Chapter III: Introduction: Nov. 20, 1797 (2)

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ABOVE.

Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous,
Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays—
Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, “ah! for thy heavy chance!”

Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet:
Slow is the syllable which thou wouldst urge to speed,
Lame and o’erburthen’d, and “screaming its wretchedness!”

. . . . . . . . .[21]

Ne’er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling-book;
_Dilworth_ and _Dyche_[22] are both mad at thy quantities—
DACTYLICS, call’st thou ’em—“God help thee, silly one!”

[The following is the _Sapphic Ode_ alluded to above, which was
intended by the poet of the _Morning Chronicle_ as a “retort
courteous” to the _Friend of Humanity_. The printer of that paper,
unfortunately, being new to “such branches of learning,” and not
dreaming it could be intended for _poetry_, printed it as below. The
mistake seems to have been immediately discovered, for it
re-appeared next day (Dec. 12) in the guise of verse.—ED.]

THE COLLECTOR AND THE HOUSEHOLDER.

_The Hint taken from the Anti-Jacobin, “Needy Knife-Grinders”_

_H._ Greedy Collector, whither are you going, thus with your
inkhorn in your buttonhole, and ledger so snugly underneath
your coat? Say, greedy Collector.

_C._ Much I rejoice that I have met you here, friend: turn back,
I pri’thee, ’tis with you I want to speak; I am come on
business of importance—gentle Householder.

_H._ Greedy Collector, well I know your business, ’tis for my
taxes you are come to dun me; well! ’tis the last time you
will have a right to ask me for money. Buggy, no longer do
I drive a smart one; smash went my gig, as long [ago] as
Easter; down Highgate hill we tumbled altogether, horse,
wife, and I, Sir. One broke his knees, and[23] another
broke his collar-bone; there’s an end of pleasuring on
Sundays. Take my last payment; there is your two pounds
twelve shillings and ninepence.

_C._ Gentle householder, much are you mistaken; Order, Religion,
Constitution, Laws, and rational freedom, all demand from
you a—triple assessment.

_H._ Triple Assessment! What beside the old tax?

_C._ Certainly: come, deposit, I’m a waiting.

_H._ Wait and be damned. What is it you are after?

_C._ Ten pounds eleven.

_H._ Ten pounds eleven! have I not informed thee gig I have none?
I’ve sent it to the hammer; Pay for a gig and not [to] have
it!

_C._ But you had one at Easter!

_H._ Easter is past and gone. I’ll never pay thee.

_C._ Gentle Householder, then I must proceed to shew thee a
little bit of parchment, called a writ of distringer [for
_distringas_].

[_Exit_ Collector to take possession of the Householder’s
bed and furniture.

The verses which we here present to the public were written immediately after the Revolution of the 4th of September. We should be much obliged to any of our classical and loyal correspondents for an English translation of them.

LATIN VERSES
_Written immediately after the Revolution of the 4th of September._

Ipsa mali Hortatrix scelerumque uberrima Mater
In se prima suos vertit lymphata furores,
Luctaturque diù secum, et conatibus ægris
Fessa cadit, proprioque jacet labefacta veneno.

Mox tamen ipsius rursúm violentia morbi
Erigit ardentem furiis, ultróque minantem
Spargere bella procul, vastæque incendia cladis,
Civilesque agitare faces, totumque per orbem
Sceptra super Regum et Populorum subdita colla
Ferre pedem, et sanctas Regnorum evertere sedes.

Aspicis! Ipsa sui bacchatur sanguine Regis,
Barbaraque ostentans feralis signa triumphi,
Mole giganteâ campis prorumpit apertis,
Successu scelerum, atque insanis viribus audax.

At quà Pestis atrox rapido se turbine vertit,
Cernis ibi, priscâ morum compage solutâ,
Procubuisse solo civilis fœdera vitæ,
Et quodcunque Fides, quodcunque habet alma verendi
Religio, Pietasque et Legum fræna sacrarum.

Nec spes Pacis adhuc—necdum exsaturata rapinis
Effera Bellatrix, fusove expleta cruore.
Crescit inextinctus Furor, atque exæstuat ingens
Ambitio, immanisque irâ Vindicta renatâ
Reliquias Soliorum et adhuc restantia Regna
Flagitat excidio, prædæque incumbit opimæ.

Una etenim in mediis Gens intemerata ruinis
Libertate probâ, et justo libramine rerum,
Securum faustis degit sub legibus ævum;
Antiquosque colit mores, et jura Parentum
Ordine firma suo, sanoque intacta vigore,
Servat adhuc, hominumque fidem, curamque Deorum.
Eheu! quanta odiis avidoque alimenta furori!
Quanta profanatas inter spoliabitur aras
Victima! si quando versis Victoria fatis
Annuerit scelus extremum, terrâque subactâ
Impius Oceani sceptrum fædaverit Hostis!

No. VII.

Dec. 25, 1797.

We have been favoured with a translation of the Latin verses inserted in our last Number. We have little doubt that our readers will agree with us, in hoping that this may not be the last contribution which we shall receive from the same hand.[24]

Parent of countless crimes, in headlong rage,
War with herself see frantic _Gallia_ wage,
Till worn and wasted by intestine strife,
She falls—her languid pulse scarce quick with life.
But soon she feels through every trembling vein,
New strength collected from convulsive pain:
Onward she moves, and sounds the dire alarm,
And bids insulted nations haste to arm;
Spreads wide the waste of war, and hurls the brand
Of civil discord o’er each troubled land,
While desolation marks her furious course,
And thrones subverted bow beneath her force.

Behold! she pours her Monarch’s guiltless blood,
And quaffs with savage joy the crimson flood;
Then, proud the deadly trophies to display
Of her foul crimes, resistless bursts away,
Unaw’d by justice, unappall’d by fear,
And runs with giant strength her mad career.

Where’er her banners float in barbarous pride,
Where’er her conquest rolls its sanguine tide,
There, the fair fabric of establish’d law,
There social order, and religious awe,
Sink in the general wreck; indignant there
Honour and Virtue fly the tainted air;
Fly the mild duties of domestic life
That cheer the parent, that endear the wife,
The lingering pangs of kindred grief assuage,
Or soothe the sorrows of declining age.

Nor yet can Hope presage th’ auspicious hour,
When Peace shall check the rage of lawless Power;
Nor yet th’ insatiate thirst of blood is o’er,
Nor yet has Rapine ravaged every shore.
Exhaustless Passion feeds th’ augmented flame,
And wild Ambition mocks the voice of Shame;
Revenge, with haggard look and scowling eyes,
Surveys with horrid joy th’ expected prize;
Broods o’er each remnant of monarchic sway,
And dooms to certain death his fancied prey.

For midst the ruins of each falling state,
ONE FAVOUR’D NATION braves the general fate—
One favour’d nation, whose impartial laws
Of sober Freedom vindicate the cause;
Her simple manners, midst surrounding crimes,
Proclaim the genuine worth of ancient times;
True to herself, unconquerably bold,
The rights her valour gain’d she dares uphold;
Still with pure faith her promise dares fulfil,
Still bows submission to th’ Almighty will.

Just Heav’n! how Envy kindles at the sight!
How mad Ambition plans the desperate fight!
With what new fury Vengeance hastes to pour
Her tribes of rapine from yon crowded shore!
Just Heav’n! how fair a victim at the shrine
Of injured Freedom shall her life resign,
If e’er, propitious to the vows of hate,
Unsteady Conquest stamp our mournful fate,
If e’er proud France usurp our ancient reign,
And ride triumphant o’er th’ insulted main!

· · · · ·

Far hence th’ unmanly thought—the voice of Fame
Wafts o’er th’ applauding deep her DUNCAN’S name.
What though the Conqueror of th’ Italian plains
Deem nothing gain’d, while this fair isle remains;
Though his young breast with rash presumption glow,
He braves the vengeance of no vulgar foe:
Conqueror no more, full soon his laurel’d pride
Shall perish—whelm’d in Ocean’s angry tide;
His broken bands shall rue the fatal day,
And scatter’d fleets proclaim BRITANNIA’S sway.

No. VIII.

Jan. 1, 1798.

A correspondent has adapted the beautiful poem of the BATTLE OF SABLA, in “Carlyle’s Specimens of Arabian Poetry,” to the circumstances of the present moment. We shall always be happy to see the poetry of other times and nations so successfully engaged in the service of our country, and of the present order of society.

THE CHOICE.
(FROM THE BATTLE OF SABLA, BY JAAFER BEN ALBA.)

I.

Hast thou not seen th’ insulting foe
In fancied triumphs crown’d?
And heard their frantic rulers throw
These empty threats around?
“Make now YOUR CHOICE! The terms we give,
Desponding Britons, hear!
These fetters on your hands receive,
Or in your hearts the spear.”

Can we forget our old renown;
Resign the empire of the sea;
And yield at once our sovereign’s crown,
Our ancient laws and liberty?

Shall thus the fierce destroyer’s hand
Pass unresisted o’er our native land?
Our country sink, to barb’rous force a prey,
And _ransom’d_ ENGLAND bow to _Gallic_ sway?

II.

“Is then the contest o’er?” we cried,
“And lie we at your feet?
And dare you vauntingly decide
The fortune we shall meet?
A brighter day we soon shall see;
No more the prospect lours;
And Conquest, Peace, and Liberty
Shall gild our future hours.”

Yes! we will guard our old renown;
Assert our empire o’er the sea;
And keep untouch’d our sovereign’s crown,
Our ancient laws and liberty.

Not thus the fierce destroyer’s hand
Shall scatter ruin o’er this smiling land;
No barb’rous force shall here divide its prey;
Nor _ransom’d_ ENGLAND bow to _Gallic_ sway.

III.

The foe advance. In firm array
We’ll rush o’er Albion’s sands—
Till the red sabre marks our way
Amid their yielding bands!
Then as they lie in death’s cold grasp,
We’ll cry, “OUR CHOICE IS MADE!
These hands the sabre’s hilt shall clasp,
Your hearts shall feel the blade”.

Thus Britons guard their ancient fame,
Assert their empire o’er the sea,
And to the envying world proclaim,
One nation still is brave and free—

Resolv’d to conquer or to die,
True to their KING, their LAWS, their LIBERTY:
No barb’rous foe finds here an easy prey—
_Un-ransom’d_ ENGLAND spurns all foreign sway.[25]

The following poem has been transmitted to us, without preface or introduction, by a gentleman of the name of IRELAND.[26] We apprehend from the peculiarities of the style, that it must be the production of a remote period. We are likewise inclined to imagine, that it may contain allusions to some former event in English history. What that event may have been, we must submit to the better judgment and superior information of our readers, from whom we impatiently expect a solution of this interesting question. The editor has been influenced solely by a sense of its poetical merit.

[JA’FAR SON OF ’ULBAH, OF THE BANU-L-HÂRITH.

The Poet, with two companions, went forth to plunder the herds of
’Ukail, a neighbour-tribe, and was beset on his way back by detached
parties of that tribe in the valley of Sahbal, whom he overcame and
reached home safely.

That even when under Sahbal’s twin peaks upon us drave
the horsemen troop after troop, and the foemen pressed us sore—
They said to us—“Two things lie before you: now must ye choose—
the points of the spears couched at you, or, if ye will not,
chains”.
We answered them—“Yea, this thing may fall to you after fight,
when men shall be left on ground, and none shall arise again;
But we know not, if we quail before the assault of Death,
how much may be left of life: the goal is too dim to see”.
We strode to the strait of battle: there cleared us a space around
the white swords in our right hands which the smiths had furbished
fair.
To them fell the edge of my blade on that day of Sahbal dale,
and mine was the share thereof whereover my fingers closed.
ED.]

THE DUKE AND THE TAXING-MAN.[27]

Whilome there liv’d in fair Englonde
A Duke of peerless wealth,
And mickle care he took of her
Old Constitution’s health.
Full fifty thousand pounds and more
To him his vassals paid,
But ne to King, ne Countree, he
Would yield th’ assessment made.
The taxing-man, with grim viságe
Came pricking on the way;
The taxing-man, with wrothful words,
Thus to the Duke did say:
“Lord Duke, Lord Duke, thou’st hid from me,
As sure as I’m alive,
Of goodly palfreys _seventeen_,
Of varlets _twenty-five_”.
Then out he drew his gray goose quill,
Ydipp’d in ink so black,
And sorely to SURCHARGE the Duke,
I trowe, he was ne slack.
Then ’gan the Duke to looken pale,
And stared as one astound,
Twaie coneynge Clerks[28] eftsoons he spies
Sitting their board around.
“O woe is me,” then cried the Duke,
“Ne mortal wight but errs!
I’ll hie to yon twaie coneynge Clerks,
Yclept Commissioners.”
The Duke he hied him to the board,
And straight ’gan for to say,
“A seely[29] wight I am, God wot,
Ne ken I the right way.
“These varlets twenty-five were ne’er
_Liveried in white and red_;
Withouten this, what signifie
Wages, and board, and bed?
“And by St. George, that stout horseman,
My palfreys _seventeen_,
For two years, or perchance for three,
I had forgotten clean.”
“Naie,” quoth the Clerk, “both horse and foot
To hide was thine intent,
Ne seely wight be ye, but didst
With good advisament.[30]
“Surcharge, surcharge, good Taxing-man,
Anon our seals we fix,
Of sterling pounds, Lord Duke, you pay
Three hundred thirty-six.”[31]

EPIGRAM ON THE PARIS LOAN,[32]
CALLED
THE LOAN UPON ENGLAND.

The Paris cits, a patriotic band,
Advance their cash on British freehold land.
But let the speculating rogues beware—
They’ve bought the _skin_, but who’s to kill _the bear_?

No. IX.

Jan. 8, 1798.

ODE TO ANARCHY.

BY A JACOBIN.

(BEING AN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE XXXV. BOOK I.)

_O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium!_

Goddess, whose dire terrific power
Spreads from thy much-loved Gallia’s plains
Where’er her blood-stain’d ensigns lower,
Where’er fell Rapine stalks, or barb’rous Discord reigns!

Thou, who canst lift to fortune’s height
The wretch by truth and virtue scorn’d,
And crush with insolent delight,
All whom true merit rais’d, or noble birth adorn’d!

Thee, oft the murd’rous band implores,
Swift darting on its hapless prey:
Thee, wafted from fierce Afric’s shores,
The Corsair Chief invokes to speed him on his way.

Thee, the wild Indian Tribes revere;
Thy charms the roving Arab owns;
Thee, kings, thee tranquil nations fear,
The bane of social bliss, the foe to peaceful thrones.

For, soon as thy loud trumpet calls
To deadly rage, to fierce alarms,
Just Order’s goodly fabric falls,
Whilst the mad people cries, “To arms! to arms!”

With thee Proscription, child of strife,
With Death’s choice implements, is seen,
Her Murderer’s gun, Assassin’s knife,
And, “last not least in love,” her darling _Guillotine_.

Fond Hope is thine,—the hope of Spoil,
And Faith,—such faith as ruffians keep:
They prosper thy destructive toil,
That makes the Widow mourn, the helpless Orphan weep.

Then false and hollow friends retire,
Nor yield one sigh to soothe despair;
Whilst crowds triumphant Vice admire,
Whilst Harlots shine in robes that deck’d the Great and Fair.

Guard our famed Chief to Britain’s strand!
Britain, our last, our deadliest foe:
Oh, guard his brave associate band!
A band to slaughter train’d, and “nursed in scenes of woe”.

What shame, alas! one little Isle
Should dare its native laws maintain!
At Gallia’s threats serenely smile,
And, scorning her dread power, triumphant rule the main.

For this have guiltless victims died
In crowds at thy ensanguined shrine!
For this has recreant Gallia’s pride
O’erturned Religion’s Fanes, and braved the Wrath Divine!

What Throne, what Altar, have we spared
To spread thy power, thy joys impart?
Ah! then, our faithful toils reward!
And let each falchion pierce some loyal Briton’s heart.

[THE FOLLOWING IS A TRANSLATION, BY DUNCOMBE, OF
HORACE’S ODE TO FORTUNE,
_Of which the above Ode is a parody_.

O Goddess, whose propitious sway
Thy Antium’s favourite sons obey;
Whose voice from depth of woe recalls
The wretch, and triumphs turns to funerals;

From Thee, rich crops the needy swain
Implores. Thee, sovereign of the main,
The mariner invokes, who braves
In a Bithynian bark the Cretan waves;

Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near,
And unrelenting Dacians, fear:
The warlike sons of Italy;
Cities, and realms, and empires, worship Thee.

Mothers of barbarous monarchs dread,
And purple tyrants, lest thou tread
With spurning foot, and scatter round
The sculptured column on th’ encumbered ground;

And lest the fickle crowd should break
Their bonds; and with loud clamours wake
The peaceful to assert their right
By force of arms, and quell usurping might.

Ruthless necessity prepares
The way for Thee; and ever bears
Huge nails in her strong hands of brass
The wedge, the hook, and lead’s hot molten mass.

Thee Hope and white robed Faith, adore,
So rarely found!—She, when no more
Thou smil’st, attends the fallen great
Stript of his gay attire and stately seat.

But venal crowds and harlots fly:
And, if the flowing casks are dry,
When to the dregs the wine they drink,
From friendship’s yoke the false associates shrink.

Thy aid for Cæsar Rome implores,
Conduct him safe to Britain’s shores,
The limits of the world; and lead
Our new-raised bands against the trembling Mede.

Alas! we mourn our crimes, our scar
And brethren slain in civil wars:
How oft have Roman youth embrued
Their savage hands in streams of social blood!

What has this Iron Age not dared?
What Gods revered? What Altars spared?
O! point again the blunted steel,
And let the Massagete our vengeance feel!—ED.]

* * * * *

The following Song is recommended to be sung at all _Convivial_ Meetings, convened for the purpose of opposing the Assessed-Tax Bill. The correspondent who has transmitted it to us informs us that he has tried it with great success among many of his well-disposed neighbours, who had been at first led to apprehend that the 1–20th part of their income was too great a sacrifice for the preservation of the remainder of their property from French Confiscation.

You have heard of REWBELL,[33]
That demon of hell,
And of BARRAS, his brother Director;
Of the canting LEPAUX,
And that scoundrel MOREAU,
Who betray’d his old friend and protector.

Would you know how these friends,
For their own private ends,
Would subvert our Religion and Throne?—
Do you doubt of their skill
To change Laws at their will?—
You shall hear how they treated their own.

’Twas their pleasure to look,
In a little blue book,
At the Code of their famed legislation,
That with truth they might say,
In the space of one day
They had broke every Law of the Nation.

The first law that they see,
Is “_the Press shall be free_!”
The next is “_the Trial by Jury_”:
Then, “_the People’s free Choice_”;
Then, “_the Members’ free Voice_”—
When REWBELL exclaim’d in a fury—

“On a method we’ll fall
For infringing them all—
We’ll seize on each Printer and Member:
No period so fit
For a desperate hit,
As our bloody month of _September_.

“We’ll annul each election
Which wants our correction,
And name our own creatures instead.
When once we’ve our will,
No blood we will spill,
(But let CARNOT be knock’d on the head).

“To _Rochefort_ we’ll drive
Our victims alive,
And as soon as on board we have got ’em,
Since we destine the ship
For no more than one trip,
We can just make a hole in the bottom.

“By this excellent plan,
On the _true Rights of Man_,
When we’ve founded our _fifth Revolution_,
Though _England’s_ our foe,
An army shall go
To _improve_ HER corrupt Constitution.

“We’ll address to the Nation
A fine Proclamation
With offers of friendship so warm:
Who can give BUONAPARTE
A welcome so hearty
As the friends of a THOROUGH REFORM?”

No. X.

Jan. 15, 1798.

For the two following poems we are indebted to unknown correspondents. They could not have reached us at a more seasonable period.

The former, we trust, describes the feelings common to every inhabitant of this country. The second, we know too well, is expressive of the sentiments of our enemies.

LINES,
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1797.

Loud howls the storm along the neighbouring shore;
BRITAIN indignant hears the frantic roar:
Her generous sons pour forth on every side,
Firm in their country’s cause—their country’s pride!
See wild Invasion threats this envied land:
Swift to defend her, springs each Social Band:
Her white rocks echoing to their cheerful cry,
“GOD AND OUR KING!”—“ENGLAND AND VICTORY!”

Yes! happy BRITAIN, on thy tranquil coast
No trophies mad Philosophy shall boast!
Though thy disloyal sons, a feeble band,
Sound the loud blast of treason through the land;
Scoff at thy dangers with unnatural mirth,
And execrate the soil which gave them birth;
With jaundiced eye thy splendid triumphs view,
And give to FRANCE the palm to BRITAIN due:
Or,—when loud strains of gratulation ring,[34]
And lowly bending to the ETERNAL KING,
Thy SOVEREIGN bids a nation’s praise arise
In grateful incense to the fav’ring skies—
Cast o’er each solemn scene a scornful glance,
And only sigh for ANARCHY and FRANCE.

Yes! unsupported _Treason’s_ standard falls,
_Sedition_ vainly on her children calls,
While Cities, Cottages, and Camps contend,
Their King, their Laws, their Country to defend.[35]

Raise, BRITAIN, raise thy sea-encircled head;
Round the wide world behold thy glory spread;
Firm as thy guardian oaks thou still shalt stand,
The dread and wonder of each hostile land;
While the dire fiends of discord idly rave,
And, mad with anguish, curse the severing wave.

QUEEN of the OCEAN, lo! she smiles serene,
’Mid the deep horrors of the dreadful scene;
With heartfelt piety to Heav’n she turns—
From Heav’n the flame of British courage burns—
She dreads no power but HIS who rules the ball,
At whose “great bidding” empires rise and fall;
In HIM, on peaceful plain, or tented field,
She trusts, secure in HIS protecting shield—
GALLIA, thy threats she scorns—BRITAIN SHALL NEVER YIELD.
AN ENGLISHWOMAN.

TRANSLATION OF THE NEW SONG
OF THE
“ARMY OF ENGLAND”.

WRITTEN BY THE CI-DEVANT BISHOP OF AUTUN.[36]

WITH NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR.

Good Republicans all,
The Directory’s call
Invites you to visit JOHN BULL;
Oppress’d by the rod
Of a King, and a God,[37]
The cup of his misery’s full.

Old JOHNNY shall see
What makes a man FREE;
Not parchments, nor Statutes on Paper;
And stripp’d of his riches,
Great Charter, and breeches,
Shall cut a FREE Citizen’s caper.

Then away, let us over
To _Deal_, or to _Dover_—
We laugh at his talking so big;
He’s pamper’d with feeding,
And wants a sound bleeding—
_Par Dieu!_ he shall bleed like a pig!

JOHN, tied to the stake,
A grand baiting will make,
When worried by mastiffs of France;
What REPUBLICAN FUN,
To see his blood run,
As at _Lyons_, _La Vendée_, and _Nantz_![38]

With grape-shot discharges,
And plugs in his barges,
With _National Razors_ good store,
We’ll pepper and shave him,
And in the _Thames_ lave him—
How sweetly he’ll bellow and roar!

What the villain likes worse,
We’ll vomit his Purse,
And make it the guineas disgorge;
For your RAPHAELS and RUBENS
We would not give two-pence;
Stick, stick to the PICTURES OF GEORGE.

No Venus of stone,
But of good flesh and bone,
Will do for a true Democrat;
When weary with slaughter,
With JOHN’S Wife and Daughter,
We’ll join in a little _chit-chat_.

The Shop-keeping hoard,
The Tenant and Lord,
And the Merchants,[39] are excellent prey:
At our cannon’s first thunder,
_Rape_, _pillage_, and _plunder_
The _Order_ shall be _of the day_.

French fortunes and lives,
French daughters and wives,
Have _five honest men_ to defend ’em!
And BARRAS and Co.
When to _England_ we go,
Will kindly take JOHN’S _in commendam_.

No. XI.

Jan. 22, 1798.

We have said in another part of our paper of this day, “that though we shall never begin an attack, we shall always be prompt to repel it”.

On this principle, we could not pass over in silence the EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE _Anti-Jacobin_, which appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_ of Wednesday, and from which we have fortunately been furnished with a motto for this day’s paper.

We assure the author of the epistle, that the answer which we have here the honour to address to him, contains our genuine and undisguised sentiments upon the merits of the poem.

Our conjectures respecting the authors and abettors of this performance may possibly be as vague and unfounded as theirs are with regard to the EDITORS of the _Anti-Jacobin_. We are sorry that we cannot satisfy their curiosity upon this subject—but we have little anxiety for the gratification of our own.

It is hardly to be expected, that the character of the epistle should be taken on trust from the editors of this volume; it is thought best, therefore, to subjoin the whole performance as it originally appeared—a mode of hostility obviously the most fair, and in respect to the combatants in the cause of Jacobinism, by much the most effectual. They are always best opposed by the arms which they themselves furnish. Jacobinism shines by its own light.

To the respectable names which the author of the following address has thought proper to connect with the “ANTI-JACOBIN,” no apology is made for thus preserving this otherwise perishable specimen of dulness and defamation. He who has been reviled by the enemies of the “ANTI-JACOBIN,” must feel that principles are attributed to him, of which he need not be ashamed: and when the abuse is conveyed in such a strain of feebleness and folly, he must see that those principles excite animosity only in quarters of which he need not be afraid.

It is only necessary to add, what is most conscientiously the truth, that this production, such as it is, is _by far the best_ of all the attacks that the combined wits of the cause have been able to muster against the “ANTI-JACOBIN”.

EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.[40]

_Hic Niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto!_

To tell what gen’rals did, or statesmen spoke, To teach the world by truths, or please by joke; To make mankind grow bold as they peruse, Judge on existing things, and—weigh the news; For this a PAPER first display’d its page, Commanding tears and smiles through ev’ry age!

Hail, justly famous! who in modern days With nobler flight aspire to higher praise; Hail, justly famous! whose discerning eyes At once detect MISTAKES, MIS-STATEMENTS, LIES;[41] 10 Hail, justly famous! who with fancy blest, Use fiend-like virulence for sportive jest; Who only bark to serve your private ends— Patrons of Prejudice, Corruption’s friends! Who hurl your venom’d darts at well-earned fame— Virtue your hate, and Calumny your aim!

Whoe’er ye are, all hail!—whether the skill Of youthful CANNING guides the ranc’rous quill; With powers mechanic far above his age, Adapts the paragraph and fills the page; 20 Measures the column, mends whate’er’s amiss, Rejects THAT letter, and accepts of THIS; Or HAMMOND,[42] leaving his official toil, O’er this great work consume the midnight oil— Bills, passports, letters, for the Muses quit, And change dull business for amusing wit:— His life of labour at one gasp is o’er, His books forgot—his desk beloved no more! Proceed to prop the Ministerial cause; See consequential MORPETH[43] nods applause; 30 In ev’ry fair one’s ears at balls and plays The gentle GRANVILLE LEVESON[44] whispers praise: Well-judging Patrons, whom such works can please; Great works, well worthy Patrons such as these!

Who heard, not raptured, the poetic Sage Who sung of Gallia in a headlong rage, And blandly drew with no uncourtly grace The simple manners of our English race— Extoll’d great DUNCAN, and, supremely brave, Whelm’d BUONAPARTE’S pride beneath the wave? 40 I swear by all the youths that MALMESBURY[45] chose, By ELLIS’[46] sapient prominence of nose, By MORPETH’S gait, important, proud, and big— By LEVESON GOWER’S crop-imitating wig, That, could the pow’rs which in those numbers shine, Could that warm spirit animate my line, Your glorious deeds which humbly I rehearse— Your deeds should live immortal as my verse; And, while they wonder’d whence I caught my flame, Your sons should blush to read their fathers’ shame! 50

Proceed, great men!—your office is not done; Proceed with what you have so well begun: Load FOX (if you by PITT would be preferr’d), With ev’ry guilt that KENYON ever heard— Adult’rer, gamester, drunkard, cheat and knave, A factious demagogue and pension’d slave! Loose, loose your cry—with ire satiric flash: Let all the Opposition feel your lash; And prove them to these hot and partial times, A combination of the worst of crimes! 60

But softer numbers softer subjects fit: In liquid phrases thrill the praise of PITT; Extol in eulogies of candid truth The Virgin Minister—the Heav’n-born Youth; The greatest gift that fate to England gave, Created to support and born to save; Prompt to supply whate’er his country lacks— Skilful to GAG, and knowing how to TAX! With him companions meet in order stand— A firm, compact, and well-appointed band; 70 Skill’d to advance or to retreat, DUNDAS,[47] And bear thick battle on his front of brass; GRENVILLE with pond’rous head, which match’d we find By equal ponderosity behind.——

But hold, my Muse; nor farther these pursue!— Great Editors, we have digress’d from you; From you, to whom our trivial lays belong, From you, the sole inspirers of our song! Proceed:—urge on the same vindictive strain, To gain the applauses of great MALMESBURY’S train; 80 With jaundiced eyes the noblest patriot scan: Proceed—be more opprobrious if you can; Proceed—be more abusive ev’ry hour; To be more stupid is beyond your power.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

_Nostrorum sermonum candide judex!_

Bard of the borrow’d lyre! to whom belong The shreds and remnants of each hackney’d song; Whose verse thy friends in vain for wit explore, And count but _one good line_ in eighty-four! Whoe’er thou art, all hail! Thy bitter smile Gilds our dull page, and cheers our humble toil!

For _yet_—though firm and fearless in the cause Of pure Religion, Liberty, and Laws,— Though TRUTH approved, though fav’ring VIRTUE smiled, Some doubts remained: WE _yet_ were _unreviled_. 10

Thanks to thy zeal! those doubts at length are o’er! Thy suffrage crowns our wish!—WE ask no more To stamp with sterling worth each honest line, Than Censure, cloth’d in vapid Verse like thine!

But say—in full blown honours dost thou sit ’Midst BROOKES’S ELDERS[48] on the BENCH OF WIT, Where HARE,[49] chief-justice, frames the stern decree, While with their learned brother, sages three, FITZPATRICK,[50] TOWNSHEND,[51] SHERIDAN, agree?

Or art thou One—THE PARTY’S flattered fool,[52] 20 Train’d in _Debrett’s_, or _Ridgway’s_ civic school— One, who with rant and fustian daily wears, Well-natured RICHARDSON![53] thy patient ears;— Who sees nor Taste nor Genius in these times, Save PARR’S[54] _buzz_ prose,[55] and COURTENAY’S[56] kidnapp’d rhymes?[57] Or is it he,—the youth,[59] whose daring soul With _half a mission_ sought the Frozen Pole;— And then, returning from the unfinish’d work, Wrote _half a letter_,—to demolish BURKE? Studied Burke’s manner,—aped his forms of speech; 30 Though when he strives his metaphors to reach, One luckless slip his meaning overstrains, And loads the blunderbuss with BEDFORD’S brains.[60]

Whoe’er thou art—ne’er may thy patriot fire, Unfed by praise or patronage, expire! Forbid it, Taste!—with Compensation large Patrician hands thy labours shall o’ercharge![61] BEDFORD and WHITBREAD shall vast sums advance, The _Land_ and _Malt_ of Jacobin Finance!

Whoe’er thou art—before thy feet we lay, 40 With lowly suit, our _Number of to-day_! Spurn not our offering with averted eyes! Let thy pure breath revive the extinguished _Lies_! _Mistakes, Mis-statements_, now so oft o’erthrown, Rebuild, and prop with nonsense of thy own! Pervert our meaning, and misquote our text— And _furnish us a motto for the next_!

ODE TO LORD MOIRA.

I.

If on your head[62] some vengeance fell, MOIRA, for every tale you tell, The listening Lords to cozen;[63] If but one whisker lost its hue, Changed (like Moll Coggin’s tail) to blue, I’d hear them by the dozen.

II.

But still, howe’er you draw your bow,[64] Your charms improve, your triumphs grow, New grace adorns your figure; More stiff your boots, more black your stock, 10 Your hat assumes a prouder cock, Like Pistol’s (if ’twere bigger).

III.

Tell then your stories, strange and new,[65] Your Fathers fame[66] shall vouch them true; So shall the _Dublin Papers_; Swear by the stars[67] that saw the sight, That infant thousands die each night,[68] While troops _blow out their tapers_.

IV.

SHUCKBURGH[69][70] shall cheer you with a smile, MACPHERSON[71][71] simpering all the while, 20 With BASTARD[71][72] and with Bruin:[73] And fierce NICHOLL,[74] who wields at will Th’ emphatic stick, or powerful quill, To prove his country’s ruin.

V.

Each day new followers[75] crowd your board, And lean expectants hail my Lord With adoration fervent: Old THURLOW,[76] though he swore by G— No more to own a master’s nod, Is still your humble servant. 30

VI.

Old PULTENEY[77][78] too, your influence feels, And asks from you th’ Exchequer Seals, To tax and save the nation: TOOKE trembles,[79] lest your potent charms Should lure CHARLES FOX from _his_ fond arms, To YOUR Administration.[81] 36

[TRANSLATION OF HORACE, BOOK II., ODE VIII.

BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

Avenger of insulted truth,
Had Heaven, Barine, dimm’d one tooth;
Or bade, in justice bade, thee wail
A speck upon a single nail—
I’d trust thee: but ere well the vow
Has passed those treacherous lips, there glow
New beauties mantling o’er thy cheek;
And thee the youth, thee only seek.

It profits thee to be forsworn
By thy dead mother’s hallowed urn;
By heaven, and each mute nightly sign,
And every deathless power divine.
Yes: Venus laughs well-pleased, and lo!
The gentle Nymphs are laughing too;
And Cupid, who his burning darts
Whets with fresh blood from lovers’ hearts.

Boyhood is rising to thy sway,
Thy train of slaves augments: e’en they,
Who swore thy threshold to forsake,
Hug the fond chain they cannot break.
Thee for their sons pale mothers fear,
The frugal father for his heir:
And plighted maidens, lest thy charms
Keep the false truants from their arms.—ED.]

NOTES TO THE ODE TO LORD MOIRA.

[This Ode, written by GEORGE ELLIS, refers to the wish of a “Third Party” in the House of Commons, who were dissatisfied with the conduct of the war, the embarrassed state of the finances, and the alarming situation of the country, to have an interview with LORD MOIRA, with a view to effect a change of Ministry. The following extracts from a letter from his Lordship to COL. M‘MAHON, dated June 15, 1797, will throw some light on this negotiation. “They requested that I would endeavour, on the assurance of their support, to form an administration, on the principle of excluding persons, who had on either side made themselves obnoxious to the public. I strenuously recommended them to form an alliance with MR. FOX’S party, that might be satisfactory to themselves, and reduce to strict engagement the extent of the measures, which MR. FOX, when brought into office by themselves, would propose. Hitherto nobody has been designated to any particular office but SIR WILLIAM PULTENEY. The gentleman had said that he was the person whom they should be most gratified in seeing CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, and I had professed to them and to him that there was not any person with whom I could act more confidently. I added, the introduction of LORD THURLOW, SIR W. PULTENEY, and myself, into the Cabinet, would not assure the public of a change of system.”—ED.]

No. XII.

Jan. 29, 1798.

The following Ode[A] was dropped into the letterbox in our Publisher’s window. From its title—“A BIT OF AN ODE TO MR. FOX”—we were led to imagine there was some mistake in the business, and that it was meant to have been conveyed to Mr. Wright’s neighbour, Mr. Debrett, whom we recollected to have been the Publisher of the “Half of a Letter” to the same gentleman, which occasioned so much noise (of horse-laughing) in the world. Our politics certainly do not entitle us to the honourable distinction of being made the channel for communicating such a production to the public. But, for our parts, as we are “not at war with genius,” on whatever side we find it, we are happy to give this Poem the earliest place in our Paper; and shall be equally ready to pay the same attention to any future favours of the same kind, and from the same quarter.

The Poem is a free translation, or rather, perhaps, imitation, of the twentieth Ode of the second Book of HORACE. We have taken the liberty to subjoin the passages of which the parallel is the most striking.

A BIT OF AN ODE TO MR. FOX.[82]

I.

On[83] grey goose quills sublime I’ll soar
To metaphors unreach’d before,
That scare the vulgar reader:
With style well form’d from Burke’s best books—
From rules of grammar (e’en HORNE TOOKE’S)
A bold and free Seceder.

II.

I[84] whom, dear Fox, you condescend
To call your “Honourable Friend,”
Shall live for everlasting:
That[85] Stygian Gallery I’ll quit,
Where printers crowd me, as I sit
Half-dead with rage and fasting.

III.

I[86] feel! the growing down descends,
Like goose-skin, to my fingers’ ends—
Each nail becomes a feather:
My cropp’d head[87] waves with sudden plumes,
Which erst (like Bedford’s, or his groom’s)
Unpowder’d, braved the weather.[88]

IV.

I mount, I mount into the sky,
“Sweet[89] bird,” to[90] _Petersburg_ I’ll fly;
Or, if you bid, to _Paris_;
Fresh missions of the _Fox and Goose_
Successful Treaties may produce;
Though PITT in all miscarries.

V.

Scotch,[91] English, Irish _Whigs_ shall read
The Pamphlets, Letters, Odes I breed,
Charm’d with each bright endeavour:
_Alarmists_[92] tremble at my strain,
E’en[93] PITT, made candid by champaign,
Shall hail ADAIR “_the clever_”.

VI.

Though criticism assail my name,
And luckless blunders blot my fame,[94]
O![95] make no needless bustle;
As vain and idle it would be
To waste one pitying thought on me,
As to[96] “unPLUMB a RUSSELL”.[97]

[LYRICS OF HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XX.

TRANSLATED BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

Borne on no weak or vulgar wing,
Upward through air, two-form’d, I’ll spring;
Nor longer grovel here, but soar
Where Envy shall pursue no more.
Not I, from humble lineage sprung,
Not I, dear Patron, whom thy tongue
Summons to fame, will fear to die,
Or bound by Styx’s fetters lie.

A rougher skin my legs assume;
My upward limbs the cygnet’s plume
Invests; my shoulders, fingers feel
The feathery softness o’er them steal.

Fleeter than Icarus now I’ll haste,
A tuneful swan, to Libya’s waste,
And heaving sands, where Bospor’s wave
Tosses, or Arctic tempests rave.
Me Colchis, Dacia me shall learn,
Who hides her fear of Marsian stern;
Me Scythia’s hordes, the well-trained son
Of Spain, and he who quaffs the Rhone.

From my mock bier be far away
The loud lament, the funeral lay;
And, tribute to my fancied doom,
Far the vain honours of the tomb!—ED.]

[The charge of FOX’S having sent ADAIR to St. Petersburg, to
counteract the measures of PITT’S government, first broached in Mr.
Burke’s “Letter on the Conduct of the Minority,” has been vigorously
contradicted, yet so late as April, 1854, it was alluded to as a
fact by Lord Malmesbury in the House of Peers. It was, however, on
this occasion again authoritatively denied by LORD CAMPBELL, who
took occasion to observe that SIR ROBERT ADAIR was “now in his 90th
year, and for many years had served his country with great assiduity
and fidelity. He had been sent by successive ministers [Mr. Fox,
Lord Grey, _Mr. Canning_ (who assisted in libelling him so often in
the pages of the present work), Lord Wellesley, Lord Palmerston, the
Duke of Wellington] to Vienna, to Constantinople, to Brussels, and
to Berlin, and had represented the Crown of England upon some
occasions of very great importance, in which he had uniformly
acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the Government and for the
benefit of his country. He believed a more honourable man had not
lived in this country at any time.”

The following denial by Sir Robert Adair himself is copied from his
autograph statement, prefixed to the _Life of Wilberforce_,
published in 1838:—“This idle story is here accredited by Mr.
Wilberforce, and inserted by his sons, without due examination. It
was grounded on a journey I made to Vienna and St. Petersburg in
1791. Doctor Prettyman [_sic_], Bishop of Winchester, in a work
entitled _The Life of the Right Hon. William Pitt_, published by him
in 1823, brought forward the fact of my having gone upon this
journey as a criminal charge against Mr. Fox, who, as he pretends,
sent me upon it with the intent of counteracting some negociations
then carrying on between Great Britain and Russia at St. Petersburg.
I answered his accusation, I trust successfully, in two letters
published by Longman & Co. [_Two Letters from Mr. Adair to the Bp.
of Winchester, in answer to the charge of a High Treasonable
Misdemeanour brought by his Lordship against Mr. Fox and himself in
his Life of the Rt. Hon. W. Pitt_, 8vo., 1821], and explained the
circumstances which induced me in my travels in 1791 to visit the
two capitals above mentioned.—ROBERT ADAIR: 1838.”

The “Mission” was, however, firmly believed in, and PITT was urged,
but in vain, by the Duke of Richmond and others of the Government,
to arrest FOX for high treason.

The following extract from the _Political Memoranda of Francis,
fifth Duke of Leeds, now first printed from the Originals in the
British Museum; edited by Oscar Browning, for the Camden Society_,
1884, is an illustration of the rumours current at the time, and
many years after.

“Saty. 24 Novr. 1792. LORD ST. HELENS dined with me. After the
Ladies were gone upstairs we conversed, for some time on Foreign
affairs.... Speaking of the Russian business of last year he
reprobated in the strongest terms the conduct of FOX in sending an
agent, MR. ADAIR, to Petersburg to counteract the negociations of
this Court at that of Russia. He told me he knew for certain that
MR. ADAIR had shewn to some English merchants at Petersburg the
Empress’ Picture set in diamonds which had been given to him. That
it was not one of the sort usually given, but of much greater value,
being set round with large Brilliants, and the whole Picture covered
with a Table Diamond instead of Chrystal. That this was a present
seldom made but on some very particular occasion or to some great
favorite (I remember to have seen such a one in the possession of P.
Orlow). LD. ST. H. thought it must have been worth six or seven
thousand pounds, and of too much value probably to have been meant
for MR. ADAIR. The conclusion we both very naturally drew from this
circumstance was not very favorable to MR. FOX.”

The following additional particulars relating to the connection
between FOX and ADAIR may not be thought out of place here. They are
extracted from the highly interesting and important _Croker Papers,
being the Correspondence and Diaries, 1809–1830, of the Rt. Hon._ J.
W. CROKER, _M.P., Edited by Louis J. Jennings. M.P._, 3 vols., 8vo.,
1884.

The first is in these terms: “When ADAIR, whose father was a
surgeon, went as FOX’S Ambassador to Russia, LORD WHITWORTH, then
the King’s Minister, made a good joke, which tended not a little to
lower ADAIR, and defeat his object. ‘Est-ce un homme très
considérable, ce M. d’Adair?’ asked the EMPRESS. ‘Pas trop, Madame,’
replied Lord Whitworth, ‘quoique son père était grand seigneur
[saigneur].’” The other is taken from a very long statement on
various matters, made by K. George IV., when Prince of Wales, to
Croker personally. Adair’s wife, the Prince said, was a Frenchwoman
with whom ANDREOSSI, when here as Buonaparte’s Minister, intrigued.
THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE told him—the Prince of Wales—that Mrs.
Adair had offered her a bribe of £10,000 down, and as much more
whenever she might want it, if she would communicate the Cabinet
secrets, with which the French thought she could not fail to be
acquainted, through her intimacy with all the leaders of the
Government. This caused a breach between FOX and ADAIR. But the
former could only tell ADAIR that an obstacle—which he could neither
reveal nor overcome, but which did not affect or alter FOX’S
personal regard for him—prevented his appointment to be FOX’S
Under-Secretary of State.—_Croker Papers_, i. 293.—ED.]

No. XIII.

Feb. 5, 1798.

ACME AND SEPTIMIUS; OR, THE HAPPY UNION
CELEBRATED AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR TAVERN.

FOX,[98] with TOOKE to grace his side,
Thus address’d his blooming bride—
“Sweet! should I e’er, in power or place,
Another Citizen embrace;
Should e’er my eyes delight to look
On aught alive save JOHN HORNE TOOKE,
Doom me to ridicule and ruin,
In the coarse hug[99] of _Indian_ Bruin!”
He spoke;[100] and to the left and right,
NORFOLK hiccupp’d with delight.
TOOKE,[101] his bald head gently moving,
On the sweet patriot’s drunken eyes
His wine-empurpled lips applies,
And thus returns in accents loving:
“So, my dear[102] CHARLEY, may success
At length my ardent wishes bless,
And lead, through discord’s low’ring storm,
To one grand RADICAL REFORM!
As, from this hour I love thee more
Than e’er I hated thee before!”
He spoke, and to the left and right,
NORFOLK hiccupp’d with delight.
With this good omen they proceed;[103]
Fond toasts their mutual passion feed;
In FOX’S breast HORNE TOOKE prevails
Before[104] rich _Ireland_ and _South Wales_;[105]
And FOX (unread each other book),
Is Law and Gospel to HORNE TOOKE.
When were such kindred souls united?
Or wedded pair so much delighted?

[ACME AND SEPTIMIUS. FROM CATULLUS.

SEPTIMIUS said, and fondly prest
The doating ACME to his breast:—
“My Acme, if I prize not thee
With love as warm as love can be,
With passion spurning any fears
Of growing faint in length of years,
Alone may I defenceless stand
To meet, on Lybia’s desert sand,
Or under India’s torrid sky,
The tawny lion’s glaring eye!”
LOVE, before who utter’d still
On the left-hand omens ill,
As he ceased his faith to plight
Laugh’d propitious on the right.
Then ACME gently bent her head,
Kiss’d with those lips of cherry red
The eyes of the delightful boy,
That swam with glistening floods of joy;
And whisper’d as she closely prest—
“SEPTIMIUS, soul of ACME’S breast,
Let all our lives and feelings own
One lord, one sovereign, Love alone!
I yield to love, and yield to thee,
For thou and love are one to me.
Though fond thy fervent heart may beat,
My feelings glow with greater heat,
And madder flames my bosom melt
Than all that thou hast ever felt.”—ED.]

[The following account of the celebration of FOX’S Birth-day,
printed in the _Anti-Jacobin_, has not hitherto appeared in the
editions of the _Poetry_. _The Song by Mr. Fox_ refers to the
Subscription raised, after a meeting at the Crown and Anchor, in the
summer of 1793, for relieving him in his then present need, and
purchasing an Annuity for him. A Caricature by GILLRAY on this
meeting was published on the 12th June, 1793.

MR. FOX’S BIRTH-DAY.

The public, distracted with the various accounts of the celebration
of Mr. Fox’s Birth-day, naturally turn to us for an authentic detail
of that important event—from a recollection of the correct and
impartial statement we gave in a former Number, of what passed at a
MEETING OF THE FRIENDS OF FREEDOM [page 32].

To justify their confidence, we have had recourse to the _Morning
Post_ and _Morning Chronicle_ (the _Courier_ being too stupid for
our purpose), whose statements we have carefully read, and corrected
from the information of several gentlemen who were present. We are
thus enabled to lay before our readers a genuine narrative of the
whole proceeding, which we defy the tongue of Slander to controvert
in any material point.

As Mr. Fox’s reputation had been for some time on the decline, it
was thought necessary by the party (who are in great want of a
_Head_) to make as respectable an appearance as possible on the
present occasion. It was therefore suggested (at a previous meeting
of confidential friends) that if the unfortunate shyness which
subsisted between the _Whig Club_ and the _Corresponding Society_
could be opportunely removed by a few unimportant concessions on the
part of the former, such a number of citizens might be readily
procured from that respectable body as would serve to give the day
an _éclat_ it had not experienced since the fatal schism of 1792.

This hint, so reasonable in itself, was immediately adopted, and Sir
FRANCIS BURDETT, who was well acquainted with their haunts, was
ordered into the neighbourhood of Smithfield with a competent number
of tickets. He was on the point of setting out, when the Editor of
the _Morning Post_ observed, that _forgery_[106] was so common at
present, that he hardly thought it prudent to admit all who might
come with a bit of scribbled paper: on this it was determined to
distribute the price of admission amongst a certain number of people
to be selected by the Envoy:—these, it was rightly concluded, would
not fail to appear, from motives of vanity, as they could have no
other possible chance of dining with the Premier Dupe, we would say
Duke, in England. It now remained to determine the sum: this, after
a short discussion, was fixed at Eight Shillings and Sixpence per
head, “which,” said the Editor of the _Morning Post_, “will shew we
cannot he persons of mean rank, since we can afford, in hard times,
to give so much for a dinner”;[107] and Citizen BOSVILLE was desired
to advance the money upon the credit of the Whig Fund.

Previous to the meeting, the chairman dispatched a note to Sir
WILLIAM ADDINGTON, requesting that the Crown and Anchor might be
exempted from the visitation of his runners during the morning of
the 24th [Jan., 1798]. To this Sir WILLIAM assented, on condition
that it should be recommended to the gentlemen, to leave their
pocket-books and watches at home, that there might be as little
temptation as possible to break the peace. Thus everything was
arranged with a precaution that seemed to set accident at defiance.

Before four o’clock the passage to the LARGE ROOM was crammed, when,
on a hint that dinner was on the point of being served, one of the
head waiters advanced to the great door, and opened a wicket for the
admission of the company, as fast as they paid down their money. Two
or three had already passed in good order, when Mr. John Nicholls
advanced, and instead of 8s. 6d., produced to the astonished
receiver, _seventeen_ of his PRINTED SPEECHES, which, valuing them
at sixpence a-piece, he contended would make up the sum required.
These “_assets_” however, were absolutely rejected; and a violent
dispute was on the point of commencing, when Sir CHRISTOPHER HAWKINS
stept forward, and whispering a few words, which we did not hear,
obtained leave for his friend to pass. The Speeches were therefore
deposited, and Mr. NICHOLLS was already got within the wicket, when
the man suddenly pulled him back by the coat, and the dispute
recommenced with more violence than ever. Upon inquiry into the
cause of this new tumult, we found that a wag (whom we afterwards
discovered to be Mr. JEKYLL) had played the member for Tregony a
trick; having taken an opportunity, in the crowd, of extracting the
_genuine_ speeches from the pocket of the Honourable Member, and
replacing them by the same number of the _spurious_ ones, printed
for Mr. WRIGHT, the publisher of this Paper. These the waiter very
properly refused to receive, alleging, and indeed truly, that
instead of _six_ pence a-piece, the whole seventeen were not worth
_six_ farthings.

This altercation continued so long, that the company grew impatient;
and Mr. BRYAN EDWARDS, a little ashamed of his friend, who still
continued obstinate, offered to furnish his quota. Harmony now
seemed to be restored, when all at once a cry of astonishment broke
forth that beggars all description. On putting his hand into his
pocket for the price of admission, Mr. E. suddenly turned pale, and
exclaimed, “by G—, gentlemen, some of you have picked my pockets!” A
hundred voices instantly repeated the same cry, and a dreadful scene
of confusion and uproar took place.

Ardebant cuncta et fracta compage ruebant.

What the consequence would have been, it is impossible to say, had
not the waiter, with an air of authority, commanded the doors to be
shut at each end of the passage, and every man to exhibit the
contents of his pocket. A faint cry of No! No! was over-ruled; and
Sir FRANCIS BURDETT produced an old Red Cap from the bosom of his
shirt, which he put into the hands of the Duke of BEDFORD, who was
appointed collector-general _by acclamation_. With this his Grace
went, from man to man, executing his duty with the utmost fairness
and impartiality; and when he had finished, poured out the contents
of the cap before them all. These, it must be confessed, were a
little heterogeneous, consisting, besides a large sum of money, of a
brass knocker (this was immediately claimed by the landlord), a
pewter pot squeezed together, a pair of pattens, a pint decanter, a
duck ready trussed for dressing, a great quantity of potatoes, and a
vinegar cruet. What was most extraordinary was, that though, as his
Grace afterwards declared, the money was found in very unequal
portions, yet the total sum, which was £222, 5s. 6d., being divided
among the company, amounting to 523 persons, produced 8s. 6d. for
each individual, with the exception of the _Member_ for _Tregony_,
who brought nothing but his speech, and Capt. MORRIS, who pays for
everything with a Song.