by Thomas Moore
Whose amendments2 (like honest Sir Boyle’s)
Are “amendments, that make matters worse;”3
Great Chieftain, who takest such pains
To prove — what is granted, nem. con. —
With how moderate a portion of brains
Some heroes contrive to get on.
And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where
Is the peer with a star at his button,
Whose quarters could ever compare
With Redesdale’s five quarters of mutton?4
Why, why have ye taken your flight,
Ye diverting and dignified crew?
How ill do three farces a night,
At the Haymarket, pay us for you!
For what is Bombastes to thee,
My Ellenbro’, when thou look’st big
Or where’s the burletta can be
Like Lauderdale’s wit and his wig?
I doubt if even Griffinhoof5 could
(Tho’ Griffin’s a comical lad)
Invent any joke half so good
As that precious one, “This is too bad!”
Then come again, come again Spring!
Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train;
And — of all things the funniest — bring
These exalted Grimaldis again!
1 One of the shows of London.
2 More particularly his Grace’s celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.
3 From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche’s, in the Irish House of Commons.
4 The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher’s “fifth quarter” of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.
5 The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces.
THE “LIVING DOG” AND “THE DEAD LION.”
1828.
Next week will be published (as “Lives” are the rage)
The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange,
Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage
Of the late noble Lion at Exeter ’Change.
Tho’ the dog is a dog of the kind they call “sad,”
’Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends;
And few dogs have such opportunities had
Of knowing how Lions behave — among friends;
How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks,
Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;
And ’tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks
That the Lion was no such great things after all.
Tho’ he roared pretty well — this the puppy allows —
It was all, he says, borrowed — all second-hand roar;
And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows
To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour.
’Tis indeed as good fun as a Cynic could ask,
To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits
Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task,
And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.
Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case)
With sops every day from the Lion’s own pan,
He lifts up his leg at the noble beast’s carcass.
And does all a dog so diminutive can.
However, the book’s a good book, being rich in
Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,
How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,
Who’ll feed on them living and foul them when dead.
T. PIDCOCK
Exeter ’Change,
ODE TO DON MIGUEL.
Et tu, Brute!
1828.1
What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!
After so much good teaching ’tis quite a take-in, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich’s eye,
And then (as young misses say) “finisht” at Windsor!2
I ne’er in my life knew a case that was harder; —
Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!
Three courses each day from his Majesty’s larder, —
And now to turn absolute Don after all!!
Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter
Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine,
Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,
And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.
That Rulers should feed the same way, I’ve no doubt; —
Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe,3
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.
Some Dons too have fancied (tho’ this may be fable)
A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it; —
Not content with the common hot meat on a table,
They’re partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it!4
No wonder a Don of such appetites found
Even Windsor’s collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round
Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup à la Reine.
Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,
Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,
And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings
Of worthies on ’Change into so much confusion!
The Bulls, in hysterics — the Bears just as bad —
The few men who have, and the many who’ve not tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich’s pupil, is — not patriotic!
1 At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves.
2 Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the year 1827.
3 Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits — a favorite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.
4 This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars — the hiding the body under the dinner-table, etc. — is, no doubt, well known to the reader.
THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.
1828.
Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride,
Some well-rouged youth round Astley’s Circus ride
Two stately steeds — standing, with graceful straddle,
Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,
While to soft tunes — some jigs and some andantes —
He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.
So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present; —
Papist and Protestant the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,
And round the ring — each honored, as they go,
With equal pressure from his gracious toe —
To the old medley tune, half “Patrick’s Day”
And half “Boyne Water,” take their cantering way,
While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks.
Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!
How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start; —
If Protestant’s old restive tricks were gone,
And Papist’s winkers could be still kept on!
But no, false hopes — not even the great Ducrow
‘Twixt two such steeds could ‘scape an overthrow:
If solar hacks played Phaëton a trick,
What hope, alas, from hackneys lunatic?
If once my Lord his graceful balance loses,
Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses;
If Peel but gives
one extra touch of whip
To Papist’s tail or Protestant’s ear-tip —
That instant ends their glorious horsmanship!
Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free.
And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea!
THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.
A DREAM.
“Cio che si perde qui, là si raguna.” ARIOSTO.
“ — a valley, where he sees Things that on earth were lost.” MILTON.
1828.
Knowest thou not him1 the poet sings,
Who flew to the moon’s serene domain,
And saw that valley where all the things,
That vanish on earth are found again —
The hopes of youth, the resolves of age,
The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage,
The golden visions of mining cits,
The promises great men strew about them;
And, packt in compass small, the wits
Of monarchs who rule as well without them! —
Like him, but diving with wing profound,
I have been to a Limbo underground,
Where characters lost on earth, (and cried,
In vain, like Harris’s, far and wide,)
In heaps like yesterday’s orts, are thrown
And there, so worthless and flyblown
That even the imps would not purloin them,
Lie till their worthy owners join them.
Curious it was to see this mass
Of lost and torn-up reputations; —
Some of them female wares, alas!
Mislaid at innocent assignations;
Some, that had sighed their last amen
From the canting lips of saints that would be;
And some once owned by “the best of men,”
Who had proved-no better than they should be.
‘Mong others, a poet’s fame I spied,
Once shining fair, now soakt and black —
“No wonder” (an imp at my elbow cried),
“For I pickt it out of a butt of sack!”
Just then a yell was heard o’er head,
Like a chimney-sweeper’s lofty summons;
And lo! a devil right downward sped,
Bringing within his claws so red
Two statesmen’s characters, found, he said,
Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons;
The which, with black official grin,
He now to the Chief Imp handed in; —
Both these articles much the worse
For their journey down, as you may suppose;
But one so devilish rank— “Odd’s curse!”.
Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.
“Ho, ho!” quoth he, “I know full well
“From whom these two stray matters fell;” —
Then, casting away, with loathful shrug,
The uncleaner waif (as he would a drug
The Invisible’s own dark hand had mixt),
His gaze on the other2 firm he fixt,
And trying, tho’ mischief laught in his eye,
To be moral because of the young imps by,
“What a pity!” he cried— “so fresh its gloss,
“So long preserved— ’tis a public loss!
“This comes of a man, the careless blockhead,
“Keeping his character in his pocket;
“And there — without considering whether
“There’s room for that and his gains together —
“Cramming and cramming and cramming away,
“Till — out slips character some fine day!
“However” — and here he viewed it round —
“This article still may pass for sound.
“Some flaws, soon patched, some stains are all
“The harm it has had in its luckless fall.
“Here, Puck!” and he called to one of his train —
“The owner may have this back again.
“Tho’ damaged for ever, if used with skill,
“It may serve perhaps to trade on still;
“Tho’ the gem can never as once be set,
“It will do for a Tory Cabinet.”
1 Astolpho.
2 Huskisson.
HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.
qui facit per alium facit per se.
‘Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time
When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes
Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,
But ne’er took the trouble to write their own books.
Poor devils were found to do this for their betters; —
And one day a Bishop, addressing a Blue,
Said, “Ma’am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?”
To which the Blue answered— “No, Bishop, have you?”
The same is now done by our privileged class;
And to show you how simple the process it needs,
If a great Major-General1 wishes to pass
For an author of History, thus he proceeds: —
First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well
As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,
He settles his neckcloth — takes snuff — rings the bell,
And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.
The Subaltern comes — sees his General seated,
In all the self-glory of authorship swelling; —
“There look,” saith his Lordship, “my work is completed, —
“It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling.”
Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads
Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more;
And tho’ often condemned to see breaking of heads,
He had ne’er seen such breaking of Priscian’s before.
However, the job’s sure to pay — that’s enough —
So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,
Convinced that there never was job half so tough
As the mending a great Major-General’s grammar.
But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view —
New toil for the Sub. — for the Lord new expense:
’Tis discovered that mending his grammar won’t do,
As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!
At last — even this is achieved by his aid;
Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and — the story;
Drums beat — the new Grand March of Intellect’s played —
And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!
1 Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.
IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.
“Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena.”
Inferno, canto 5.
I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering towards me — blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that thro’ their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puft as — tho’ they’d never puff enough.
“Whence and what are ye?” pitying I inquired
Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
“We once were authors” — thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said —
“Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
“Who, early smit with love of praise and — pewter,1
“On C — lb — n’s shelves first saw the light of day,
“In— ‘s puffs exhaled our lives away —
“Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace,
“When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease.
“Ah! little knew we then what ills await
/> “Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state;
“Bepuft on earth — how loudly Str — t can tell —
“And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!”
Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew,
Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro’
In mournful prose, — such prose as Rosa’s2 ghost
Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast,
Sighs thro’ the columns of the Morning Post, —
Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood
Foremost of all that flatulential brood,
Singling a she-ghost from the party, said,
“Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,3
“One of our lettered nymphs — excuse the pun —
“Who gained a name on earth by — having none;
“And whose initials would immortal be,
“Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.
“Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat,
“Wrapt in his own dead rhymes — fit winding-sheet —
“Still marvels much that not a soul should care
“One single pin to know who wrote ‘May Fair;’ —
“While this young gentleman,” (here forth he drew
A dandy spectre, puft quite thro’ and thro’,
As tho’ his ribs were an AEolian lyre
For the whole Row’s soft tradewinds to inspire,)
“This modest genius breathed one wish alone,
“To have his volume read, himself unknown;
“But different far the course his glory took,
“All knew the author, and — none read the book.
“Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun,
“Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington; —
“In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent,
“And now the wind returns the compliment.
“This lady here, the Earl of— ‘s sister,
“Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister —
“Beg pardon — Honorable Mister Lister,
“A gentleman who some weeks since came over
“In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover.
“Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey,
“Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away —
“Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind
“No further purchase for a puff can find.”
“And thou, thyself” — here, anxious, I exclaimed —
“Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named.”
“Me, Sir!” he blushing cried— “Ah! there’s the rub —
“Know, then — a waiter once at Brooks’s Club,
