by Thomas Moore
Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order,
Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past;
Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy’s border,
When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast?
Make Wetherel yield to “some sort of Reform”
(As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;)
And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm
About Corporate Rights, so he’ll only wear braces.
Should those he now sports have been long in possession,
And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear,
Advise him at least as a prudent concession
To Intellect’s progress, to buy a new pair.
Oh! who that e’er saw him when vocal he stands,
With a look something midway ‘twixt Filch’s and Lockit’s,
While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands
Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets —
Who that ever has listened thro’ groan and thro’ cough,
To the speeches inspired by this music of pence, —
But must grieve that there’s any thing like falling off
In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?
Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair,
He began first to court — rather late in the season —
Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair
Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;1
That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted
All mongers in both wares to proffer their love;
Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted,
As Wetherel’s rants ever since go to prove;
Who in short would not grieve if a man of his graces
Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past,
The “moderate Reform” of a pair of new braces,
Till, some day, — he’ll all fall to pieces at last.
1 It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this allegorical lady had occupied.
TORY PLEDGES.
I pledge myself thro’ thick and thin,
To labor still with zeal devout
To get the Outs, poor devils, in,
And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.
I pledge myself, tho’ much bereft
Of ways and means of ruling ill,
To make the most of what are left,
And stick to all that’s rotten still.
Tho’ gone the days of place and pelf,
And drones no more take all the honey,
I pledge myself to cram myself
With all I can of public money.
To quarter on that social purse
My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers,
Nor, so we prosper, care a curse
How much ’tis at the expense of others.
I pledge myself, whenever Right
And Might on any point divide,
Not to ask which is black or white.
But take at once the strongest side.
For instance, in all Tithe discussions,
I’m for the Reverend encroachers:-
I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians, —
Am for the Squires, against the Poachers.
Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor
I’ve not the slightest hesitation, —
The People must be starved, to insure
The Land its due remuneration.
I pledge myself to be no more
With Ireland’s wrongs beprosed or shammed, —
I vote her grievances a bore,
So she may suffer and be damned.
Or if she kick, let it console us,
We still have plenty of red coats,
To cram the Church, that general bolus,
Down any given amount of throats.
I dearly love the Frankfort Diet, —
Think newspapers the worst of crimes;
And would, to give some chance of quiet,
Hang all the writers of “The Times;”
Break all their correspondents’ bones,
All authors of “Reply,” “Rejoinder,”
From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones,
To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.
Such are the Pledges I propose;
And tho’ I can’t now offer gold,
There’s many a way of buying those
Who’ve but the taste for being sold.
So here’s, with three times three hurrahs,
A toast of which you’ll not complain, —
“Long life to jobbing; may the days
“Of Peculation shine again!”
ST. JEROME ON EARTH.
FIRST VISIT.
1832.
As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,
Was sitting one day in the shades below,
“I’ve heard much of English bishops,” quoth he,
“And shall now take a trip to earth to see
“How far they agree in their lives and ways
“With our good old bishops of ancient days.”
He had learned — but learned without misgivings —
Their love for good living and eke good livings;
Not knowing (as ne’er having taken degrees)
That good living means claret and fricassees,
While its plural means simply — pluralities.
“From all I hear,” said the innocent man,
“They are quite on the good old primitive plan.
“For wealth and pomp they little can care,
“As they all say ‘No’ to the Episcopal chair;
“And their vestal virtue it well denotes
“That they all, good men, wear petticoats.”
Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,
And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury’s.
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, “What’s your business with his Grace?”
“His Grace!” quoth Jerome — for posed was he,
Not knowing what sort this Grace could be;
Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular,
Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular — 1
In short he rummaged his holy mind
The exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.
At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,
(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)2
And said — surveying, as sly he spoke,
The costly palace from roof to base —
“Well, it isn’t, at least, a saving Grace!”
“Umph!” said the lackey, a man of few words,
“The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords.”
“To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son,
“For in my time at least there was but one;
Unless such many-fold priests as these
“Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!”3
“No time for gab,” quoth the man in lace:
Then slamming the door in St. Jerome’s face
With a curse to the single knockers all
Went to finish his port in the servants’ hall,
And propose a toast (humanely meant
To include even Curates in its extent)
“To all as serves the Establishment.”
1 So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.
2 Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.
3 The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this passage.
ST. JEROME ON EARTH.
SECOND VISIT.
“This much I dare say, that, since lording and
loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles’ times. For they preached and lorded not; and now they lord and preach not…. Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve.” — Latimer, “Sermon of the Plough.”
“Once more,” said Jerome, “I’ll run up and see
How the Church goes on,” — and off set he.
Just then the packet-boat which trades
Betwixt our planet and the shades
Had arrived below with a freight so queer,
“My eyes!” said Jerome, “what have we here?” —
For he saw, when nearer he explored,
They’d a cargo of Bishops’ wigs aboard.
“They are ghosts of wigs,” said Charon, “all,
“Once worn by nobs Episcopal.1
“For folks on earth, who’ve got a store
“Of cast off things they’ll want no more,
“Oft send them down, as gifts, you know,
“To a certain Gentleman here below.
“A sign of the times, I plainly see,”
Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he
Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.
Arrived on earth, quoth he, “No more
“I’ll affect a body as before;
“For I think I’d best, in the company
“Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be,
“And glide unseen from See to See.”
But oh! to tell what scenes he saw, —
It was more than Rabelais’s pen could draw.
For instance, he found Exeter,
Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir, —
For love of God? for sake of King?
For good of people? — no such thing;
But to get for himself, by some new trick,
A shove to a better bishoprick.
He found that pious soul, Van Mildert,
Much with his money-bags bewildered;
Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese,
Because the rogues showed restlessness
At having too little cash to touch,
While he so Christianly bears too much.
He found old Sarum’s wits as gone
As his own beloved text in John, — 2
Text he hath prosed so long upon,
That ’tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven,
His name, he’ll answer, “John, v. 7.”
“But enough of Bishops I’ve had to-day,”
Said the weary Saint,— “I must away.
“Tho’ I own I should like before I go
“To see for once (as I’m askt below
“If really such odd sights exist)
“A regular six-fold Pluralist.”
Just then he heard a general cry —
“There’s Doctor Hodgson galloping by!”
“Ay, that’s the man,” says the Saint, “to follow,”
And off he sets with a loud view-hello,
At Hodgson’s heels, to catch if he can
A glimpse of this singular plural man.
But, — talk of Sir Boyle Roche’s bird!3
To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.
“Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?” —
“He is now at his living at Hillingdon.” —
“No, no, — you’re out, by many a mile,
“He’s away at his Deanery in Carlisle.” —
“Pardon me, sir; but I understand
“He’s gone to his living in Cumberland.” —
“God bless me, no, — he cant be there;
“You must try St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
Thus all in vain the Saint inquired,
From living to living, mockt and tired; —
’Twas Hodgson here, ’twas Hodgson there,
’Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere;
Till fairly beat the Saint gave o’er
And flitted away to the Stygian shore,
To astonish the natives underground
With the comical things he on earth had found.
1 The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.
2 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.
3 It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that “a man could not be in two places at once, unless he was a bird.”
THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.
(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FÊTE.)1
1832.
What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised
‘Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one’s noses!
And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised
To find themselves seated like “Love among roses!”
What a pity we can’t, by precautions like these,
Clear the air of that other still viler infection;
That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,
Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.
Stead of barrels, let’s light up an Auto da Fe
Of a few good combustible Lords of “the Club;”
They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,
And there’s Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.
How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
A volcano of nonsense in active display;
While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout
The hot nothings he’s full of, all night and all day.
And then, for a finish, there’s Cumberland’s Duke, —
Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!
Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)
He’s already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.
1 The Marquis of Hertford’s Fête. — From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.
THE CONSULTATION.1
“When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful. The Critic.
1833.
Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the floor between them.
Dr. Whig. — This wild Irish patient does pester me so. That what to do with him, I’m curst if I know. I’ve promist him anodynes — Dr. Tory. Anodynes! — Stuff. Tie him down — gag him well — he’ll be tranquil enough. That’s my mode of practice. Dr Whig. True, quite in your line, But unluckily not much, till lately, in mine. ’Tis so painful — Dr. Tory. — Pooh, nonsense — ask Ude how he feels, When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, By flinging them in, ‘twixt the bars of the fire, And letting them wriggle on there till they tire. He, too, says “’tis painful”— “quite makes his heart bleed” — But “Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed.” — He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says “No,” And — in short — eels were born to be treated just so.2 ’Tis the same with these Irish, — who’re odder fish still, — Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, Used at some operations to blush to the eyes: — But, in fact, my dear brother, — if I may make bold To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old, — We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude, And, indifferent like him, — so the fish is but stewed, — Must torture live Pats for the general good. [Here patient groans and kicks a little.] Dr. Whig. — But what, if one’s patient’s so devilish perverse, That he won’t be thus tortured? Dr. Tory. Coerce, sir, coerce. You’re a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You cant think how fast you may train your hand in: And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, He’s succeeded by one just as — bad as himself? Dr. Whig(looking flattered). — Why, to tell you the truth, I’ve a small matter here, Which you helped me to make for my patient last year, — [Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat and gag.] And such re
st I’ve enjoyed from his raving since then That I’ve made up my mind he shall wear it again. Dr. Tory (embracing him). Oh, charming!-My dear Doctor Whig, you’re a treasure, Next to torturing, myself, to help you is a pleasure. [Assisting Dr. Whig.] Give me leave — I’ve some practice in these mad machines; There — tighter — the gag in the mouth, by all means. Delightful! — all’s snug — not a squeak need you fear, — You may now put your anodynes off till next year. [Scene closes.]
1 These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.
2 This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it is the only proper mode of preparing eels for the table.
TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON, CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK.
AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH.
1833.
Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned,
By critics Episcopal, David the Second,1
If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight,
Only think, in a Rectory, how you would write!
Once fairly inspired by the “Tithe-crowned Apollo,”
(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow,
Having gotten, besides the old Nine’s inspiration,
The Tenth of all eatable things in creation.)
There’s nothing in fact that a poet like you,
So be-nined and be-tenthed, couldn’t easily do.
Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian2 they say,
While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay,
Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell
Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell.
Just so round our Overton’s cradle, no doubt,
Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about;
Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation,
Came, shadowing forth his adult destination,
And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves,
Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves.
O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore,
Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o’er
Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on,
Till, by Fancy’s strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan,
Little thought’st thou such fate could a poet befall,