The Modern Dunciad Virgil in London and Other Poems [by George Daniel] |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | ECLOGUE VII.
THE TRIAL. |
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 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
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ECLOGUE VII. THE TRIAL.
Cives.Stop, Curio, what disaster prompts thy flight?
No storm is nigh, no bailiff is in sight!
Not Buonaparte flies faster when he wheels,
With twenty thousand Cossacks at his heels!
What, has thy wife (I tremble to inquire)
Once more elop'd, and set thy house on fire?
Curio.
I have no time for parley,—once for all—
I go to hear a trial at Guildhall:
A case of libel, but I really doubt,
If Garrow's quibbling tongue can make it out:
Defendant's counsel promises the court
Much private information, deal of sport;
Come, let your bus'ness prove to-morrow's care,
Why all the world will be assembled there;
Great Garble threatens, for he owes a grudge,—
Civ.
Hush! recollect that Garble is a judge!
More potent than a bashaw with three tails,
So have a care of penalties and jails;
His quick resentment reason never stems,
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Cur.
'Tis hard that vice should lord it—
Civ.
Hard indeed!
I like your errand, and commend your speed.—
Cur.
Then come, and bear me company;—
Civ.
Agreed.
They reach'd the Hall, where, in familiar chat
And confab close, a tribe of lawyers sat.
There Garrow spouted with undaunted face,
And grave Sir Thomas Plomer put his case;
There Topping told the causes he had won,
And Best was all antithesis and pun;
There Clifford (who, through Covent Garden porch
From last night's revel sail'd behind a torch,)
Bawl'd rudely, as when reeling through the town,
He bilks a fare, or knocks a watchman down,
Or pleads, as he is wont, for half-a-crown!
When lo! (a signal that the time was come,)
My Lord Chief Justice Garble gave a hum!
His gown he folded with repeated twirls;
And shook like Jove his long ambrosial curls:
Prevailing Dulness in his features dawn'd,
And thrice he bit his thumbs, and thrice he yawn'd!
When, after num'rous shrugs, and inward throes,
Great Garble's pupil, Serjeant Splitbrain, rose!
Renown'd for gross vulgarity of speech,
And legal impudence that few could reach:
Such was the quibbling lawyer, such the man
Who, hemming thrice,—look'd big—and thus began.
And confab close, a tribe of lawyers sat.
There Garrow spouted with undaunted face,
And grave Sir Thomas Plomer put his case;
There Topping told the causes he had won,
And Best was all antithesis and pun;
There Clifford (who, through Covent Garden porch
From last night's revel sail'd behind a torch,)
Bawl'd rudely, as when reeling through the town,
He bilks a fare, or knocks a watchman down,
Or pleads, as he is wont, for half-a-crown!
When lo! (a signal that the time was come,)
My Lord Chief Justice Garble gave a hum!
His gown he folded with repeated twirls;
And shook like Jove his long ambrosial curls:
Prevailing Dulness in his features dawn'd,
And thrice he bit his thumbs, and thrice he yawn'd!
When, after num'rous shrugs, and inward throes,
Great Garble's pupil, Serjeant Splitbrain, rose!
Renown'd for gross vulgarity of speech,
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Such was the quibbling lawyer, such the man
Who, hemming thrice,—look'd big—and thus began.
Splitbrain.
My Lord, and Jurors, in this land of freedom,
With honest laws and lawyers, when we need'em;
This case must make all loyal subjects wince
Who hate a libel, and who love their Prince.
What's Satire?—Why the very worst of crimes,
A drawback on the vices of the times;
A glass that brings the villain forth to view,
And leaves our friends, the Clergy, nought to do!
Who, though, poor souls! they lecture night and day,
Can hardly keep old Lucifer at bay.
Suppose a Peer of fashionable life,
In some odd whim seduce his neighbour's wife,
His youth or noble blood must plead his cause,
And shield him from the vengeance of the laws!
Nay, grant him crippled, old, with rev'rend hairs,
Pray might not passion seize him unawares?
If he betray'd his friend, what can be said for't?
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All men have had their frailties since the flood,
And, “Homo sum,” my Lord—we're flesh and blood!
The Satirist I deem a canting rogue
Who darts his quill at any vice in vogue:
His wit is dull, his morals out of date,
If aim'd against the follies of the great.
But grant that Vice, for decency at least,
Requires some gentle chiding from the priest,
There's Parson D—“At Home” in time of need,
With his well-bred accommodating creed,
To put Court folly instantly to flight
In language most respectful and polite.
Not wishing now to state the case at large,
I leave it to his Lordship in the charge;
Your Verdict must find guilty the Defendant,
And pack him off to Jail—so there's an end on't.
Verax.
On upright British Jurors, British Laws,
I boldly rest the merits of my cause.—
Too long has vice been sanction'd by the great,
And sapp'd the strong foundations of the state;
Too long have subtle pimps and flatt'rers—
Garble.
Hold!—
This mode of pleading, Sir! must be controll'd:
This strange recrimination sets aloof
All due decorum:—
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But, my Lord, I've proof,
Plain downright proof, I hold it in my hand;—
Why ev'ry honest Jury in the land
Know H---d---t, H---t---d (barring all lampoons),
To be sad gamesters, flatt'rers, and buffoons.
This never can be libellous I trust,
When all the world allows it to be just.
Gar.
Yes, grossly libellous, you know it well,
And Scandalum magnatum—false as Hell!—
Your client is an universal pest,
The rogue has libell'd Me among the rest;
He says I'm hot, and irritated soon,—
Yes—when some blockhead puts me out of tune!
That rage for ever flushes in my cheek:
The villain fibs!—no barrister so meek.
That guttling Epicurus in his stye,
Ne'er gormandiz'd more greedily than I,
Which (curse his base assurance!) is a lie.
A twelvemonth spent in Newgate, dark and still,
Will cure his scribbling vein—or nothing will.
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The man is studious, well-inform'd, though young,
No Harpy's smile has he, no flatt'rer's tongue;
Untutor'd in the manners of a Court,
He cannot yet hold decency in sport.
To vice he's neither bending nor polite,
But drags the grey impostor forth to sight,
Whate'er his rank or station, high or low;
He courts no titled friend, he dreads no foe.
Split.
Henceforth no sprightly Peer can drink and wench,
No Justice fall asleep upon the bench,
No Col'nel pimp, no Priest disgrace his gown,
But he shall be placarded through the town!
E'en you, my Lord, so eloquent and grave,
May chance to grow immortal in a stave,
While ev'ry minstrel of the Grub Street Choir
Unaw'd, unshackled, can command the lyre.
Gar.
As Brother Splitbrain argues—black is white—
And Truth's a lie, and wrong (in Law!) is right.
May this bold-fronted libeller of Kings,
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This Fanatic, of principles so nice!
Be taught to know the dignity of vice,
When veil'd beneath the splendor of a crown,
A Lordling's ermine, or a Statesman's gown.
Come, Jurymen, dispatch—nay, prithee, pox,
Don't sit a twelvemonth quibbling in the Box!
I'm (Deuce confound your stupid souls, in Styx!)
Engag'd to dine at Carlton House at six.
| The Modern Dunciad | |