University of Virginia Library

CANTO III. THE AFTER-DINNER.

DEDICATION. L*RD P*T*RSH*M.

“Both Houses up. A brilliant night.”—
“Debate, dull, dreamy, wiredrawn, trite.”—
“The Premier made the happiest hits.”—
“The Treasury always has the wits.”—
“The Whigs were never higher mettled.”—
“Trust me, the matter's far from settled;
There's mutiny among the crew.”—
“Sir, pardon me, the wine's with you.
The Whigs will have a bed of roses;”—
“True, if they count the world by noses.”—
“The staunchest votes in desperate cases;”—
“Ay, just as many as get places.”—
“The Earl will doubtless have the garter;”—
“His boroughs are a first-rate barter.”—
“All genuine merit—your rappee.”—
“Sir, many a string round many a knee
Had been much better round the neck.”—
“Rely on't, we'll not quit the deck.”—
“No doubt, alone you'll fight the guns,
When ev'ry rascal from you runs.”—
“The crew will perish with the ship.”—
“Rats never love their tails to dip:
The very first that smells a leak
Gives to the rest a signal-squeak;
No sooner does the light shine through,
Than ev'ry snout cries ‘Sauve qui peut,’
Resolved in their cheese-paring souls
To die in terra firma holes!
No man of sense will ever swop
His conscience till he knows his shop:
The balls may shine, the cash be ready,
He'll wait to see the partners steady,
Not wishing to receive a shock
By sudden deficit of stock,
No matter whether lace or lawn
For which he put his soul in pawn.
Yet, 'tis the deuce for politicians
Wishing to better their conditions;
Accomplished men prepared to sing
Heaven save the rabble, or the King!
To live in awkward times that pose
A genius 'twixt the ayes and noes;
To keep their patriotic sense,
When England wants it! in suspense,
And see their traffic at a stop,
Until they know which is the shop!
If fierce on one side or on t'other,
A moment may your fortunes smother;
And yet the feeble partizan,
Whoever wins, is under ban.
'Tis pleasant to see dext'rous fools
Thus slipping 'twixt the party stools!
For me, whose multitude of sins
Is always friendly to the ins;
Whose eloquence by instinct spouts
Against those criminals the outs—
A patriot, Burdett to the bone,
Resolved to call my soul my own;
A loftier specimen of Brutus,
I hate to live in medio tutus,
Long with a pension to be tried,
And trample on the falling side.
And though (for years in Opposition)
We scorn the language of contrition;
And fifty times would rather beg,
Than to the Premier make a leg;
Yet if he makes the first advances,
Men should not throw away their chances:
And though we'd rather die than sink
To ask the thing in pen and ink;
Yet if he thrusts one into place,
To serve one's country's no disgrace.
'Tis true we now and then abused him,
But those were trifles that amused him;
'Tis understood that ayes and noes
May differ, without being foes.
Perhaps, in some obscure debate,
Some evening when the house sat late,
We dropt, in party's usual way,
Something we quite forgot next day;
Some local jest, some random hit,
Some nonsense that then pass'd for wit.
But hurry, heat of argument;
Not that one likes the word,—repent,
Yet, even in party's fiercest fever,
We always thought him monstrous clever;
Though H---e might growl, and T---rn*y sneer,
The truth was neither here nor there.
Through N*wp---t's squeak, and B*xt*n's prate,
We felt the leader of the State.
The idle world might call it satire,—
The world knew nothing of the matter.
But things in such a way presented
By greatness never are resented;
Mere drops between the cup and lip:
Your wisest men will sometimes trip:
In short, 'tis known, your first-rate minds
Give all offences to the winds.
We own that some would make a noise,—
Boys aping men—men aping boys:
But all true patriots like Jack R---ll.
Though now and then they join'd the bustle;
Yet in their hearts abhorr'd the thing,
And loved, like him, the Church and King!
'Tis true, they bellow'd for Reform,
Yet, seeming hot, were scarcely warm.
Nay, all that knew their feelings best,
Knew that it made their standing jest.
Admit, they sometimes swell'd the crowd,
Their curses were not deep, though loud.
There's Gwennapp ready to make oath,
For office he was never loath;
Nay, since his tumble in the stocks,
He scorn'd the very name of Fox.
There's our great orator who wishes,
May all his bones go feed the fishes!
But, since the faction first harangued,
He wonders they escaped unhang'd.
Their muddled, mongrel, special pleadings,
Their nameless ------ House proceedings,
The nonsense that by dint of votes
They strove to cram down people's throats,
Their Constitutional infractions,
The head and tail of their transactions;
He gives them to the D---l that moved them:
They lie, that say he liked or loved them.
In secret he adored the throne;
He cares not where the secret's known.
“So your Petitioner will pray.”
He farther saith, 'twas clear as day,
Six yards of ministerial silk,
At any time had changed his milk;
A black emollient for his skin,
Grown rusty with the bombasin;
But stuff eternal in and out,
The purest loyalty might rout;
Not that a treasury could buy him—
He wishes that they'd dare to try him,
Although at certain times a title
Might seem to some a fit requital,—
Not that he meant to eat his words,
To be a lord,—or fifty lords.
“The vessel gone?”—“High hopes of P---y,”
“Sure as my grandam to miscarry;”
“He takes five hundred pecks of coals!”
“No doubt he'll liquify the poles;”
“He's ballasted with flying sledges,”
“The saints preserve the Arctic hedges!
“Some gallons of Sir Humphrey's acid,”
“Just half a pint makes ocean placid;”
“A liquid, with a Bramah stopper,
For raising”—“Brushwood upon copper.”
“A set of patent music-boxes
To lure the buffaloes and foxes;
French watches for the Polar frows,
The new steam-acting Perkins' ploughs;
The seeds of all the favourite spices,
The last machines for making ices.—
The cargo quite a thing of tact.”
—“Sir! listen, if you like a fact:
After three months' ice-parading,
After three months' masquerading,
After three months' knocks and bumps
That bring his lugger to her stumps;
After loss of pipes and spoons,
Deficit of pantaloons;
Hairbreadth scapes of white bear paws,
Sentimental loves of squaws;
Just as he espied the channel,
Brought to his last yard of flannel;
All his best cigars burnt out,
Winds all whistling “right about;”
Quarter-day you'll have him back,
With his volume in his pack.
Out the wonder comes at last
Wondering how it came so fast—
All the world, including M*rr*y,
In a philosophic flurry;
All the botanizing belles,
All whom B*n*de provides with smells,
Priest of all the chemic loves,
Lovely in his kidskin gloves;
All the twaddlers of the Alfred,
All the quarter and the half-read;
All the paper-headed members
Shivering over learning's embers;
All Parnassus' wither'd shrubs,
All the sages of the Clubs;
All the doldrum F. R. S.'s,
Deep in duckweed, straws, and cresses;
Worthy measurers of dust—
Worthy of Sir Joseph's bust,
Worthy to complete the ranks
Of the mighty name of B*nk*s,
Deep in nondescript descriptions,
Puzzling as their own Egyptians;
All the wiseacres on filberts,
All the world of D---s G*lb*rts;
All the guilty candle-burners,
F*tt*ns, S*b*nes, D*ws*n T---s;
Lecturers on a gnat's proboscis,
Oracles in mire and mosses;
Hunters up of Autographs—
At whose labours mankind laughs;
Delving through the hideous scribbles
Of forgotten knaves and fribbles.
All thy tribe, L---d Ab*rd*n,
Sense and nonsense stuck between;
Wise in all things dead and rotten,
Useful as a herring shotten;
Solemn beggars, in whose bags
All the gathering is rags.
Learning's resurrection-men,
Wielders of the church-yard pen,
Worthy of the plundered lead—
Worms, that feed but on the dead:
Sweeps, that never lift their eyes
Where the flames of Learning rise;
But beside its altar's foot
Fill their pouches with the soot.
All the crazing, and the crazed,
Hurry all—to be amazed!
Page by page unrolls before ye
Britain's Argonautic glory;
How the grand Discovery Fleet,
Several months sail'd several feet.—
“Sunday, hanging o'er the stove,
Thought the vessel meant to move.
Monday, rather felt the frost;
Tuesday, thump'd, and crost, and tost;
Wednesday, kick'd from post to pillar,
Knock'd the nozzle off the tiller;
Thursday, white bears in the distance,
Kill'd, long shots, severe resistance;
Ate a sailor once or twice—
White bears seldom over nice.
Friday, Mercury at zero,
Every soul on board a hero.
Saturday, all cased in rime,
Scarcely thaw'd at pudding-time;
Every nose of land or able,
Living ices at the table;
Crystallizing in a row,
Fine as Jarrin's Christmas show.
But the keenest was to come:
Muse of History be dumb!
Though the passage lay in sight,
Somewhere to the left or right;
Or behind them, or before them,
Home the scoundrel breezes bore them.
But next summer 'twill be found,
Who will bet ten thousand pound?
But there's something for the blues,
Grieving for their two pound twos.
Not a squaw but has a story,
Not a flea but skips before ye.
You've a list of every needle,
That could soul or body wheedle.
Tare and tret of every quid,
That for dog or duckling bid:
How much brandy in her water,
Warm'd old Sealskin's oily daughter.
Every bill on Monmouth-street,
Paid for leagues of genuine sleet:
Every Admiralty name,
Yet to fill the trump of fame:
All the mighty officemen,
Perch'd on stock, and rock, and fen;
Puzzling all the blubber hordes,
With Lords—alas! no longer Lords.
There (every dog will have his day,)
Bold C*b*n towers through fog and spray;
H*pe boasts a marsh, and gallant M*re
Is monarch of a mile of shore:
Ill-omen'd M*lv*lle has his isle,
Grim as his own paternal pile;
Where the great scion of D*nd*s
May graze his goose, and ride his ass:
Nay, not a messenger or clerk,
But in some mire has made his mark,
And stamp'd by friendship's broadest arrow,
Looms through eternal mists Cape B*rr*w.
“B--- caught at last?”—“Yes, limed for life,
Condemn'd to virtue and a wife.”
“Too happy dog! he now relaxes
His purse-strings but to pay his taxes:
A gentle hermit in his cell,
He pokes the fire, and pulls the bell;
Upon his knee his babies dandles,
Concocts the tea, and snuffs the candles;
Scarce in the mirror gives a glance,
Lets even his ringlets take their chance;
Cares not a farthing if the Craven
Was lost by jockeyship or spavin;
If, at the paying of the stakes,
The doer or the done was R---;
In fact, has turn'd a new H--- B*ll,
A rustic pattern to us all.”
“Sweet M*rc*nd*tti, if such ladies
Could often be invoiced from Cadiz,—
Such raven locks, such sparkling eyes,
Were voted in the home supplies;
Such fairy feet, such taper fingers—
They'd make the fortune of the bringers:
Even I, who dread the name of wife,
Might order—per the good ship, F---.
'Tis pleasant, in this world of fools,
To look on Nature's finer tools,
To see the light of jetty eyes
Take Bond-street heroes by surprise;
Till the white-heat of beauty's fire
Melts down the dandy to the squire.
'Tis pleasant, when, like mother Eve's,
Spring makes her petticoat of leaves,
To see him run the homely round
Of husbands fairly in the pound.
How lightly in thy ear-drums B*ll
The names of R*s and L*n*x fall!
Not caring for the world a button,
You brew your beer, and kill your mutton;
At morn, costumed in fustian breeches,
You watch your architects of ditches;
Receive returns of hens and cocks,
Put corn and duck eggs under locks;
Look sharply to those rogues the grooms,
Embezzlers of your mops and brooms,
Prove that your talent's not mistaken
In matters relative to bacon;
Trim up the pheasant-stealing sinner,
And come exact at five to dinner.
Then take your evening wine and sitting,
Inspector of Senora's knitting;
Or order out your country cab,
Give whip and rein to your Queen Mab;
(And scarcely in a poet's dream,
A prettier hand e'er touch'd her team;)
And take the wisdom of the village
On last year's frost, and next year's tillage.
Hear men, Heaven knows who made their coats!
Discuss the latest price of oats;
And drop your summons with the vicar,
To give his verdict on your liquor.
Until the sunshine's rosy dip,
Faint rival of your lady's lip;
And the breeze across the hill,
Warns you that you're standing still,
And a glance towards your oaks
Shows your curling household smokes,
Shows you that your lamps are lighted,
Shows, if you stop, you'll be benighted.
Too happy fellow, in those glances
You're safe from Fortune's tricksy chances:
Though O*tl*nds to the hammer fall,
You have two diamonds worth it all;
Nay, should your final shilling vanish,
The R---rs vows “you'll have the Spanish.”
Oh clouds! ye wandering wayward things,
Substantial nothings, waveless wings;
Ye thrones of hyacinth and rose,
Where spirits in their flight repose;
Ye pearl and purple vales of bliss,
Ye islands of the blue abyss,
Ye steeds,—whom every laurell'd bard,
Has since the deluge rode so hard;
Making, of your manes and tails,
Similes for maids and males.
Every soul has had a time
When he thought himself sublime,
When he dream'd his hour was come,
When he must no more be dumb;
Mounted in Apollo's boots,
Well supplied with moonlight lutes;
Piled with Venice-hat and feathers,
When he should defy all weathers;
With his music of the spheres,
Taking mankind by the ears.
Dan Apollo! fool-enslaver,
When I had your worship's fever,
(But a sort of schoolboy tertian,
Cured by Newmarket immersion,)
I have stood at set of sun,
Cloud-collecting, one by one;
Wild with all their twistings, turnings,
Softenings, sweetenings, fadings, burnings;
Building in each ruddy stain,
Glorious “Chateaux en Espagne;”
Watching the delicious twilight
Peeping from her Eastern skylight;
Like an Andalusian maid
Listening to a serenade:
Like a vestal freshly sainted,
With her cheek half pale, half painted;
Like a Turkish beauty showing
Through her veil the roses glowing;
Till, 'twas but a softer morn,
Silvery rose the Lunar horn.
Or around her high abode,
Tempest, like an ocean, flowd;
Till the lightning's sulphur-gleam
Flamed on mountain, vale, and stream;
And the vaporous upper world
Roll'd, like armies downward hurl'd,
Titans, by the thunder driven
From the sapphire gates of Heaven;
While the swellings of the gale
Seem'd their trumpet's broken wail.
Then along the mighty blue
Rose like flowerets pale and few,
Over which a storm had gone,
Star and starlet, one by one;
Like the lamps in some high fane,
Struggling through the tempest-stain;
As it vanish'd, richer mustering,
Orb on orb in glory clustering;
Till the temple of the night
Blazed with the immortal light.
Trifles—fancy's long past gleams,—
Boyish, more than boyish dreams;
Things of many a year ago—
Yet what have our years to show,
With their thousand secret stings,
Better than those boyish things?
From our cradles to our shrouds,
What are hopes, joys, loves,—but clouds?