An epistle in verse to the Rev. Dr. Randolph English preceptor to H. R. H. the Princess of Wales, occasioned by the publication of the correspondence between the Earl and Countess of Jersey, and the doctor, upon the subject of some letters belonging to H. R. H. the Princess of Wales [by T. J. Mathias] |
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 | An epistle in verse to the Rev. Dr. Randolph |  |
AN EPISTLE IN VERSE TO The Rev. Dr. RANDOLPH, ENGLISH PRECEPTOR TO H. R. H. THE PRINCESS OF WALES.
Few brows are circled with a poet's bays,
To war's rough breathings, or Æolia's lute;
From fam'd Macgregor, whose heroic strain
Confirm'd Sir William in his Chinese reign,
To Him who, in his serious hour of prime,
For Kien built the bold imperial rhyme,
And smil'd, when Pitt disdain'd the palanquin,
The dusky nymph, and love-lorn Mandarin.
And who shall now of barren themes complain,
When Jersey writes, and Randolph will explain?
With Mantua mourns her Virgil, now no more,
And cloven-footed Pan, again in scorn,
To Buonaparte lends his pagan horn,
Still, still, without a faint poetic hope,
I claim one sigh for Randolph from the Pope.
But how shall I your secret springs explore?
How match your prose, no verse e'er match'd before?
At home to fan the chaste connubial fire:
For Venus (trembling should the ocean wave,
Her billowy birth-place, prove her Randolph's grave)
Taught you, though but occasional the tear,
Which Absence drops in many a show'r sincere,
To real danger separation's pang.
The pride of Paphos, envy of the gown,
Whose very shade might fructify the ground,
While streams uxorious murmur all around:
No influence small on Mrs. Randolph's health,
Who yet, though conscious of the best effect,
Her situation scarcely could suspect.
I praise the husband and those virtuous fears,
The less your sense, the more your love appears,
Attend, from Brighton while the Muse I bring,
Safe in the mail, your studious cares to sing,
Let Lockman in the closet pray or doze;
Read you my verse, or Tommy Tyrrwhitt's prose.
And all you know, and all you think, reveal;
Yet ah! beware, and in affection's spite,
Spare Mrs. Randolph's blushes, as you write;
Then turn to Bolton, and his Cross of Gold,
A name the Muses with surprise behold.
The trust you book'd, and wisely left behind;
For Graham would but waste the time in prate;
Or e'en to Doctor Hallifax submit,
He has good-nature, and a little wit;
Or if, fond Sir, a stranger yet at court,
Bid Warren write, and frame a strong report;
The Æsculapian serpent best may grace;
For him no title Pitt or Heard shall forge,
Sir Charles, Sir Luke, Sir Walter, or Sir George.
How lagg'd the months of the long lingering year;
Say—if the Duke of York to Windsor came,
To whom you owe that solace of your life,
And, source of all anxiety, your wife.
By the Dutch mail, or by his reverend friend,
Happy to bless your parting, not perplex,
And e'en some sense of duty to annex.
Say, how your scruples vanish'd; times to come,
A nation's blessings in increased sum,
Brighten'd your soul, and varnish'd high your style,
To antedate the raptures of our isle!
You still on Jersey call'd, like other men,
To regulate your motions by her pen:
Then say, how well all writing may be spar'd,
How nothing can be known, when nothing is declar'd.
That teach fond man to reason and to please,
With grace a simple subject to adorn,
To strike with truth, and tinsel glare to scorn!
Such thoughts my youthful fancy best could move,
When first I wander'd in the studious grove;
Now with experience blest, and riper days,
And sense to weigh the candidates for praise,
And students work, that doctors may repose.
How clear your words! how close your argument!
E'en he may understand the simple tale,
Who runs to book his parcels in the mail.
What journals or what fancy may supply?
What streams you cross'd, the Elbe, or blood-stain'd Rhine,
Or with Prince-bishops if you chose to dine,
Felt o'er your temples the suspended sword
By Gallic threads at Kleber's thund'ring word,
Towns, that a British Muse ne'er learn'd to spell;
(Oh that their very names might Jourdan throttle)
Eisenach, Enrebrehtstein, or Wolfenbottle.
Such tempting themes unwilling I forego,
Nor strive to paint, what I can never know;
And why abroad should idle fancy roam,
When the gay scene is only found at home?
With belles and loungers on the crowded Steine,
And Marlborough fears a nation's wealth to waste,
Where now the Muses Hamilton deplore,
And Graston joys, that Junius is no more.
Where Holland thought to fix a Prince at home,
And friendly Halcyons fain would calm the waves.
I see the Princess bend her graceful hand,
And Darnley smirks, and Chom'ley waves his wand;
There stands the heavy St. Leger apart,
Once highly favour'd with the hand and heart;
Hulse, call'd in vain the treasure to disburse,
And Seymour, dangling with an empty purse;
Stanhope's hard phyz, and Aston's easy air,
With Viscount Villiers by the royal chair;
Whose names the Muse ne'er knew, or heard before.
Who felt the nod, or who the whisper shar'd;
Say next, what converse in the presence pass'd,
When each bon mot was brighter than the last,
Say, for your prose may best adorn my rhyme,
How high they reason'd of fate, chance, and time;
“Of all the branches of the race august,
“How some must sprout, some moulder in the dust;
“And how, alas! in ten revolving years,
“Some grace in royal features disappears.”
Say, how you took the trust—I say no more,
Nor will I sing again, what I have sung before.
With state and farce I sooth my various day,
Nor groan, with Morgan, at the fall of stocks,
But sing the rape of packets, or of locks.
While you, my Randolph, dews Castalian sip,
Or inspiration wait from Jersey's lip;
'Tis your's the Royal Stranger's mind to teach,
To form her accent, and direct her speech,
Yourself the bright example of your art,
How best simplicity may reach the heart;
Lo, Secretary Murray deigns a smile,
And hails his Brother Tully of the isle.
With Langhorne's tales, or plays from Ireland's chest,
Or lullabies of old or modern time;
No prose from Swift to take, from Pope no rhyme,
No fire from Milton, strength from Dryden's strain,
But all, save baby Jerningham, disdain;
E'en Gray shall fall, nor o'er his rustic urn
In pensive mood thy Carolina mourn.
Lo, at your nod shall Clarendon retire,
And Gillies rule o'er all th'historic choir;
Scotch Mirrors, and Scotch Loungers in the rear,
In right of Addison shall charm her ear,
With namby-pamby preachers of the age,
Blair in the pulpit, Greathead on the stage.
Nor Locke, nor Bacon raise the studious head,
And Darwin for Lucretius shall be read;
And Newton's self shall yield, with pious Boyle,
To Hartley's whims, and Priestley's flimsy foil;
Dulness shall re-assume her ancient right,
And pert conceit, and diction's darkest night
That beam'd from light's full orb in Anna's day.
One English lesson to a Brunswick's heart:
“Tell her, that virtue Britain still shall own,
And love shall guard th'hereditary throne;
Before the eye of youth though meteors run,
The star of Venus fades before the sun;
The morn has dews, when shadowy vapours gleam,
Our noon-day claims a stronger steadier beam.
Tell her, for 'tis your office best to know,
Virtue, like her's, is peace, and guilt is woe;
Tell her, there is a voice, nor faint nor dull,
That in the desert cries, and city full,
In high-vic'd courts, and on the sea's lone shore,
“Awake to righteousness, and sin no more;”
That angels still shall guide her spotless breast
In downy dreams to fixt connubial rest,
Returning virtue sign the blest release,
Confirm'd by love and penitential peace.
No more the flame all dim, revers'd the torch,
Shall Hymen his unchanging trophies rear,
And life and joy Favonian gales shall bear.”
Her plume yet fragrant with celestial dews,
Forgive her fears, her serious passing strain,
She ne'er was school'd to murmur or complain.
For Wisdom taught her, e'en from earliest youth,
To feel, with you, this great unalter'd truth;
“That oft a Nation's fondest hope is crost,
“And that—a Packet may be book'd, and lost.”
This word is not used in the sense of Shakspeare's Lear, “I am a very foolish, fond old man; nor as Roger Ascham, Greek Preceptor to Queen Elizabeth, says, “He was beaten out of all love of learning by a fond schoolmaster:”—but it is here used to express Dr. Randolph's unremitting conjugal tenderness, which pants and bleats in almost every line of his affectionate writings.
See, lately published, “The Imperial Epistle from Kien Long, Emperor of China, to George the Third, K. of G. B. transmitted from the Emperor in 1794, by the Ambassador, the Right Hon. George Earl Macartney, and translated into English Verse, from the original Chinese.” I allude to the visionary view (drawn by the Emperor in his highest colouring) of the Right Hon. William Pitt's triumphal entry into the court of Pekin; which description had no charms to allure Mr. Pitt from his situation in England. Mr. Pitt even resisted a private letter, in the Emperor's own hand-writing, in Chinese, inviting him to accept the office of Supreme Choulab, a sort of Vice-Emperor over, as I am told, near three hundred million of subjects, in that vast empire. But I know not how it is, this little island, with all its embarrassments, has still some charms for a Prime Minister. Justum et tenacem propositi virum—we all know the rest.
If the Reader should be inclined to blame this and the three following lines, as not quite intelligible, (which however I shall take very unkind, as they were written merely for his amusement) I must shelter myself under the Doctor's own prose, the sense of which, as far as I could collect it myself, I have given most faithfully. I do not however mean to dissemble, that when an author, like Dr. Randolph, verges upon sublimity, if he does not take particular care, he is often in very great danger of talking nonsense. Dr. Randolph having put off his foreign journey, which I, as a Poet, suppose to have happened by the instigation of Venus, thus writes to Lady Jersey, (Correspondence, p. 5 and 6.) “On my return to London I found letters, which would fill my departure for Germany with much anxiety. Mrs. Randolph, who in the original plan was to have accompanied me early in the summer, found herself in a situation that rendered void every such intention; and though, when I left her, it was only with the tear of occasional absence, yet I find (though she is silent on the subject) that the imagination has been too busy, and magnified the pang of separation into the misery of real danger.”
Lugete O Veneres Cupidinesque,Et quantum est hominum venustiorum!
“I am happy to say, that my return has had no small influence on Mrs. Randolph's health.” —Correspondence, p. 11.
“I am happy to say, that my return has been productive of the best effects to Mrs. Randolph, who, till lately, did not suspect her situation. —Correspondence, p. 16.
Thomas Tyrrwhitt, Esq. Private Secretary to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales. His style is said to be nervous; but upon his being asked if he thought the Royal Correspondence might ever be published, he acknowledged that the Epistolæ ad Familiares were by no means adapted for public inspection, and that there was not one letter to Atticus in the whole collection.
Mr. Bolton is Master of the Golden Cross Inn, at Charing Cross, and Proprietor of the Brighton mail-coach; at this inn the Rev. Dr. Randolph book'd the parcel in question.
N. B. This note has its pathos, but not in any exquisite degree.
“I attended at the Golden Cross, previous to the departure of the coach; and, having first seen it regularly book'd, deliver'd my parcel, inclosing the Princess's packet, addressed to your Ladyship, at the Pavillion.” —Correspondence, p. 32.
R. Graham, Esq. Attorney General, and J. Anstruther, Esq. Solicitor General to the Prince of Wales. Mr. Anstruther's speech in one of the charges on Mr. Hasting's Trial, consisted of the words state, stated, stating, at every third sentence at the least. The Lords and the audience never heard such a Stater or Statist before.
It is well known among the Lawyers, that if they want to keep the House of Lords sitting till there is a fuller attendance, or till a material witness arrives, they wish for Mr. Graham to chat to them about a turnpike or an inclosure for an hour or two, which he does with the greatest fluency imaginable. N. B. Mr. Christie can say as much on a ribbon as a Raphael.
A very pleasant, easy man, and an excellent Apothecary, made into a Physician by the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose faculties are infinite.—Well, well, the Archbishop may make as many Doctors as he pleases; “Nature and sickness debate it at their leisure.” Dr. Hallifax and Dr. Warren are the Physicians to the Prince of Wales.
“Look like the time; look like the innocent flower,
“But be the serpent under it.”
—Macbeth.
I only quote Shakspeare: I am no commentator; but remembrance will be busy.
The rage or frenzy of Knighthood and Baronetage has invaded and seized the college. Sir Charles Blagden, M. D. and Knight of I—don't know what. He was made so for a German tour, to figure away as a Chevalier, and for no other reason that I can tell: Sir George Baker, M. D. Baronet, for his skill, reputation, and learning: and Sir Walter Farquhar, Physician, Surgeon, Man-midwife, Apothecary, and Baronet.
Momento turbinis exit Marcus Dama: Papæ! Marco spondente recusas Credere tu vitam? &c.
But, “as Sir Walter knows all this, I shall not go on telling him.”
—See the Critic.I must give the whole passage relating to his departure, and all the Doctor's hypothetical reasoning, on which this part of my Epistle is founded; the Doctor's words cannot be sufficiently attended to or admired. “To think of pleasure, which in its pursuit would give a moment's pain to one, whose happiness I am proud to say, is far dearer to me than my own, is a lesson, thank God, I have still to learn, and I throw myself upon your Ladyship's goodness for a proper explanation. One thing I would however premise, that if any consequence should attach to the delivery of her R. H.'s letters, or in case the Duke of York, whom I hope to meet at Windsor to day, should have any thing of importance to intrust me with, gratitude and esteem, (for even the object of my anxiety I owe in a great measure to their goodness,) will then annex a sense of duty to my departure, and consequently overcome every scruple. Again then trusting my cause in your Ladyship's hands, and with the hopes of renewing my plan at the expiration of a few months; and may I not add of then repeating the exultation of a grateful people from the increased sum of a nation's blessings, &c. &c.” The P. S. “May I request the favour of a line by Sunday night's post, to meet me in town on Monday, because from that I shall regulate my future motions.” To the Countess of Jersey.—Correspondence, page 7 and 8. N. B. I request the reader to make himself perfect in this whole passage, before he reads my weak imitation of it. Who shall ever talk again of the “Venator teneræ conjugis immemor?”
Dr. Randolph received the packet from the Princess at Brighton on the 30th of August 1795, (Correspondence page 30,) and the Dr's. last letter to Lady Jersey is dated July 5, 1796.—The great hiatus or chasm, which I so feelingly regret, might be supplied if the Doctor would but publish an account of his tour in Germany, for which I wait with something more than mere impatience.
Messrs. Goldsmidt, all the Solomons, Nathan Solomon, E. P. Solomon, and Solomon Solomon, Boyd, Thellussons, &c. in short, hoc genus omne, mæstum ac sollicitum.—A bargain for the opening may be made on the Steine as well as in the Stock Exchange, or a Jobber can study Hemmings on the Fourth Payment, or look an eighth better, or worse, for dipping in the funds, as well as in the sea.
The D. of Marlborough has a house on the Steine at Brighton, which his Grace lets out for a great part of the season.
“I need not recall to your Ladyship's recollection, the interview I had with the Princess at Brighton, when she delivered to me the packet in question; all her attendants in waiting were, I believe, present.”
—The names and offices of all the personages, from Lord Darnley, to the Chaplains, may be found in the Red Book, which may be consulted.
Some of the names, (chosen with care from the whole body of the Clergy for so high a distinction, as we may fairly conjecture,) the Red Book gives—“Barker, Hodson, Nugent, Wilgress, Perkins, Barnard Foord, &c. &c. I believe I am rather poetical in supposing them present.
“The conversation generally turned upon the various branches of her august family, and the alteration I should find in them after an absence of ten years.” Correspondence page 30.
—Not the late Lord Mansfield, or any Secretary of State, but Sir James Murray (Pulteney) Adjutant General, and Secretary to the Duke of York when H. R. H. commanded the British forces in Flanders, at the beginning of the war. Secretary Murray's style was universally admired for its perspicuity, simplicity, and lucid arrangement. The Secretary's official dispatches are preserved for posterity. Great writers in future times will say to each other;
“Yes, I'm content, allow me Murray's strains,“And you shall rise at Randolph for your pains.”
| An epistle in verse to the Rev. Dr. Randolph | |