The Age Reviewed A Satire: In two parts: Second edition, revised and corrected [by Robert Montgomery] |
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THE RUNAWAYS.
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 | The Age Reviewed |  |
THE RUNAWAYS.
A Political Dialogue.
Of complimental souls, taking their leave,
And all the din and clamorous rout:
Great monarch, if thy summons call us back;
We tender here our service.
Old Play.
MANLIUS.
From high to low, from pot-house to the court,
Where loungers gabble, and where knaves resort—
One buzz politic rumbles through the isle,
And Hunt and Toady scribble by the mile:
And threaten'd “England” shakes on ev'ry jaw!
Soon may this bubbling rage of fools be done,
And Tommy cease to twist his morning pun.
JULIUS.
But sure, when England's welfare stands at bay,
The humblest patriot has a part to play;
Beats there the blunted heart that cannot feel,
And swell with ardour, for his country's weal?
I love the feeling, but abhor the spume
Of walking parliaments, through street and room,—
And busy dabblers, who in prose or rhyme,
Exhaust their stupid slaver on the time;
A Patriot!—go to Peel's newspaper shop,
Mark there what “patriots” bluster o'er their drop!
See Eldon blasted by a boist'rous jeer,
And Melville crush'd beneath a pot of beer;
Carlisle hung up—poor Anglesea unfit,
While Peel is shatter'd by a bomb of wit!
Then go—
JULIUS.
------ no further now in this tart strain,
To cooler thought, and straighter meaning deign:
What thinks my friend?—has England much to fear,
Now Canning enters on his high career?
The monarch's glory, and the nation's pride!
MANLIUS.
Let truth succeed—no whig, or tory I—
Each to his post!—save that of infamy.
JULIUS.
Each to his post!—and is not Canning where,
Both truth and genius for his worth declare?
Amid the turmoils of his changeful life,
The whig convulsion, and the tory strife,—
One dauntless aim hath dignified each scene,
And he himself a second Burke hath been!—
And linger round the glory of his days.
MANLIUS.
All cannot turn idolaters so well,—
There are some little specks which I could tell;
Some stains which cloud the brightness of his day;
That darkens at the sound of Castlereagh;
Yet, still, I love the genius and the man,
And pay each tribute honest feeling can.
And where lives he of ev'ry fault bereft,
Whose feet have never turn'd from right to left?
“Take all in all,”—amid politic wars,
He shines, a moon among revolving stars:
And now, though sulky ministerial knaves,
And bribe-fed placemen, and conspiring slaves—
Though iron-hearted Eldon delve his brow,
And plotting rebels plan his ruin now,
While Bexley, Bathurst, like two beldames whine,
And Peel moan forth “That Canning's lot were mine!”—
The base must cower, and Canning gain his end!
MANLIUS.
While Canning's genius aids the country's cause,
Each patriotic mind bestows applause,
But dark the hour, and dreary to the State,
When Papal blood-hounds rush to legislate!
In all but this, may Canning win the day,
Though Eldon growl, and Melville sneak away.
When I remember all the nest of foes,
The mean obstruction each dull reptile throws,—
Westmoreland hate, the pet of Waterloo,
Old Eldon's spite, and his congenial crew,—
My heart misgives—the Premier fails to stand,
And tory bigots once more chain the land!
But then again, his Genius rears its might,
And all the Lilliputs sink out of sight!
Say, hast forgot, when, like an earthly god,
He still'd the house, as with a magic rod,
Bade all the Briton sparkle in his eye?—
That elegance where art lay undefin'd,
That eye-lit meaning of the raptur'd mind,
The brow upreared—the lips' uncurb'd controul,
That seem'd but op'ning portals to the soul,—
The whole proud picture of a patriot then,
Fell on the heart, and mocks the feeble pen:
I mark'd his visage, while the feeling fir'd,—
It look'd the dial of a soul inspir'd,
Whence all the mantling flush of rapture shed
A living splendour round his classic head:
So warm his tone—majestical his air,
All felt the soul of eloquence was there;
And Canning's world into creation rose!
E'en snappish Brougham smooth'd his jagged tongue,
And paid the homage from his envy wrung,
And Hume sat down as brainless as before.
MANLIUS.
But wit, nor worth, nor any nobler fame,
Will drive the snake-like tories from their aim;
Mean to the last, they'll welter in their hate,
And glut their malice, though it wreck the State.
JULIUS.
Why should not spiders to their holes retreat?
Why should not envy rankle for defeat?—
Slav'd, rack'd, and made deserters of them all!
But Britain gladdens at the curse remov'd,—
She cannot sorrow, for she never lov'd:
Now, like the cast-out demons in the shades,
Their common heart one sullen plot invades;
Clung round the growling leader of their gang,
To vomit vengeance in lampoons and slang.
'Tis said, eternal Eldon well foresaw,
When Canning reign'd, his lordship must withdraw;
So having brooded o'er his wary spite,
And foil'd the Premier with a lawyer's might,
He buzz'd—“pure principle forbids my stay”—
Then, grunting, groaning, skulk'd in fumes away!
JULIUS.
I care not why—enough—the troop departs,
With envious rancour feeding on their hearts:—
Let ev'ry school-boy shout, “old Eldon's down!”
When we reflect how long this Chanc'ry moth
Hath eat the kingdom up, with selfish sloth,
What widows' tears—what orphans' unheard sighs—
What famished clients lift in vain their eyes,
On all the compass of the ruin done,—
How must we hate the iron-hearted one!
MANLIUS.
However frail this hoary judge may be,
His heart from each ignoble trait is free;—
And many too, his courteous merits name;
Besides, a wise reluctance claims applause,
The longer weigh'd, the juster ends the cause:
Reflected long, and helm'd the troubled land!
JULIUS.
His justice never felt for sorrow's lot,
But, drown'd in apathy, the cause forgot.
Must mis'ry in its dreadful gloom abide,
And pine content, till Eldon's brains decide!
I hate the coldness of the callous heart,
That ever doubts—save when itself hath part;
I hate the man, who, deaf to sorrow's sound,
Can squat at ease, while wretches throng around!
Not all the wisdom of sev'n Sages can
Excuse the savage sloth of such a man:
Why not, ere yet the chilling blights of age
Crept on his soul, and weaken'd all the sage,
Retired content, with tranquil glories blest,
His mem'ry sacred, and his heart at rest?—
And gripe from Britain everlasting pelf—
Rot on the sack, till law became a curse,
And broken hearts but fill'd up Eldon's purse?
As oft, within the court, I've paus'd to see,
This doubting Minos nurse his aching knee,
And mark'd the pallid fever on his face,
That faithful beckon'd to another place,—
He seem'd a wither'd trunk upon the ground,
Whose roots grow deeper as decays abound.
MANLIUS.
Alas! how changeful seems the great man's life!
Precarious round of envy and of strife!
But twelve years since,—and crowding minstrels won,
The laurel-wreath, by tuning “Wellington;”—
But now, though in the naked bronze he stands,
And round it titt'ring misses lift their hands—
They taunt his rights, and sneer away his fame;
Is this the fretful folly of the few,
To unplume thus the cock of Waterloo?
Like Greece of old, will Englishmen repay
Their once-loved hero of the battle day?
JULIUS.
Repay!—we sacked the country for his praise,
We wreathed his temples with our golden bays,
O'er looked the private—gave commander all!
Still, when our heroes dangle through the town,
The army's hate, and coxcombs of renown,
Then ev'ry soldier names them with a gibe,
And Bond-street puppets rank them with their tribe.
MANLIUS.
To save his principles, he lost a mine, —
Sure this would soften any heart but thine!
JULIUS.
To save no principle, but that of pride,—
He left the rival, hate could not abide;
A proud desertion graced a meaner end:
MANLIUS.
Of all the runaways from court and king,
Dame Bathurst seems the dullest, dawdling thing;
When such old women sniff about the court,
The State seems fuddled, and the office sport;—
Heaven grant that ev'ry stick like him may start,
Till legislation share both head and heart!
JULIUS.
We think alike;—there's rev'rence in old age,
When placid wisdom guides each fault'ring stage,
And hung, like bloated leeches, on the State;
Though ancient birth, and noble name assist,
Deserve but to be hated, mock'd, and hissed;
Ere yet his brains had addled quite away,
Why not have left, and dawdled on his pay?—
Could he not hear the country cry out “fool!”
“Why not a log the colonies to rule?”
But since he's gone, may every ease befriend,
The bottle comfort, and the nurse attend;
In parlour snug, or spread upon his chair,
May none perplex—no politics be there!—
Now cross his thumbs, now sip his congou tea,
Or pensive stroke the kitten on his knee;
MANLIUS.
One thing, I'm sure, the land will never rue,
That twaddling Westmoreland has said, Adieu!
Of drowsy dullness, and of hollow mind;
“My heart leaps up,” to see these moppets quit
The throne, where none but genius ought to sit:—
Let titled dunces keep their proper place,
And spare the country's, and their own disgrace.
JULIUS.
And so must every sterling patriot hate,
The wasteful drones that pilfer from the state;
Still, one there was amid the routing pack,
Who, meanly cunning, took a wiser track;
Great Bexley, —he who strutted from his throne,
So big, when first the plot was overthrown!—
Dared any think an awful peer would deign
To doff his hide, and seek his hole again?
And lend his wisdom to the tory camp,
No dismal tears would dim the public eye,
No bosom (save his own) indulge the sigh!
MANLIUS.
But mind, (the proverb's musty, but 'tis true,)
A peer, like Satan, ought to have his due;—
Say ye, who think our peerage dull and vain,
Has Bexley, flower of Lords! no wondrous brain!
M'Culloch, Malthus, blush! ye're all outdone,
He proved that twenty equals twenty-one!
JULIUS.
Thank heaven! that M---'s clenching hand no more,
Directs the navy,—or purloins its store;
For princely Clarence fills his sullied place;
May all the Scotch-born brood he hugg'd and fed,
Be turned adrift, and Britons reign instead;
O, ever verdant be his clust'ring bays,
May no dark dreams recal those awkward days,
When all the blushing peers convened to sit,
And Melville totter'd, though upheld by Pitt!
MANLIUS.
When I reflect what Britain's senate were,
When Fox and Chatham blazed their genius there—
Graced with the proudest monarchy of mind,—
With tearful glance I see them dwindling down,
To all the knaves and numskulls of the town.
Take from the diplomatic herd that meet,
Some rare bright patriots who adorn their seat,
And what a residue remains to tell,
How eloquence and genius speed farewell!
Great heaven!—and shall our British statesmen be
Made up of cash—or pomp—or infamy?
Is legislation fit for ev'ry mouth—
For each dull scare-crow, from the North to South?
Faith! 'tis enough to stir the death-hush'd gloom,
And bring some champion from his hallow'd tomb;
Some mighty Chatham, whose rekindled gaze,—
Arm'd with the light'ning of triumphant days—
Should flash its vengeance on the mean array,
Fright the dumb house, and frown them all away!
If foppish impudence alone were found,
To swagger forth, and froth its garbage round;
Some hopes were left,—tho' Calcrafts should increase.
But see, the hooted plunderer of Greece,—
E'en he, presumes to lift his brazen head,
And petty-fogging W---s, the halls to tread!—
Come forth, “Old Times”—here all thy sneers enjoy,
To hiss from Parliament, this vile alloy:
And send,—oh, send the never-daunted W---s,
(Himself combining a full host of bilks)—
To Stock Exchange—there let him loose his jaw,
In the rich fluency of lies and law;
And crawl along the dirty round of shame,
Till honest tongues shall blister at his name!
Now, join this farewell wish,—since both, my friend,
One pray'r in union for our country blend,—
May heaven direct each patriotic aim,
Secure the State, and guard Britannia's fame!
Though vulgar Cobbett, like a well-fed toad,
Pour out each week, his rankly pois'nous load,
And then, retreating with an emptied train,
Engender more, and spit it out again;—
Though Dawson spurt,—hate,—spite and plot combine,
Still, Canning, may each meet success be thine;
Till dazzled Faction shrink unseen away.
JULIUS.
So shall the tributes of an after age
Proclaim the patriot, and applaud the sage.
This is rather obscure: Manlius means, that during the present political convulsions, poor England's safety is debated on by the ignorant, as well as the wise.
The St. James's Chronicle, and Cobbett's Register, have been the most assiduous in lampooning Mr. Canning. The first machine has distinguished itself by sullen dullness—the second, by more than its customary slang and rancorous invective.
Since his first entrance into political life, Mr. Canning has invariably opposed Parliamentary Reform—advocated the gradual abolition of Slavery—and supported the Catholic question.
Sheridan first introduced Canning to Edmund Burke, who then foresaw his success as a Parliamentary-orator. Burke, it is well-known, has all along been Canning's great prototype:—though perhaps Julius goes a little too far, in naming him a second Burke; the reason is obvious.
Manlius refers here to an unpleasant affair between Canning and his colleague, (in 1809) Lord Castlereagh, &c. &c.
Perhaps no man in the legislature bears at present so excellent a character as Mr. Peel:—it becomes him to be careful of it: the higher his eminence, the greater must be the fall. His last speech in the House (Thursday, May 3rd) certainly emitted a few violent sparks of that rancour he has endeavoured to deny and conceal.
Ne quid quam populo bibulas donaveris aures,Respue quod non es: tollat sua munera cerdo.
Since the above note was written, the papers have announced, that, “Mr. Peel takes the lead of the opposition!” In doing this, he has at once cast away the proudest part of his “Character.” Why did he not at first appear in his real “character,” instead of setting on his stupid brother-in-law, to “beat about the bushes?” —the event proves that it was made up of hypocrisy.
“In all but this?”—A rank tory will ask with wonder! “Why, this is Canning's darling project;” if you oppose him here—you are, in fact, a disciple of the “New Opposition.” However, Manlius is by no means singular: it is on this point, that the ministerial Papers have been so uncomfortably situated.
Some of the runaways have laboured with very creditable stupidity, to prove that there was no caballing, in their simultaneous desertion. This futile hardihood, however, is only increasing the meanness and cowardice of their conduct. The whole concern has been attended with all those circumstances which distinguish a political plot. By the bye—in what a gallant way old Whiggy gave the lie direct, to Earl Grosvenor, on this subject;—of course, his Lordship did it under the protection of his grey hairs: —“Fortunate senex.”
The speech alluded to by Julius, was delivered by Mr. Canning, on the subject of the war between Portugal and Spain:—the sensation it created, both in and out the House, will long be remembered.
The superannuated “St. James Chronicle” will deem this admiration of the bombastic genius—quite out of their way of thinking: to their musty prejudices, part of Mr. Canning's speech appeared an effort of consummate arrogance—ecce;—“Fortunatam me Consule Romam,” though strictly true, was thought an extraordinary reach of arrogance, even in Cicero,—but, what was that to the arrogance of Mr. Canning's unfounded boast;—‘I called a new world into existence, to redress the balance of the old.”’ The remark of this decayed print appears to me as doltish as any thing I have read for a long time.
According to this sluggish idea of propriety, any lofty sentiment or expression arising from the ardour of the moment, is afterwards to be culled from the body of the speech, and frozen into “arrogance” by the cold flippancy of detraction!—By the same method, all the noblest speeches ever pronounced, might be said to partake of arrogance! The St. James's Chronicle may be compared to a fretful old dotard of two centuries ago.
Mr. Tierney, (alias “Old Times”) fluttered, gaped, and almost stared his eyes away, while Canning was delivering this memorable speech.
Hume was conceited enough to propose an amendment, immediately after Canning's eloquent triumph:—but he was laughed into silent ideotcy.
I agree with a late Correspondent in the “Times,”—that envy has been the fundamental cause of the present political desertion. The doltishness of many of the deserters felt rankled at the superiority of Canning's genius:—it was too much for their little minds to endure. The great reason brought forward, to explain their secession, is—Mr. Canning's opinion on the Catholic Question; but this is betraying their own deceit; if Mr. Canning's views on Catholic Emancipation formed their sole objection to his ascendancy, were they not bound, by their much boasted patriotism, to abide in his Majesty's Cabinet, and thus, by their anti-Catholic principles and Protestant counsels, to have counteracted the approaches of the Emancipators?
In addition to two or three Journals, the political seceders have sent forth sixty-five pages of drivelling verbiage, under the catch-penny title of “The Grand Vizier Unmasked,” &c. From the vapid tenour of this pamphlet, and two passages which agree almost word for word, with part of his late speech—we may almost venture to pronounce Mr. Ex-Under-Secretary Dawson, the parent of this printed prodigy:—preceding puffs, together with the title, has pushed it to a third edition. This is not the place to enter into an examination of its arguments: if it have any. The greater part of it is made up of flimsy invective, absurd appeals, and garbelled accusations. The writer talks of the press being bought; —no one, but the furbisher of such pages, would have uttered this wild and incorrect statement; the press is of too unlimited and independent a nature, to cower down beneath the influence of a paltry bribe. The voice of the country has been simultaneous in applauding his Majesty's choice. In page 19, Mr. Pamphleteer remarks—“By Portuguese Statesmen, with whom we have conversed, his (Mr. Canning's) arrival at Lisbon was considered as a job by which his pockets were to benefit, and for which, Portugal was a mere pretext,” &c. Here's a specimen of political controversy! and does this anonymous lampooner really imagine, that Mr. Canning's admirers are to be converted by the shallow assumption and despicable surmises of his unknown Portuguese dabblers? If the runaways cannot hire a better scribbler than the one before us, the Lord preserve them—their's is indeed a rotten cause! One benefit has accrued from the publication of this stitched-up wonder —it has confirmed, more strongly than ever, the meanness of the political deserters, and the poor arguments they can adduce in defence of their envious retreat. The Courier (whose opinion exactly coincides with my own; viz. approving of Mr. Canning's elevation, but opposing the Catholic Question) has properly observed, “That the seceders have placed Mr. Canning in a situation almost without a choice; and then turn round upon him in effect, to reproach him with a necessity of their own creating;—“that he has executed the commands of his Sovereign, under the circumstances in which he was thus placed, in the only way he could.” The only truth the Unmasker of “The Grand Vizier,” has had the talent to state, is, —“that, in endeavouring to ascertain what he (Mr. Canning) is, and what he is not, he has involved himself in a labyrinth:”—a labyrinth of stupidity, floundering about in the spumy vituperations of a hired lampooner.
This is a conjecture of Manlius', not altogether warranted by the Premier's own declaration:—he has repeatedly remarked, that he had no personal objections to the “Seven,” and should have been glad of their co-operation.
Lord Eldon's integrity never surpassed his exquisite sensibilities: with regard to himself, we may truly call him a
“Pendulum betwixt a smile and tear:”What, for instance, could evince a more grateful heart, than his writing to an Exeter Pedagogue, to grant the little boys a holiday, and to thank him for their “huzzas” as he passed?—this is a trait of character enviable in every respect. And then his Lordship's late gush of tears in the House of Lords, and the Court,—I really cannot convey my admiration, on this point, with sufficient energy. Sterne himself, might find his pathetic powers fail him, at the attempt.
There certainly ought to be a marked distinction made between his lordship's private and judicial character. With regard to the former,—his worst enemies cannot impugn its purity, integrity, and consistency. His complacent manners too, in the Court, have ever been felt and acknowledged by all. With respect to the latter,— the ruined families—the blasted happiness of thousands—best attest its merits. It is of no use for his defenders to tell us, that his Lordship's delays have been the consequence of a wish to be correctly just:—His justice has, in fact, been the worst injustice; It has rendered Chancery and Ruin, synonymous throughout the kingdom. No plausible declamation will ever fume away the substantial proof of such facts. His lordship should have been comfortably reclining in his arm chair at home, instead of sticking to the sack, till (as he has since confessed) he hardly knew what he was about. Perhaps there never was a judge, of whom the clients in general, might so continually say
It is not very easy to account for the little feeling of respect evinced towards the noble duke, independent of his character as a hero:—certain it is, that he is by no means popular. Among the soldiers, too, there is no affection entertained for him: they admire his prowess, but nothing more. His Grace is not the most amiable commander; and has, on several occasions, been cruelly neglectful of the army, when encamped in the most miserable condition:—I allude to their alleged sufferings during the encampment in the Bois de Boulogne, which have been mentioned as not very creditable to the Duke's humanity.
Like all the seceders, the Duke attributes to himself the noblest motives for quitting his post. I fear the public in general, is rather obstinate at present; they will not take his Grace's word!
The St. James' Chronicle,” gabbles about Lord Bathurst, as if he were one of the most valuable statesmen in existence. I believe it would be difficult to say, when his lordship made himself so eminent, as when he trotted away from office!
This notable specimen of the aristocracy, proved himself of the epicene genus in politics? Like merry old Flaccus, he can contrive to suit himself to his circumstances: this, assuredly, is worldly wisdom, if nothing else.
Such is the noble Lord's opinion on the Currency Question: viz. that twenty and twenty-one shillings are all the same in the end! O novum atque inauditum ad principatum iter! —Plin. Pan.
There was scarcely an office under the command of the Lord of the Admiralty, that was not filled by a Scotchman. The circumstance alluded to in the last lines of Julius' speech, is an historical fact. It has been thought, that Pitt's disappointment at not being able to save his friend from the stigma of an impeachment, hastened his demise.
Mr. Calcraft of Chester notoriety, shows off his little bit of parliamentary consequence in the most preposterous style:—a second edition of that Persius, who was
The greatest Saints are sometimes the greatest sinners; saint Wilks for example. Every body knows he is damned (as it regards his character) to all eternity. Moreover, every body knows that he deserves it. Still this same Company dabbler, when waited on by some electors, relative to his election for S--- on a Sunday morning, lengthened his visage—soured his features—turned up his eyes like a duck in a thunder storm—and gravely refused to consult with them on account of his “respect for the Sabbath!”—hear it ye gods!—surely after this, we may place Wilks by the side of Hume;—
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