Learning, whatsoe'er thy pomp and boast, Unlettered minds have taught and charmed men most. The rude, unread Columbus was our guide To worlds, which learned Lactantius had denied; And one wild Shakespeare following Nature's lights Is worth whole planets filled with Stagyrites.

See grave Theology, when once she strays From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays; What various heavens,—all fit for bards to sing,— Have churchmen dreamed, from Papias,[9] down to King![10] While hell itself, in India naught but smoke[11] In Spain's a furnace and in France—a joke.

Hail! modest Ignorance, thou goal and prize, Thou last, best knowledge of the simply wise! Hail! humble Doubt, when error's waves are past, How sweet to reach thy sheltered port at last, And there by changing skies nor lured nor awed. Smile at the battling winds that roar abroad. There gentle Charity who knows how frail The bark of Virtue, even in summer's gale, Sits by the nightly fire whose beacon glows For all who wander, whether friends or foes. There Faith retires and keeps her white sail furled, Till called to spread it for a better world; While Patience watching on the weedy shore, And mutely waiting till the storm be o'er, Oft turns to Hope who still directs her eye To some blue spot just breaking in the sky!

Such are the mild, the blest associates given To him who doubts,—and trusts in naught but Heaven!

[1] "The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts of fire or snow are really in them, whether any one perceives them or not, and therefore they may be called real qualities because they really exist in those bodies; but light, heat, whiteness or coldness are no more really in them than sickness or pain is in manna. Take away the sensation of them; let not the eye see light or colors, nor the ears hear sounds; let the palate not taste nor the nose smell, and all colors, tastes, odors and sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and cease."—Locke, book ii. chap 8.

[2] This was the creed also of those modern Epicureans, whom Ninon de l'Enclos collected around her in the Rue des Tournelles, and whose object seems to have been to decry the faculty of reason, as tending only to embarrass our wholesome use of pleasures, without enabling us, in any degree, to avoid their abuse. Madame des Houlieres, the fair pupil of Des Barreaux in the arts of poetry and gallantry, has devoted most of her verses to this laudable purpose, and is even such a determined foe to reason, that, in one of her pastorals, she congratulates her sheep on the want of it.

[3] Socrates and Plato were the grand sources of ancient scepticism. According to Cicero ("de Orator," lib. iii.), they supplied Arcesilas with the doctrines of the Middle Academy; and how closely these resembled the tenets of the Sceptics, may be seen even in Sextus Empiricus (lib. i. cap. 33), who with all his distinctions can scarcely prove any difference. It appears strange that Epicurus should have been a dogmatist; and his natural temper would most probably have led him to the repose of scepticism had not the Stoics by their violent opposition to his doctrines compelled him to be as obstinate as themselves.

[4] Acts, chap. xix. "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made silver shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen."

[5] "Those two thieves," says Ralph," between whom the nation is crucified."—"Use and Abuse of Parliaments."

[6] The agitation of the ship is one of the chief difficulties which impede the discovery of the longitude at sea; and the tumult and hurry of life are equally unfavorable to that calm level of mind which is necessary to an inquirer after truth.

[7] He defends Stafford's conduct as "innocent and even laudable." In the same spirit, speaking of the arbitary sentences of the Star Chamber, he says,—"The severity of the Star Chamber, which was generally ascribed to Laud's passionate disposition, was perhaps in itself somewhat blamable."

[8] Descartes, who is considered as the parent of modern scepticism, says, that there is nothing in the whole range of philosophy which does not admit of two opposite opinions, and which is not involved in doubt and uncertainty. Gassendi is likewise to be added to the list of modern Sceptics, and Wedderkopff, has denounced Erasmus also as a follower of Pyrrho, for his opinions upon the Trinity, and some other subjects. To these if we add the names of Bayle, Malebranche, Dryden, Locke, etc., I think there is no one who need be ashamed of insulting in such company.

[9] Papias lived about the time of the apostles, and is supposed to have given birth to the heresy of the Chiliastae, whose heaven was by no means of a spiritual nature, but rather an anticipation of the Prophet of Hera's elysium.

[10] King, in his "Morsels of Criticisms," vol. i., supposes the sun to be the receptacle of blessed spirits.

[11] The Indians call hell "the House of Smoke."



TWOPENNY POST-BAG,

BY

THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.

elapsae manibus secidere tabellae.—OVID.



DEDICATION.

TO

STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ.

MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,—

It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?

If you continue, however, to be as much interested about me and my pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hear that doggerel is not my only occupation; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans of the Temple of Immortality, leaving it of course to the said Swans to determine whether they ever will take the trouble of picking it from the stream.

In the meantime, my dear Woolriche, like an orthodox Lutheran, you must judge of me rather by my faith than my works; and however trifling the tribute which I here offer, never doubt the fidelity with which I am and always shall be

Your sincere and attached friend,

THE AUTHOR.

March 4, 1813.



PREFACE.

The Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, who supposing it might materially assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee,"[1] those venerable Suppressors almost fought with each other for the honor and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination that the discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions of society which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle with.—In consequence they gained but very few victims by their prize, and after lying for a week or two under Mr. Hatchard's counter the Bag with its violated contents was sold for a trifle to a friend of mine.

It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post Epistles turned into easy verse would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select for a commencement. I did not, however, think it prudent to give too many Letters at first and accordingly have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some of those trifles, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought I might manage to remedy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them.

Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out how many living instances might be found of Muses that have suffered very severely in their heads from taking rather too early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!—in the former, your doggerel without either company or shelter must stand shivering in the middle of a bleak page by itself; whereas in the latter it is comfortably backed by advertisements and has sometimes even a Speech of Mr. Stephen's, or something equally warm, for a chauffe-pieds—so that, in general, the very reverse of "laudatur et alget" is its destiny.

Ambition, however, must run some risks and I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me to the Post-Bag for more.

[1] Herrick.



INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC.



LETTER I.

FROM THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES TO THE LADY BARBARA ASHLER.[1]

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shockt I'm afraid, When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made; Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date), No nags ever made such a stir in the state. Lord Eldon first heard—and as instantly prayed he To "God and his King"—that a Popish young Lady (For tho' you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year, It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,) Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom, Two priest-ridden ponies just landed from Rome, And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks That the dome of St. Paul was scarce safe from their kicks.

Off at once to Papa in a flurry he flies— For Papa always does what these statesmen advise On condition that they'll be in turn so polite As in no case whate'er to advise him too right— "Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries, While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)— "'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God! "To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod— "Excuse, Sir, my tears—they're from loyalty's source- "Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sackt by a Horse, "But for us to be ruined by Ponies still worse!" Quick a Council is called—the whole Cabinet sits— The Archbishops declare, frightened out of their wits, That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger, From that awful moment the Church is in danger! As, give them but stabling and shortly no stalls Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.

The Doctor,[2] and he, the devout man of Leather,[3] Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together, Declare that these skittish young abominations Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations— Nay, they verily think they could point out the one Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.

Lord Harrowby hoping that no one imputes To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes, Protests on the word of himself and his cronies That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies, The Court would have started no sort of objection, As Asses were, there, always sure of protection.

"If the Princess will keep them (says Lord Castlereagh), "To make them quite harmless, the only true way "Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives) "To flog them within half an inch of their lives. "If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about, "This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out." Should this be thought cruel his Lordship proposes "The new Veto snaffle[4] to bind down their noses— "A pretty contrivance made out of old chains, "Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains; "Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks "(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!"

This proposal received pretty general applause From the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clause Had a vigor about it, which soon reconciled Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild. So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con., And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone In the fettering line, is to buckle them on. I shall drive to your door in these Vetoes some day, But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry away To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her For just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater.

CHARLOTTE.

[1] This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of some beautiful Ponies to the Princess.

[2] Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.

[3] Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.

[4] The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally and actively agitated.



LETTER II.

FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ.

DEAR SIR— I've just had time to look Into your very learned Book, Wherein—as plain as man can speak. Whose English is half modern Greek— You prove that we can ne'er intrench Our happy isles against the French, Till Royalty in England's made A much more independent trade;— In short until the House of Guelph Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf, And boldly sets up for itself.

All that can well be understood In this said Book is vastly good; And as to what's incomprehensible, I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.

But to your work's immortal credit The Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it (The only Book, himself remarks, Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's). Last levee-morn he lookt it thro', During that awful hour or two Of grave tonsorial preparation, Which to a fond, admiring nation Sends forth, announced by trump and drum, The best-wigged Prince in Christendom.

He thinks with you, the imagination Of partnership in legislation Could only enter in the noddles Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles, Whose heads on firms are running so, They even must have a King and Co., And hence most eloquently show forth On checks and balances and so forth.

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a Far more royal, loyal era; When England's monarch need but say, "Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!" Or, "Hang me up those Papists, Eldon," And 'twill be done—ay, faith, and well done.

With view to which I've his command To beg, Sir, from your travelled hand, (Round which the foreign graces swarm)[1] A Plan of radical Reform; Compiled and chosen as best you can, In Turkey or at Ispahan, And quite upturning, branch and root, Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot.

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write Somewhat more brief than Major Cartwright: Else, tho' the Prince be long in rigging, 'Twould take at least a fortnight's wigging,— Two wigs to every paragraph— Before he well could get thro' half.

You'll send it also speedily— As truth to say 'twixt you and me, His Highness, heated by your work, Already thinks himself Grand Turk! And you'd have laught, had you seen how He scared the Chancellor just now, When (on his Lordship's entering puft) he Slapt his back and called him "Mufti!"

The tailors too have got commands To put directly into hands All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches, With Sashes, Turbans and Paboutches, (While Yarmouth's sketching out a plan Of new Moustaches a l'Ottomane) And all things fitting and expedient To turkify our gracious Regent!

You therefore have no time to waste— So, send your System.— Yours in haste.

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away, I seize a moment just to say There's some parts of the Turkish system So vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em. For instance—in Seraglio matters— Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters, Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!) With tittering, red-cheekt things from school. But here (as in that fairy land, Where Love and Age went hand in hand;[2] Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey, And Grandams were worth any money,) Our Sultan has much riper notions— So, let your list of she-promotions Include those only plump and sage, Who've reached the regulation-age; That is, (as near as one can fix From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.

This rule's for favorites—nothing more— For, as to wives, a Grand Signor, Tho' not decidedly without them, Need never care one curse about them.

[1] "The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language, Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a foreigner."—Edinburgh Review.

[2] The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.—"A score of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles."—And again, "There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely wrinkles."—See "Tales of the East," vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.



LETTER III.

FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.[1]

We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's," Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners; His soups scientific, his fishes quite prime— His pates superb, and his cutlets sublime! In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough, Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force, And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "a He-Cook, of course!— "While you live—(what's there under that cover? pray, look)— "While you live—(I'll just taste it)—ne'er keep a She-Cook. "'Tis a sound Salic Law—(a small bit of that toast)— "Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast; "For Cookery's a secret—(this turtle's uncommon)— "Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!"

The dinner you know was in gay celebration Of my brilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation; A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge For his Speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudge Turtle soup tho' it came to five guineas a bowl, To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul? We were all in high gig—Roman Punch and Tokay Travelled round till our heads travelled just the same way; And we cared not for Juries or Libels—no—damme! nor Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!

More good things were eaten than said—but Tom Tyrrhitt In quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit; And hearing the sturdy Judiciary Chief Say—sated with turtle—"I'll now try the beef"— Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit) "I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!"

And Camden was there, who that morning had gone To fit his new Marquis's coronet on; And the dish set before him—oh! dish well-devised!— Was what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calf's head surprised!" The brains were near Sherry and once had been fine, But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine, That tho' we from courtesy still chose to call These brains very fine they were no brains at all.

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one In a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con.;" At which Headfort with warm reminiscences gloated, And Ellenb'rough chuckled to hear himself quoted.

Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new, For we drank—and you'll own 'twas benevolent too— To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons or peers, Whom we've any time honored by courting their dears: This museum of wittols was comical rather; Old Headfort gave Massey, and I gave your father. In short, not a soul till this morning would budge— We were all fun and frolic, and even the Judge Laid aside for the time his juridical fashion, And thro' the whole night wasn't once in a passion!

I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing, And Mac[2] has a sly dose of jalap preparing For poor Tommy Tyrrhitt at breakfast to quaff— As I feel I want something to give me a laugh, And there's nothing so good as old Tommy kept close To his Cornwall accounts after taking a dose.

[1] This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the Marquis of Headfort.

[2] Colonel M'Mahon.



LETTER IV.

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.

Last week, dear Nichol, making merry At dinner with our Secretary, When all were drunk or pretty near (The time for doing business here), Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom! "These Papist dogs—hiccup—'od rot 'em!— "Deserve to be bespattered—hiccup— "With all the dirt even you can pick up. "But, as the Prince (here's to him—fill— "Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still "To humbug them with kind professions, "And as you deal in strong expressions— "Rogue"—"traitor"—hiccup—and all that— "You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!— "You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat."—

Yes—"muzzled" was the word Sir John— These fools have clapt a muzzle on The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er With slaver of the times of yore![1]— Was it for this that back I went As far as Lateran and Trent, To prove that they who damned us then Ought now in turn be damned again? The silent victim still to sit Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit, To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on, Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon! Oh! 'tis too much—who now will be The Nightman of No-Popery? What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop Such learned filth will ever fish up? If there among our ranks be one To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John; Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon. Like me too art a Lawyer Civil That wishes Papists at the devil.

To whom then but to thee, my friend, Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send? Take it—'tis thine—his learned Port-folio, With all its theologic olio Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman— Of Doctrines now believed by no man— Of Councils held for men's salvation, Yet always ending in damnation— (Which shows that since the world's creation Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming, Have always had a taste for damning,) And many more such pious scraps, To prove (what we've long proved, perhaps,) That mad as Christians used to be About the Thirteenth Century, There still are Christians to be had In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!

Farewell—I send with this, dear Nichol, A rod or two I've had in pickle Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.— The rest shall go by Monday's packet.

P. D.

Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following "Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."

We're told the ancient Roman nation Made use of spittle in lustration; (Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"[3]— i. e. you need not read but see 'em;) Now Irish Papists—fact surprising— Make use of spittle in baptizing; Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans, Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans. This fact's enough; let no one tell us To free such sad, salivous fellows.— No, no—the man, baptized with spittle, Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!

[1] In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the "muzzle" has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.

[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him for once correct.



LETTER V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY—-.

My dear Lady—-! I've been just sending out About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout— (By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?—this moment got mine— The "Mail-Coach Edition"—prodigiously fine!) But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather I'm ever to bring my five hundred together; As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat, One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.

(Apropos—you'd have thought to see Townsend last night, Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite, The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright; Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts, Supervisor of thieves and chief-usher of ghosts!)

But, my dear Lady——, can't you hit on some notion, At least for one night to set London in motion?— As to having the Regent, that show is gone by— Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I) The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways, Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways; Which—considering, you know, dear, the size of the two— Makes a block that one's company cannot get thro'; And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small, Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.— (Apropos, tho', of love-work—you've heard it, I hope, That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,— "What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout, 'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out. Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived? No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived? No Russian whose dissonant consonant name Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

I remember the time three or four winters back, When—provided their wigs were but decently black— A few Patriot monsters from Spain were a sight That would people one's house for one, night after night. But—whether the Ministers pawed them too much— (And you—know how they spoil whatsoever they touch) Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town) Has by dint of bad poetry written them down. One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage; And the only stray Patriot seen for an age Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!) As old Mrs. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool's.

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off: So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor— If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better. And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

Au revoir, my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste— Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the by, have you found any friend that can conster That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?[1] If we can't get a Russian, and that think in Latin Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.

[1] Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a lusus Naturae in the Newspapers lately.



LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!) Dost daily bend thy loyal brow Before our King—our Asia's treasure! Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!— And bearest as many kicks and bruises As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses; Thy head still near the bowstring's borders. And but left on till further orders— Thro' London streets with turban fair, And caftan floating to the air, I saunter on, the admiration Of this short-coated population— This sewed-up race—this buttoned nation— Who while they boast their laws so free Leave not one limb at liberty, But live with all their lordly speeches The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.

Yet tho' they thus their knee-pans fetter (They're Christians and they know no better) In some things they're a thinking nation; And on Religious Toleration. I own I like their notions quite, They are so Persian and so right! You know our Sunnites,[2] hateful dogs! Whom every pious Shiite flogs Or longs to flog—'tis true, they pray To God, but in an ill-bred way; With neither arms nor legs nor faces Stuck in their right, canonic places.[3] 'Tis true, they worship Ali's name— Their heaven and ours are just the same— (A Persian's Heaven is easily made, 'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.) Yet tho' we've tried for centuries back— We can't persuade this stubborn pack, By bastinadoes, screws or nippers, To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.[4] Then, only think, the libertines! They wash their toes—they comb their chins, With many more such deadly sins; And what's the worst, (tho' last I rank it) Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

Yet spite of tenets so flagitious, (Which must at bottom be seditious; Since no man living would refuse Green slippers but from treasonous views; Nor wash his toes but with intent To overturn the government,)— Such is our mild and tolerant way, We only curse them twice a day (According to a Form that's set), And, far from torturing, only let All orthodox believers beat 'em, And twitch their beards where'er they meet 'em.

As to the rest, they're free to do Whate'er their fancy prompts them to, Provided they make nothing of it Towards rank or honor, power or profit; Which things we naturally expect, Belong to US, the Establisht sect, Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!) The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket. The same mild views of Toleration Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation, Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, And only Sunnites with a brogue) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I enclose Is for my love, my Syrian Rose— Take it when night begins to fall, And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,— That hour the happiest and the last? Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn To summer bees at break of morn, Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell, To Camels' ears the tinkling bell, As is the soothing memory Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart? Oh! why not rather, heart to heart, United live and die— Like those sweet birds, that fly together, With feather always touching feather, Linkt by a hook and eye![5]

[1] I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to assist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.—See the second of these letters.—How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

[2] Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breasts, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc.—Forster's Voyage.

[4] "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination."—Mariti.

[5] This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson:—"A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together."



LETTER VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.—look it thro'— Very sorry—but can't undertake—'twouldn't do. Clever work, Sir!—would get up prodigiously well— Its only defect is—it never would sell. And tho' Statesmen may glory in being unbought, In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.

Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read— Tho' the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled, Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead, Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it) Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!

However, Sir—if you're for trying again, And at somewhat that's vendible—we are your men.

Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately, The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly— No job, Sir, more easy—your Country once planned, A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell— And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well. Or—supposing you've nothing original in you— Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you, You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2] (Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.) Or—in case nothing else in this world you can do— The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not review!

Should you feel any touch of poetical glow, We've a Scheme to suggest—Mr. Scott, you must know, (Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row.[3]) Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town; And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay) Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way. Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him) To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to meet him; Who by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches— May do a few Villas before Scott approaches. Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey. Such, Sir, is our plan—if you're up to the freak, 'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week. At present, no more—in reply to this Letter, A line will oblige very much Yours, et cetera.

Temple of the Muses.

[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.

[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

[3] Paternoster Row.



LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO —— SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.

Come to our Fete and bring with thee Thy newest, best embroidery. Come to our Fete and show again That pea-green coat, thou pink of men, Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it; When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"— When Cits came wondering from the East And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week For looking pale,) with paly cheek; Tho' more we love thy roseate days, When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze Full o'er thy face and amply spread, Tips even thy whisker-tops with red— Like the last tints of dying Day That o'er some darkling grove delay.

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander, (That lace, like Harry Alexander, Too precious to be washt,) thy rings, Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things! Put all thy wardrobe's glories on, And yield in frogs and fringe to none But the great Regent's self alone; Who—by particular desire— For that night only, means to hire A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1] Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents! Born for each other's fond allegiance! Both gay Lotharios—both good dressers— Of serious Farce both learned Professors— Both circled round, for use or show, With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2]

Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore! It takes to chalk a ball-room floor— Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day! It takes to dance that chalk away.[3] The Ball-room opens—far and nigh Comets and suns beneath us lie; O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk, And the floor seems one sky of chalk! But soon shall fade that bright deceit, When many a maid, with busy feet That sparkle in the lustre's ray, O'er the white path shall bound and play Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:— With every step a star hath fled, And suns grow dim beneath their tread, So passeth life—(thus Scott would write, And spinsters read him with delight,)— Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on, Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!— I meant to say, thou'lt see that night What falsehood rankles in their hearts, Who say the Prince neglects the arts— Neglects the arts?—no, Strahlweg,[4] no; Thy Cupids answer "'tis not so;" And every floor that night shall tell How quick thou daubest and how well. Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion, Thou'rt best beneath a French cotillion; And still comest off, whate'er thy faults, With flying colors in a Waltz. Nor needest thou mourn the transient date To thy best works assigned by fate. While some chef-d'oeuvres live to weary one, Thine boast a short life and a merry one; Their hour of glory past and gone With "Molly put the kettle on!"[5]

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf Of paper left—so must be brief. This festive Fete, in fact, will be The former Fete's facsimile;[6] The same long Masquerade of Rooms, All trickt up in such odd costumes, (These, Porter,[7] are thy glorious works!) You'd swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks, Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice, Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace; And each to make the olio pleasant Had sent a State-Room as a present. The same fauteuils and girondoles— The same gold Asses,[8]pretty souls! That in this rich and classic dome Appear so perfectly at home. The same bright river 'mong the dishes, But not—ah! not the same dear fishes— Late hours and claret killed the old ones— So 'stead of silver and of gold ones, (It being rather hard to raise Fish of that specie now-a-days) Some sprats have been by Yarmouth's wish, Promoted into Silver Fish, And Gudgeons (so Vansittart told The Regent) are as good as Gold!

So, prithee, come—our Fete will be But half a Fete if wanting thee.

[1] An amateur actor of much risible renown.

[2] The crest of Mr. Coates, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, etc. covered wit this ornament.

[3] To those who neither go to balls nor read The Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ballrooms, in general, are chalked for safety and for ornament with various fanciful devices.

[4] A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

[5] The name of a popular country-dance.

[6] "Carleton House will exhibit a complete facsimile in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fete. The same splendid draperies," etc.—Morning Post.

[7] Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carletone House.

[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.

* * * * *

APPENDIX.



LETTER IV. PAGE 584.

Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. Duigenan's Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others of Germany,) who at an early age disguised herself in male attire and followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens where she studied with such effect that upon her arrival at Rome she was thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.

She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens—when, as she says,

—"by Ilissus' stream "We whispering walkt along, and learned to speak "The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek; "Ah! then how little did we think or hope, "Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope![1] "That I, the humble Joan, whose housewife art "Seemed just enough to keep thy house and heart, "(And those, alas! at sixes and at sevens,) "Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!"

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them—that she

"Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum, "And let a little Pope pop out before 'em— "Pope Innocent! alas, the only one "That name could e'er be justly fixt upon."

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell forever:—

"But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over— "Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover! "I made thee Cardinal—thou madest me—ah! "Thou madest the Papa of the world Mamma!"

I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now, because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (eheu posteri negabitis!) emancipatus FOEMINAE fert vallum!

[1] Spanheim attributes the unanimity with which Joan was elected to that innate and irresistible charm by which her sex, though latent, operated upon the instinct of the Cardinals.



LETTER VII. PAGE 588.

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 Curacoa! 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.