The Age Reviewed A Satire: In two parts: Second edition, revised and corrected [by Robert Montgomery] |
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| I. |
| II. |
 | The Age Reviewed |  |
Big with “M. P.” behold the mushroom race
Thrust in by bribes to fill a barter'd place;
To drizzle speeches, and like pug-dogs perk,
In halls once hallow'd by the lips of Burke.
Look at the gang!—hear W--- roll his tones,
Like a starv'd donkey, when he pours his moans;
A busy, babbling, pertinacious cit,
Mistaking slang for oratoric wit.
Then see spruce E--- of the melting mould,
Or Master Wilks, somewhat too fond of gold;
(The last might load the Speaker's honoured chair,
And face the members, as he faced the Mayor.)
Or letter'd G---, elected by the sheep,
Or B---, in lottery puffs so skill'd and deep!
When such a herd pollutes St. Stephen's fane,
What patriot mourns not for his country's stain?
Oh! might one hiss the motley forum fill,
And drive each dunce to his deserted till.
At Palace Yard, since base-mouth'd hucksters rant,
The lowest ding their Demosthenic cant;
What precious politics our tap-rooms hear!
Where brains unloaded rattle through the ear,
And lying journals and their scurvy news
Are gleaned and garbelled for some trite abuse.
Here snip and cobbler, and the pot-house wit,
O'er ale delirious, like a Senate sit;
While still and crafty lolls the dog-eyed Jew,
Or plucks his beard, to prove his verdict true;
Here, cat-gut lords, oblivious of their tunes,
Slake their dry thirst, and drivel street-lampoons;
Though shrivell'd, slav'ring, bald, one-legged, and blind,
In State affairs, can Orpheus be behind?
Ah, no!—he paws and wags his greasy pate,
And swears there's “something rotten in the state!”
Next comes the traveller, with redeeming eye,
And squaring elbow, most sedately dry;
Who, stuff'd with politics, the cup foregoes,
And deals forth reason as he dealt out hose!
Then, last not least, spread out upon his chair,
With copper visage and with brazen stare,
Behold the cit! quite fat, and full, and staunch,
Round as a barrel from his neck to paunch;
Stretched at his length, he empts his ancient pipe,
Smacks his red lips, and gives his mouth a wipe;
Straddles his legs into a compass firm,
Spits on the floor—and now begins the storm!
Our cabinet's a lazy bunch of fools,
Of turncoats, placemen, pensioners, and tools:
Were he permitted to direct the state—
But—pooh!—the country never can be great!
Look at the revenue!—and the corn-bill—stuff!
How can men live, unless they've bread enough?
And so, by printed,
or by spoken lies,
Behold the Spirit of rebellion rise;
Yes! every blockhead born to clean the mews,
To patch our breeches, or to mend our shoes,
Cocks his pert eye, uplifts his pompous brow,
And dubs himself a politician now.
Avaunt, ye minions! whose rebellious cries,
Would banish all a British heart should prize;—
Ye ignominious hacks, with hearts untrue,
For Freedom's spirit never hallowed you!
Great Heaven! is Freedom's voice a vicious slang,
Roared, mouthed, or written, for the vulgar gang?
Is He a Patriot, who would hack, confound,
And sap our Constitution to the ground?—
That splendid pile of patriotic mind,
The great, eternal wonder of mankind!—
Oh! 'tis a hideous sight, for eye to see
Each babbling hound, and grub of low degree,
Vomit their curses on our ancient laws,
Unrip their substance, and create their flaws.
Or rear for government the fool's amend,
And hurl our statutes where their triumphs end!
Or pour anathemas on rich and great,
Beggar the clergy, and denounce the state:—
While such base hellhounds bark against the crown,
And rant and roar for interest or renown;
Who feels no scorn within his bosom glow,
For Freedom's rebel, and for Virtue's foe?
I love thee, England! and thine azure hills,
Thy beauteous valleys, and thy mountain-rills;
I love the clime whose gallant sons are free,
And think Creation's glory crowned in thee!
But while ignoble democrats combine,
May every patriot's soul-breathed prayer be mine;—
God keep the demagogue from Church and State,
And bury Treason in exhausted hate!
Swelling with prophecy and sage surmise,
Behold our bouncing, bellowing, patriots rise;
Such warring clamours heat their rapid tongues,
These puppets risk the welfare of their lungs!
Like Vulcan's iron, mounts the clenching hand,—
Its fall portends the thraldom of the land!
One cries, with stick held out, like Aaron's rod,
“The people's murmur is the voice of God!”
Thrust in by bribes to fill a barter'd place;
To drizzle speeches, and like pug-dogs perk,
In halls once hallow'd by the lips of Burke.
91
Like a starv'd donkey, when he pours his moans;
A busy, babbling, pertinacious cit,
Mistaking slang for oratoric wit.
Then see spruce E--- of the melting mould,
Or Master Wilks, somewhat too fond of gold;
(The last might load the Speaker's honoured chair,
And face the members, as he faced the Mayor.)
Or letter'd G---, elected by the sheep,
Or B---, in lottery puffs so skill'd and deep!
When such a herd pollutes St. Stephen's fane,
What patriot mourns not for his country's stain?
Oh! might one hiss the motley forum fill,
And drive each dunce to his deserted till.
92
The lowest ding their Demosthenic cant;
What precious politics our tap-rooms hear!
Where brains unloaded rattle through the ear,
And lying journals and their scurvy news
Are gleaned and garbelled for some trite abuse.
Here snip and cobbler, and the pot-house wit,
O'er ale delirious, like a Senate sit;
While still and crafty lolls the dog-eyed Jew,
Or plucks his beard, to prove his verdict true;
Here, cat-gut lords, oblivious of their tunes,
Slake their dry thirst, and drivel street-lampoons;
Though shrivell'd, slav'ring, bald, one-legged, and blind,
In State affairs, can Orpheus be behind?
Ah, no!—he paws and wags his greasy pate,
And swears there's “something rotten in the state!”
93
And squaring elbow, most sedately dry;
Who, stuff'd with politics, the cup foregoes,
And deals forth reason as he dealt out hose!
Then, last not least, spread out upon his chair,
With copper visage and with brazen stare,
Behold the cit! quite fat, and full, and staunch,
Round as a barrel from his neck to paunch;
Stretched at his length, he empts his ancient pipe,
Smacks his red lips, and gives his mouth a wipe;
Straddles his legs into a compass firm,
Spits on the floor—and now begins the storm!
Our cabinet's a lazy bunch of fools,
Of turncoats, placemen, pensioners, and tools:
Were he permitted to direct the state—
But—pooh!—the country never can be great!
Look at the revenue!—and the corn-bill—stuff!
How can men live, unless they've bread enough?
94
Behold the Spirit of rebellion rise;
Yes! every blockhead born to clean the mews,
To patch our breeches, or to mend our shoes,
Cocks his pert eye, uplifts his pompous brow,
And dubs himself a politician now.
95
Would banish all a British heart should prize;—
Ye ignominious hacks, with hearts untrue,
For Freedom's spirit never hallowed you!
Great Heaven! is Freedom's voice a vicious slang,
Roared, mouthed, or written, for the vulgar gang?
Is He a Patriot, who would hack, confound,
And sap our Constitution to the ground?—
That splendid pile of patriotic mind,
The great, eternal wonder of mankind!—
Oh! 'tis a hideous sight, for eye to see
Each babbling hound, and grub of low degree,
Vomit their curses on our ancient laws,
Unrip their substance, and create their flaws.
Or rear for government the fool's amend,
And hurl our statutes where their triumphs end!
Or pour anathemas on rich and great,
96
While such base hellhounds bark against the crown,
And rant and roar for interest or renown;
Who feels no scorn within his bosom glow,
For Freedom's rebel, and for Virtue's foe?
I love thee, England! and thine azure hills,
Thy beauteous valleys, and thy mountain-rills;
I love the clime whose gallant sons are free,
And think Creation's glory crowned in thee!
But while ignoble democrats combine,
May every patriot's soul-breathed prayer be mine;—
God keep the demagogue from Church and State,
And bury Treason in exhausted hate!
Swelling with prophecy and sage surmise,
Behold our bouncing, bellowing, patriots rise;
Such warring clamours heat their rapid tongues,
These puppets risk the welfare of their lungs!
97
Its fall portends the thraldom of the land!
One cries, with stick held out, like Aaron's rod,
“The people's murmur is the voice of God!”
Mr. G--- obtained the votes of the good Chippenham folks, by the timely assistance of multitudinous bags of wool.
Orator Hunt, Cobbett, Carlile, and Co., are those minions who invariably arise from a disordered country; they are the offspring of faction, just as horn-flies teem from manure; —they live on the rotten. How it is possible, that such an apostate, so mean a demagogue as Cobbett, can excite respect in any bosom, seems to me more than paradoxical. What are his tenets? What have been, and what are his actions? He lives on weekly libels—
“Himself a living libel on mankind.”He has talents;—“is the first political writer in this country,”— cries Counsellor Kirnan. But these talents only increase his shame. Domitian, Nero, and a thousand pretty scoundrels of antiquity, were talented; but do we like them the better? Could there be a greater proof of Cobbett's corrupted heart, than his conduct with regard to Paine's bones? Supposing it were true, as these theorists aver, that our religion is a mere humbug, still there is some little respect due to the national religion of the country.
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