University of Virginia Library

Too high praise cannot be administered to the eminent merits of Mr. C---, for that delectable method he pursues, in introducing an author to the public.—I ought sincerely to lament, that the Fates decreed my volume should not luxuriate under the fostering puffs of his patronage,—but poetry is such a drug!— “Try C---,” says every literary friend to an author, “he'll make your work sell.” It is doubtful to say which will be handed down to posterity, as the greatest master in the history of magnanimous puffing—Charles Wright, or C---, “Arcades ambo.” Let but the smile of C--- suavity illuminate the MS., and your forthcoming prodigy will meander through all the papers in the full tide of paragraphic celebrity; your—never mind—you'll succeed. I earnestly recommend our anti-Newton City Knight to manufacture a few leaves, illustrative of the “Art of Puffing.”

No disrespect is here intended to Mr. Campbell himself. I have too great esteem for his character as a man, and his genius as a poet.

J. F. Pennie is the author of an Epic Poem, entitled, “The Royal Minstrel,” and of another, called “Rogvald;” and he has also written a volume of serious Dramatic Sketches, under the title of “Scenes in Palestine;” but the leading reviewers have, according to his own account, been mysteriously silent about him.

As many of the beloved personages introduced here, are likewise duly noticed in the poem itself, there is little need of present notes to explain allusions.

The novel of “Granby” was certainly superior to the general class of “fashionable novels;” but, as for “Almack's,” &c., how these could meet with approving readers, is indeed a mystery worth the talents of an Œdipus.

It is well known that the first edition of any new novel is immediately swallowed up by those innumerable Reading-Rooms, Societies, &c. &c. which now swarm in every town.

Celebrated personages, and celebrated cities, after their demise, exhibit an analogy in their fates: they are be-rhymed, bewritten; and generally be-praised. To what a number of tour-scrawlers has Rome given birth! How many poets did the death of Byron create!—As for Rome, I begin to fear that all that is left of her will soon be dispersed over the world.

At this time, the Corn Laws and the Roman Catholic Question are become very fashionable topics for abortive politicians, and the matin gabble of reading-room loungers. Thank God, the latter are silenced for awhile.

If Mr. P--- possessed any dramatic gratitude, he would do versified homage to Mr. Liston's comic visage, for the remainder of his career. Had it not been for the spirit of comicality playing round his mouth, and perching on the exquisite tip of his nose, where would that flower of the modern drama—that china-faced, pasteboard preserved character, Paul Pry, be?

Byron.

Mr. B--- is the most lamb-like controversialist I have ever met with. He prefers glozing his subject with the polish of defective argument, to the rigid, stern statement of unprevaricating truth. Dr. Southey has very properly exposed many of his “genteel” subterfuges. It is highly amusing to observe the pleasing shuttlecock praises Parr and B--- introduce in their letters, lately published.

Mentor means to say, that if the author does not slavishly follow the principles of one party, he will, for that very reason, be considered less liberal: many will alter the title of his book, and call it “The Age Abused,”—this would be a most witty perversion!—but

The only disgraceful excuse the Demosthenes of tap-rooms could allege for his exposures of the heir to England's throne, was, “intoxication:” a complaint that seems very general with the greater number of his fraternity.

“Buck-skinned;” i.e. clad in buck-skin. —(Printer's Devil.)

It has become quite fashionable of late, to bray at the ocean, and weave verses as tumultuous as the billows. Still, in commencing a poem particularly devoted to this country, I trust the reader will excuse my paying my humble respects to her native sea, although I may be unable to bring to my aid any of those dazzling metaphors which constitute “the sublime and beautiful” in poetry.

Juv. I.

It is an ascertained fact, that many commit larceny to re-enter the prison where they were formerly so kindly treated! Few of our prisons now require a Howard. Notwithstanding,

“Ah! how different from our own.” What would the worthy Doctor think of the present times, were he alive to witness their depravity?

May we presume to ask why a certain miserly prince is paid yearly the enormous sum of £50,000? Is it on account of a late connubial connexion so honourable to him?—he would then shew but decent gratitude in distributing a little of the lavished money over that country, which he, with a whole posse of sinecured gentry, is yearly helping to beggar.

While famine was raging throughout the poorer classes—while half a million of Britons were literally swooning through starvation, in the public streets,—the papers announced, that some of the nobility were soliciting Signor Velluti to condescend to return for £3,000 to pipe at the Opera House for another season!! Condescend!! —Heaven preserve us from Italian condescension! Query: How was it that this same Signor eunuch condescended to attempt to cheat the English ladies that sang for his benefit? It seems the country was not quite so meanly sluggish to allow this to pass unresented: he was properly hooted from it by the public hate.

According to the sage parson Malthus, the country is over populated; and that, if some thousands of the unemployed peasantry were shipped off, convict-like, to Van Dieman's Land, &c. &c. the country would be more prosperous.

What a pity it is, that Mr. Brougham does not examine himself, repent him truly of his former sins, and turn, (like many of his predecessors,) a tory. He may be assured, that Lord E--- would then give him a silk gown, and Murray would pay better than Jeffrey, for a few cathartic articles, containing the flippant hauteur of toryism, instead of the less wholesome effluvia of whiggery. I fear he will find the Mechanic's Institution to be a “losing concern” in the long run.

Sir Lopez! Who has not heard of Sir Lopez, the rich Jew, who has his arms quartered over the town hall in Heytsbury, with the following motto: “quod tibi id alteri?”—did one ever hear of such enormous inconsistency?

There is no one more ready than myself to admire Lord E---'s integrity and resplendent talents; nor would I join all the abuse that untempered rancour has thrown on him. (Vide another part of this Satire.) Still, his Lordship's best friends must allow, that he stuck to the sack till the puerilities of old age overtook him: he might wish to have done justice, but certes—he was a dreadful long time about it; exempli gratiâ. His Lordship, some time since, on attempting to decide a cause, was told by Mr. Hart and the other counsel, that his Lordship had deferred his decision so long that they really had forgotten whether they were on the defendant's or plaintiff's side!! Perhaps his Lordship seldom asked himself—

Wisdom never whisper'd in his ear—

We have certainly no right to intefere with people's private habits; but the following anecdote, illustrative of Lord E---'s auri fanes, (the great epidemic of the day,) is of a public nature. It is the custom for the Chancellor always on the first day of Term, to give a public breakfast to the Judges, &c. &c. Some time since, his Countess' ill health prevented his giving this breakfast at his own residence; the Benchers of Lincoln's Inn, kindly offered their hall, which was accepted—and has been ever since! where the breakfast is paid for by the Benchers. What a blessed thing it is to be bred to the law!—it is such a saving profession!

Mrs. C. forms an admirable comment on the venalism of the times. Were she poor instead of rich, she would not have quite so many Scotch lords dangling by her side; nor quite so many fulsome parasites to publish her merits in print. The C---s' fuss is absolutely disgusting.

Old Song.

Juv. 1.

Mr. B---d lives in perspicuous retirement. Luxuriating sumptuously on his wealth, which he generously participates with a black dwarf; of course, we should be highly presuming were we to enquire, why he kept this deformed imp?—From the “milk of human kindness,” assuredly.

Our island serves as a sort of sink to drain the poor of other nations. Of all the foreign poachers, the Italian and French are the most obtrusive. The first either turn pimps for people of quality, squall bravuras at a fashionable conclave of midnight ideots, or pull their greasy whiskers over an Italian Lesson. The last—(to save the trouble of a note in any other part of the work,) what spot of ground is not infected by them? They are the most frequent vagabonds of the street; they import all the obscenities and deistic rankness of their country into our's; they feed on our charity; render us half ashamed of our own language; filch fortunes by the resources of innate duplicity; infest the purity of domestic circles, or abduce some of our countrywomen; and then abuse us for our want of “politesse, and cold manners!!” This is not all; they are patronized, stuffed, and almost deified, for their talents, while Britons, though of equal talent, are left to plod on in the path of obscurity.

Butler.

Juv. III.

The King's Bench was, no doubt, intended for a benevolent institution. But nothing has been more diabolically abused. It is the source of many a broken heart, and of many beggared families. The profligate and dissipated look to it as the haven of rest; the goal whence, after a due refreshment, and a further initiation into the mysteries of cozening, they start off again, with revigorated powers to renew the race.

Notwithstanding the usury laws, it is well known, that usury still subsists in all its direful realities. Jews and Christians are alike sharers of this griping practice; the former are, indeed, worthy the appellation of dogs. They are filthy in person, and filthier in mind; petrified against humanity, preferring gold to the very flesh on their bodies; and of course to other people's. It is dreadful to think of the calamitous consequences, occasioned by these outcasts, to young men of dissipation. To their personal appearance we may well apply:

The future historian, who shall relate the domestic occurrences of eighteen hundred and twenty-six, will certainly present some interesting memoirs for posterity. No doubt, nineteen hundred and twenty-six will be weaving tales to illustrate the national cheats and unblushing bilks of eighteen hundred and twenty-six. The Joint Stock Companies, have presented an original picture of undaunted, unrepented villainy, only to be matched by the bamboozling pirates that purloined the succours from Greece. We must have looked uncommonly glorious in the eyes of surrounding nations a few months since; when every day brought with it an account of some fresh discovered cheats! It was not one solitary thief that shone in the light of infamy; not two; no, not a dozen; —but gallant bands!—Companies of sleek-mouthed rogues, who united to filch and advertised their capabilities!! And yet other Companies, phœnix-like, are beginning to rise from the ashes of the last:—

How many ways there now are of acquiring fame! The prophet Irving is of opinion, “that our pride is a proof of our immortality;” let us add, “a downright, daring, never-flinching cheat deserves it.” The Phillenic Member of Parliament; the Greek patriot will live in the page of well remembered villanies when all his speeches are forgotten, and the “M. P.” sinks in inglorious oblivion.

Of such a nature we may reasonably suppose Mr. H---'s soliloquy to be, ere he entered Parliament after the unfortunate ------

Some accuse Goldsmith of describing “what was not the fact,” when he wrote his “Deserted Village;” alas! that poem is now realized. There are some people who laugh at miseries they have never seen, and fail to sympathize with those they never experienced; they will tell us, that we fancy evils. But this is paltry, wilful delusion. Want, vice, and famine, have been, and still are, oppressing the village poor. The neat, cheerful cottage home is rare; and what is of almost equal importance, the cottage manners, and morals are polluted by two corruptions. Why are the farmers and country gentlemen ashamed to be what their ancestors were some years back?

Transport our poor peasanty!!—well, that sounds political. At any rate, we should have more room in that case to receive imported beggars; for whiskered Italians, and Gallic footmen, dressed up for French teachers. Perhaps, Mr. Sharon Turner's observation will not be criminally introduced here. “The more population tends to press upon the quantity of subsistence in any country, the more it also tends to increase it. As the pressure begins, the activity and ingenuity of mankind are roused to provide it.” We all know the “ingenuity of the Malthusian disciples.” Would that the country were relieved of a few of its political scribblers! We can spare to transport a few of them instead of the labourers. Every peasant is worth fifty government grubs.

Quintillian says, no man can be an orator without he is a good man. “Oratorem autem instituimus illum perfectum, qui esse, nisi vir bonus, non potest.” Look over our Parliamentary list for the present session, and when was England so degraded? How will it read hereafter, that

was partly legislated by a brood of huckaback merchants, brokers, and

It certainly matters not what that man's former condition was who has made himself competent to represent his country; but more than half of the present members are utterly unqualified; they have crept into Parliament, bribed and bribing. But “M. P.” is somewhat convincing at the end of a name; for instance, “John Wilks, Esq. M. P.,” &c. &c. And what do the field-bred clouts perform in Parliament? Why, wear out their leathern breeches by a few hours' fidgets, and scribble franks for cousins and Co.!

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—

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.

That Cobbett should traduce and be an ingrate after receiving Burdett's bounty, is not remarkable. It would be unreasonable to expect pure water from a muddy horse pond. But that a man of Sir Francis Burdett's birth and acquirements, should link himself with Cobbett, is more than remarkable. I suppose he had his reasons.

Those who are partial to “character” must admire Mr. Orator Hunt. There is no man in this kingdom that lies so magnanimously —so unrelentingly bold—so like a “genuine” John Bull. He is none of your half hinters—drawling, whining, suppositionists; he will lie in the face of thousands; and batter with falsehoods the plainest proof. Those who have heard him enunciate his most celebrated falsehoods, and marked the flashing impudence of his eye, will join with me in awarding him unrivalled fame for mendacity. In this respect—

I happened to be walking up Norfolk-street, just as Hunt made his “triumphant entry” along the Strand. He seemed to have fattened in goal: there was altogether an increasing insolence in his manner, and when he waved his cloak, he looked as though he were sweeping to him the product of ten thousand bottles of blacking. “Triumphant entry!”—We had better chair Wilks and Hume next; the one for his service to the companies, and the other for his Greek patriotism. On seeing Hunt in his car, one could not but remember the anecdote of the Roman emperor, who gathered cockle-shells on the sea shore of Britain, and entered Rome with the heroism of a mighty conqueror. Hunt puffed hard to get into Parliament: but Sir T. Lethbridge, notwithstanding “all appliances” of stupidity, uselessness, &c. contrived to prevent him. The demagogue has nick-named him “Leather-breeches.”

Who can mention the Roman Catholic religion, nor advert to the times that are past? Whether we look to the superstitious slavery of its creed, the bloated impiousness of its popes, or the wary, base-minded trickeries of its prowling priesthood,—nothing but one scene of crime and bloodshed appears to the view. Among all the questions that have been, and are still agitating, there is none of such vital, we may say, awful importance to an Englishman as the “Catholic” one. In this respect, Dr. Southey, notwithstanding his former apostacy, has been of considerable service: Charles Butler was properly and finely shewn up by him. The advocates for the Roman Catholic religion, have attuned their throats to the most plaintively insinuating tone possible. Their amiable lips quake with the jargon of “common right,” and all the ready cant of “liquid lies.” But when they tell us, that the Roman Catholics are not what they used to be; are we to blind our eyes against recent deeds of horrid bigotry? Are we to forget Mr. Plowden's speech,—one of their warmest advocates? viz. whoever pretended that the Roman Catholics of the present day differed, in one iota, from their ancestors, he was guilty of perjury, &c.! The truth is, (and Mr. Plowden, a rara avis, is honest enough to tell it,) the Catholic croak is a most insiduous plot to re-establish the papal dominion, and slave the whole kingdom to a revengeful, money-loving priesthood; a priesthood that pretends to preserve souls by counted beads, or send them to heaven on two-penny pieces! Every Catholic is bound by his Creed to do his utmost to introduce that creed, and consequently, to undermine the church and state of the Protestants. God grant! that neither the democratical chicaneries of the Scotch Cato, the traducing spume of Shiel, or the poisonous drivel of O'Connell, may attain their end; if so, we may say of the Pope:—

Attributing the distresses of Ireland to the “slavery of the Roman Catholics,” is another of the artful resources of the worshippers of the “Great Whore.” This is not the proper place to enter into the question; but, has not the late conduct of O'Connell and Shiel, been enough of itself to testify the lurking villainy of their distorted minds? What opinion are we to form of that man whose tongue is forked with unceasing forgeries, lampooning spite, and envy?—of the man, who, dressed in green, went round the country to excite rebellion among his ignorant countrymen? Shiel is a more decent, mealy-mouthed demagogue than O'Connell; but even he, flowery and fluent as he is in eloquising to port wine, was audacious enough to traduce, slander, and blacken with his perfidious slaver, the late brother of our reigning King, while racked with the agonies of disease! This is an introductory specimen of what we may expect hereafter, I suppose. And yet, O'Connell and Shiel are the two pillars of Catholic Intrigue. No one can deny they are quite worthy of the situation. A bigotted system of Humbug will stand the better for being propped by congenial rogues.

With the sordid cunning of a Jesuit, Shiel attempted a kind of recantation after his Royal Highness' decease; it was, however, but awkward perfidy, struggling to be more hypocritical. The above lines were written some time before the Prince's lamented death.

To sneer at the saints! Sectarians will say, I have run a muck, and tilted at all I met. I wish to heaven, it were in my power to tilt some of these plotting, sneaking, pharasaic Barebones from the country. No man, in his senses, will advocate slavery;— no man will deny the degrading circumstances to which it is subject; but, those who have calmly considered the West India Question, not led away by the high-flown falsehoods of convening madmen, will soon perceive, that emancipation must be the work of time; and, that if the nation take away the slaves from their legal owners, it is bound, in every principle of religion and equity, to tender them a full and adequate compensation. Mr. Buxton's creed may dictate differently from this;—justice requires no cant to recommend or annul its laws. So basely litigious, and maliciously designing have the saints been, that when we attempt to examine the Question, we are insensibly led to forget the servitude of the slave, in the disgust excited by the gross and shameless fabrications of the saintish defenders; such as, Clarkson, Cropper, and Brougham—skulking behind the pages of a Scotch Review.

The anti-colonists have been sorry tergiversators:—sometime since, their well-meaning champion, Wilberforce, declared, that it was “the slave trade, not slavery, against which they were directing their efforts:” the pious Stephen himself, in 1817, said, that he who could allude to the “emancipation” of the slaves, might be “justly branded as an incendiary, and prosecuted to condign punishment, as a mover of sedition!!” Now, they have shuffled round, and declared, that “they contemplated the early and total emancipation of those slaves, already in our colonies.” (See M'Queen, &c. p. 336.) What are we to think of such canting renegadoes?

Mr. Pitt said, “to think of emancipating the slaves would be little short of insanity;” yet a raw recruit like Fowel Buxton in the plenitude of his most audacious godliness, presumed to propose a resolution for that purpose, and bolstered his speech with unshrinking falsities, and libelling exclamatory froth against the colonies! but—

“The anti-colonists, and those who lead and guide them, eagerly snatched the moment when they imagined East India aid would enable them to beat down the West India colonies, in order that they might raise colonies in Africa; and through these, and for these, at an early day, sap the foundations, and ultimately overthrow the gigantic edifice of our Indian empire.” (M'Queen.)

If the anti-colonists should happen to fail in their disgraceful persecutions, it will not be through any deficiency of slang, lies, malignancy, and blasphemy, both in prose and verse. The following is a specimen of the latter, extracted from a psalm set to music, and exposed for sale, for the benefit of the Anti-Slavery Association.

The next verse has such tempting eloquence in it, that I really must present it to the reader. It will serve for a cabinet curiosity.

Childe Harold, Cant. IV.

Never was there a more inconsiderate scheme than the Institution for Mechanics. Mr. Brougham, supported as he is by the Edinburgh Review, and joined by all the worst enemies to the country, has not been able to divest his sophistry of that betrayful spirit, that exposes the treachery of the demagogue amid the spuming verbiage of unexpensive philanthropy; though, perhaps, on the whole, if Mr. Brougham were a tory, he might share the “meed of large honours.” At present, he is gownless, and not a little hateful to the crown supporters. But what of this? is he not a friend of the people?—Will not his pamphlets sell rapidly, and his speeches be read with eagerness?—Will not his name be the glory of tap rooms, and be blessed by scientific tinkers? Will not every link-boy and lamp-lighter, sing praises to his name? This is enough to support the “friend of the people,” under all his losses—or rather, dreams of hope. My opinion is (I do not think it singular,) that Brougham is a capital specimen of Scotch talent, helped forward by Scotch impudence, and Scotch duplicity: there is no country like Scotland, for these two last qualities. In heart, he cares as much for the people as he does for the client, when he is paid highly for pleading his cause.

Birkbeck and Brougham are of a most congenial temperament, for illuminating the darkness of popular ignorance,—as they are pleased to call it. They are both Scotchmen; but, they found “the high road to England,” and then the road for every thing else. Apropos,—I suppose some little spiderly Aristarchus will tell me, Birkbeck's name is pronounced with the accent on the last syllable, and that Brougham is pronounced Broom; but, what's a name? I have used them just as they suited the measure; either way will do; semper fuit, ------ you know the rest,

Alluding to Mr. Brougham's speech.

“Turncoat,” is a very plain word to apply to the imperative importance of Mr. Orator Brougham; nevertheless, he himself will admit the justice of its application. At the onset of his political career, he was one of Pitt's most slavish idolaters; but self-interest soon converted his homage into traducive apostacy, and he has now long been one of his vituperative calumniators. A rich sample this, of patriotic fervour!—but, there is some comfort for Mr. Brougham; he is by no means a solitary apostate; and, with his genius, apostacy itself is very pardonable in the eyes of some people.

Pindar was not half so good a politician as Mr. Brougham: the straight forward principles are too barren to feed the craving appetites of modern ambitious intriguers. However, had Mr. Brougham employed his talents in undeviating principle, he would have slid down to posterity more gracefully than he can do with his present character; notwithstanding his tender trash about the “ignorance of the people,” his pamphlets, and his out-pourings in the Edinburgh Review.

A great national problem is now working: many of those engaged at it, are men of immense talents; many, doubtless, with the most philanthropic motives:—“the end proveth all things.” Fifty years hence, the result of these magnanimous stretches at universal intellectualism will be properly appreciated. The French atheists tried a problem very similar to that which the Broughamites, the Birkbeckites, &c. &c. are now attempting; we all know how beautifully it was solved. On such a question as this, there are innumerable opinions; I cannot help having one; which is, that Brougham is no patriot; he has made the “cause of the people,” a machine for his own tortive plans. Of those who heap such encomiums on his head, we may say—

Gall and Spurzheim esteem themselves greater philosophers than Locke, Hartley, &c. &c. Who shall set the bounds to human ingenuity? We may, without presumption, shortly expect, that flying will be fashionable. Some mountebank has already commenced a prelude; and when the Mechanics are enlightened, no doubt wings will have their turn. It will be a pleasant day's jaunt to fly over to brother Jonathan, and at once settle about the North West Passage. “But this is preposterous;”—not a bit reader: it is not half so wonderful as Phrenology—the Bump Philosophy. If Gall or Spurzheim would but sacrifice their own brains for dissection, it would be a capital method to ensure immortality. Thus it would be recorded:—“That scientific martyr Mr.”—

Some will say, this is already done by pedagogues.

This Cockney Knight attempted to upset Newton's glory, and raise a pedestal for himself on its ruins; but it did not do. Sir Richard is another of the hypocritical patriots, who gull the public opinion by puffing off their services to the rising generation. The matter is plain enough, if plain sense were but applied. Sir R. was, and is, a tradesman. He hit upon the Interrogatory plan, as a tradesman, namely, to put money in his pocket. This was very laudable; but when he boasts of his services, as if they really proceeded from the purest philanthropy, he is more disgusting than impudent. He could do no more, if he had given his baby edition of vamped pamphlets to all the charity schools in the kingdom.

By a pardonable little perversion of this passage, we may well apply the question to the general rhymesters of the day:—Where, indeed, is that freshness of feeling?—where?—but this is not the place to enter into a discussion on the causes of poetical degeneracy. It is certain that poetry is degenerating, both in its own character, and also in the estimation in which it is held. There are two or three striking reasons for this:—First, Because poetry is degraded to a mere accomplishment. Secondly, Because it is the poetry of mere words, more than of feeling and meaning. Thirdly, Because the merits of the author, and the merits of his poem, are absurdly confounded.

“This was written in Lady Lamb's Album;”—“Taken from Lady Lamb's Album;”—“His Lordship wrote the following so and so in Lady Caroline's” Album;—“The preceding ‘Stanzas on Female Frailty,’ were written by her Ladyship in her own Album.” Such are the constant advertisements in almost every Annual, &c. we now take up. One would positively think, that Lady Caroline was—but—never mind—“comparisons are odious.”

It is astonishing, when we compare the teeming volumes, both of prose and verse, of the present day, with some of the writers that existed seventy years back, to mark the vast difference. In the national decline, there is a continual analogy in one circumstance; show for substance, and refinement for strength, are now universal interlopers.

“Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world, though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most torturing.” What would Sterne say, if he lived in these days of venalism. Literature is now degraded far below a trade. Every body pretends to a moiety of lettered wisdom; every fool can write; and every ass is a critic. Even women, such as are only born—

Hor.

No one can deny Wordsworth the possession of great, very great genius; but it is miserably clogged with twaddle. Mr. Southey, who is also a great man, thinks most of the poets since the time of Elizabeth, scarcely worthy a comparison with the “Lakists.” He, and the whole “Nampy Pamby” family, can find sublimity in “Peter Bell,” and “Betty Foy”!! There is no accounting for tastes;—trite, but true.

Now, really, Doctor, this is more than a quantum suff. Your fancy must have been drunk with the inspiring crystal of the Keswick Lakes, when she told you such insufferable conceit. A little after, in the same “Carmen Nuptiale,” we have,—

A laureate is always expected to be conceited; but this egotism is not at all, à la mode. Dr. Southey has fallen off dreadfully in his poetry. His Epics were never generally liked, notwithstanding his own high opinion of them; but friend or foe, who could like his “Tale of Paraguay,” or Laureate Odes, &c.? He is an admirable prose writer; but extremely artificial, even in his best poetry; it will bear reading but once. The following observations by Galt, are worth perusing. “Mr. Southey cogitates himself into a state of poetical excitement, but he seems to be rarely touched with the fine frenzy of the poet. He has capacity and means to build a pyramid; but the little entaglio of Gray's Elegy, is more valuable than all this great tumulus to the memory of the last of the Goths.”

Mr. Samuel Coleridge, like Wordsworth, is a Lake poet of most original genius. But, for some occasional beautiful lines, he bountifully repays us with an immense deal of floundering bathos, German mysticisms, and perplexing absurdities. Qui sit, Mæcenas?

Professor Milman is a capital specimen of a made poet, “poèta fit.” He cannot say like the author of Wat Tyler—that nature ushered in his birth with largest dower, with regard to the poetical part. Snarling and contemptuous to others, he is frigid, artificial, and labours at his rhyme-manufactory with astonishing assiduity. An intimate acquaintance with the ancient and modern bards, has provided him with an extensive vocabulary of fine-sounding words; but still he is unrighteously perverse in continuing to propagate verses which few, except the wranglers and freshmen of Oxford, feel any pleasure in reading. “But he is Professor of Poetry at Oxford!” I am sorry for it. Let any one examine the real merits of the Oxford prize poems of late years, and he will find in them nothing but the most common place imagery and worn out thoughts, made readable through the pomp of faultless melody. Of course, the prize adventurers must imitate their professing model. Probably, Mr. Milman is anxious to write much, nor trouble himself about its being read; to say with Marolles, I have published “one hundred and thirty-three thousand, one hundred, and twenty-four verses.”—“Heber puffed me, and Murray catered.”

This puts one in mind of a character in the farce, who stalks tumidly over the stage, and bellows out—

Juvenal would have called it a poetical tempest—“poetica surget tempestas.”

What an admirable speech this would be, in the mouth of Brummel to his man John!—but, presently we have something of nasty nature:—

Doubtless this was suggested by that beautiful line of Hesiod's.—

Truly, Anne Boleyn was an angel!!—I wonder what Queen Catherine called her?

The words printed in italic are transplanted here from Mr. Hunt's Rimini, &c.: Mr. Hunt joins to the greatest conceit a meanness of mind alike discoverable in prose and verse: his heart and feelings betray a sourness, even when his phraseology is attempting to be tender. Some have said, that in private life Mr. Hunt is really amiable; but we can hardly conceive this true, when rancour is the natural effusion of his soul.

Hunt evinced a great deal of alacrity in discovering the vulgarisms of Wordsworth; but has exceeded him in these very faults. His doctrine informs us, that “the proper language of poetry, is in fact, nothing different from that of real life.” How admirably he illustrates it with regard to his own life! Poor Scot, (late editor of the London Magazine,) sweated hard to give him a month's renown,—but

More than one-half of our ephemeral bards whose names give dignity to “Annuals,” and throw lustre on “Albums,” are indebted to the printer and publisher for their puny popularity, rather than to the actual merits of their volumes. “Every pert young fellow that has a moving fancy, and the least jingle of verses in his head, sets up for a writer of songs, and resolves to immortalize his bottle or his mistress.”

Barry Cornwall (I suppose his own name was not poetical enough,) is at times equally affected, glossy and meaningless with Miss Landon:—we are quite cloyed with his sweet sounds, sweet diminutives, and sweet nothings-at-all. He has a finer ear than ever Handel or Weber had; he can hear the white music of the sea!—and he can write at times uncommonly nonsensical.

I have the greatest respect for Bernard Barton's character, as a man of the purest morals, &c.: but it must be allowed, that his poetry is seldom beyond mediocrity, and that the greatest portion of his fame has sprung from the charms of Quakerism, rather than from those of his muse. Adventitious celebrity is nothing singular in our days:—He is shrined with much pomp, for large-lettered immortality, in “Time's Telescope.” I intend to have my greyhounds entered there by the next year.

The most prominent feature in these poems, is the decidedly evangelical character of the sentiments.” Eclectic Review, March, 1826.

Mr. W---, considering his own Christian name somewhat anti-poetical, assumed that of Alaric; in reference, I imagine, to the similarity of his disposition with that of the Goth. His “Poetical Sketches” were eminently befriended by means of purchased puffs, Grub-Street alliances, and the usual resources of literary hacks. Mr. Secretary Peel is, it seems, a sort of Mæcenas to this gentleman; and some of his “Lyrics of the Heart” are sleeping quietly in Mr. Peel's Album. Mr. W---'s character for poetical envy, jealousy, and sly subterfuge, is so notorious both among friends and foes, that for the present we must say, vale. His Grey Haired stanzas, above alluded to, are little else but artificial whine; scarcely dignified enough to dedicate to a hair pulled from a pig's tail.

Mr. C---'s “Dartmoor” met with great indulgence: the poem was certainly chaste, and the versification (if it had been not quite so servile an imitation of Thomson), very creditable; but it was replete with monotony, and even the best parts and sentiments have been harped upon by all the poets of the last century.

One of the reviews was pleased to dub the author “unmanly,” for penning a few good-tempered sarcasms on this lady's productions: the author would not willingly give pain to that young lady's feelings, nor does he think her fame so fragile as to be injured by them. Though, like the rest of her poetical contemporaries, she is not void of fault, many of her productions are very elegant and neat. Still, it would have been disrespectful to have passed her over unnoticed, and the author had no honest choice but that of tenderly hinting at a few of her poetical faux-pas.

At nineteen, Mr. B--- turned out a witty little volume, that became very popular among the Bath Blues. Since then he has written several songs in the twaddle style; and has altogether an inexhaustible genius for supplying the billows with moonbeams, discussing the nature of sighs, and allowing dramatic fêtes to live in his verse “one day more.” It is a pity, however, that he permits the Bath papers to daub his talents with all the preposterous fustian of disgusting flattery:—“The Prince of Harmony and the Soul of Song”!!!—Tom Moore would have turned sick at this.

Since the first edition of this work, Mr. P--- has published a work under the title of “A Tale of a Modern Genius,” in which his sorrows and struggles are depicted with great pathos, and cannot fail to awaken the reader's sympathy:—Mr. Jerdan's review of it was as honourable to himself as it was to the author. After all, P--- is a man of very considerable talent, and soars high above a host of poetasters, whose fame has been the result of auspicious patronage among the critics, rather than that of sterling merit.

J--- is one of those injured bards whose stupidity and versified trash have failed to procure patronage; but in these days of eternal sing-song, does Mr. J--- think that dull equable sentiment in rhyme, or mere ungrammatical mediocrity, will sell! Since the “waves of neglect” have thrice passed over him, it is to be hoped he will be prudent enough not to go out of his depth again!

Mr. E--- is a very respectable gentleman in the army, a captain. He published “The Nun,” that Rowe and Waller persuaded J--- to puff, and then “Humbug,” that few read beside the printer and the author.

Δ—id est, Delta, i. e. Mr. ------, is rhymer-general to Blackwood's Magazine;—the first of the day, without taking Delta's sonnets into consideration.

The Rev. T. D--- is a very pleasing writer of plaintive reflections, eminently calculated to inspire with the blue devils.

Lord P--- is the author of “The Moor,” a very thick volume, containing one page of good poetry, relative to a magician. Doubtless his lordship is perfectly satisfied with his fame, for—

S--- has lately rose again, after a long trance, occasioned by the well-applied medicine of Byron. His motto is “Resurgam.”

Who is Fayole, that sticks her miserable daubs of be-rhymed French in the Morning Post? I hardly know how it is that her name has jumped in here;—no matter, she is a good accompaniment for S---.

Mr. F--- still continues his yearly labour, to versify the “Literary Fund.”

Mr. H--- is the author of “Whims and Oddities”—a volume, whose novelty obtained considerable applause. But poetical puns are rather mean and fragile materials for—I was going to say, fame—but Mr. H---, no doubt, clenched them for something more substantial. Speaking of rhyming punsters, Butler remarks, he “is a poet of small wares, whose muse is short of wind, and quickly out of breath. He is a kind of vagabond writer, that is never out of his way, for nothing is beside the purpose with him, that purposes nothing at all. His works are like a running banquet, that have much variety, but little of a sort; for he deals in nothing but scraps and parcels, like a tailor's broker.”

Goldsmith.

The reader will excuse the few unpretending lines devoted to Lord Byron above. I thought they might be tired of a long list of fools and poetasters, and that the name of Byron would be a passing relief. There is such romance about his character, life, and fame, that he would of himself form a subject adequate for the finest poem. However, he wants no stony record to perpetuate his name; it will flourish ever green, when generations shall have passed off, and the indiscretions of youth shall be forgotten; when the sneers of political turncoats shall cease, and calumnious envy wither away, till truth blossom in its place.

Thucyd.

This is not the place to cant about the moral delinquencies of Lord Byron. One thing must ever be regretted, that Lord Byron could allow himself to be connected with a certain blushless gang of blasphemous cockneys—

But to balance against his failings, whatever they may be, how many kindling acts are there of generosity, of unostentatious goodness, and genuine philanthropy! One of the creatures whom he so kindly befriended, turned out his anonymous lampooner. The retainer could not eat his pudding, and hold his tongue!

The following interesting, though not well-written description, is taken from “Medwin's Conversations of Lord Byron”— a work that nobody knew how to criticise when it first came out;—“18th of August. On the occasion of Shelley's melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, and on the day of my arrival learnt that Lord Byron was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in performing the last offices to his friend. We came to a spot marked by an old withered trunk of a fir-tree, and near it on the beach stood a solitary hut covered with reeds. The situation was well calculated for a poet's grave. A few weeks before, I had ridden with him and Lord Byron to this very spot, which I afterwards revisited more than once:—in front was a magnificent extent of the blue and windless Mediterranean, with the isle of Elba and Gorgona. Lord Byron's anchor in the offing;—on the other side, an almost boundless extent of sandy wilderness, uncultivated and uninhabited;—here and there interspersed in tuffs with underwood, curved by the sea-breeze, and stunted by the barren and dry nature of the soil in which it grew. At equal distances along the coast, stood high square towers, for the double purpose of guarding the coast from smuggling, and enforcing the quarantine laws. This view was bounded by an immense extent [how very extensive Mr. M. is!] of the Italian Alps, which are here particularly picturesque, from their volcanic and manifold appearances; which, being composed of white marble, give their summits the resemblance of snow. As a foreground to this picture, appeared an extraordinary group,—Lord Byron and Trelawney were seen standing over the burning pile, with some of the soldiers of the guard; and Leigh Hunt, whose feelings and nerves could not carry him through the scene of horror, [poor fellow! doubtless he was thinking how he should manage the next No. of the Liberal;”] lying back in the carriage, the four horses ready to drop with the heat of the noon-day sun. The stillness of all around was yet more felt by the shrill scream of a solitary curlew, which, perhaps attracted by the body, whirled in such narrow circles round the pile, that it might have been struck with the hand; and was so fearless, that it could not be driven away.”