Why should I pause on points like these to dwell?
By such detail my pages idly swell?
The process slow and unrepaid the toil—
A worthless harvest in a barren soil.
The answer filed—three years at least fulfil
Their circling round since Wakefield[9] drew the bill.
Then streams of lengthy dull exceptions flow
Which Koe must sign to humour Jemmy Lowe.[10]
Amendments next that leave behind no trace
Of first complaint;—but make a novel case—
Continual reference to the Masters, who
Must have the wit to cut a hair in two;
So nicely drawn, so fine the point between
What it should not, or what it should have been.
Here Captain Cross[11] assumes despotic sway
Enraged at all who dare his speech gainsay.
Once mighty ruler of a tamer crew,
Than ever Ballot from the plough-tail drew;
Like Falstaff’s scarecrows—ragged, spare, and tall,—
Himself the greatest scarecrow of them all.
Oh! fortune, thou art but a fickle flirt!
For me why sprawl’d not Eldon in the dirt?
His carriage oft has passed me thro’ the town,
But then alas! fate would not break it down.
Oh! fortune, all thy favors are but dross,
Or why bestow them on a man like Cross?
Thy modes are various, as thy whim is strange;
Or why a soldier to a lawyer change—
If such great merit must promotion get,
’Twere easy sure to add an epaulet.
There long he might have shined in native light,
At least a bully, if afraid to fight.
Oh! Master Cross, resume thy martial post,
Or deign in pity to give up the ghost.
Thy luckless errors never falling right,
Involve the suitors in perpetual night.
Thy brain’s dark chaos working like a mole,
Directs each action, and pervades the whole;
Oh! may it have just sense enough to see
That all is truth the muse has said of thee!
Here Cox[12], of foundling babes the foster sire,
Humane of temper, but too prone to fire,
In judgment sits to act by reason’s rule;
Yet ever proves of prejudice the tool.
A look, a word mistaken, gives offence,
And thoughts distorted take the place of sense.
Some angry crotchet gets into his brain,
Hatched in caprice, and nurtured by disdain.
Persuasion fails to shew how warp’d his mind;
When anger rules, the soul itself is blind:
Confirmed by habit all his faults increase,
So let him mend, or else depart in peace.
Lo! waddling forth; in dignity of mein,
Corporeal Stratford[13] from his haunt is seen.
That bloated form and pompous belly scan;
In shape and wit a very alderman!
Those vulgar looks his vulgar manners stamp,
For knowledge he ne’er burns the midnight lamp.
The sternest brute will sometimes kindness own,
Bend as you will, and Stratford yet will frown;
Enrag’d, he fain would kill you with a look,
Ye weak of skull, beware the flying book.
Hence to the rocky woods, thou growling bear,
Hence to the woods, and deal out justice there.
Hence to the woods; but ’ere thou dost escape,
Send to supply thy loss a real ape.
The suitors scarce will of their lot complain,
If by the change some intellect they gain.
Like thee, in gestures may his rage be dealt;
Like thee, the luckless volumes he may pelt;
Each art expressive of the monkey tribe,
Well hast thou learnt their natures to imbibe!
Next canting Stephen[14] in his study see,—
Himself a slave, devising blacks to free.
Better endure the planters iron sway
Than pore on musty tomes the livelong day!
Better for stolen ease to bear the rack,
Than spend a life in one dull gloomy track!
No negro thou! what more when all is said?
He works by force, and you perhaps for bread.
The toil of both may prove a public good,—
Another’s profit, or another’s food.
But let me pass thy faults, if such they be—
And turn to one redeeming quality—
Well hast thou done to curb thy thirsty scribe
From taking what in truth is but a bribe;
A bribe, which those, who dole with sparing hand,
But little zeal of service can command.
Well hast thou done such odious spoil to slake!
An equal theft in those who give or take!
Nor yet forgotten is thy sleepy power,
Long-winded, doting, vain, capricious Trower[15].
Some share of patience to the speaker lend,
Or useless every wish to comprehend!
Why wilt thou puzzle each half-witted elf,
By keeping all the converse to thyself?
Why wilt thou rave, till boggling in a mist,
Thou raisest points, which but in air exist—
Approve to day, to-morrow find a flaw—
And own at last that neither is the law.
Where are thy tubs, thy dirty smocks and gin?
Thy trade is washing, hence and take it in.
But turn my muse; it boots not more to trace
These petty judges of Southampton Place.
Such office should some wiser head employ
Than driveling dotard or unlearned boy—
The first a friend to Eldon’s childhood dear,—
The last a son of ministerial peer.
Alike unskilled they wander in the dark,
And stoop at last to counsel with their clerk.
Some dirty scribbler in a garret bred,
Thence taught by charity to write and read.
A wretched dolt, who gains his place by chance,
And takes promotion as his years advance;
Who now forsooth must act with scorn to those,
That pay him meanly, or his will oppose.
Thus Pugh and Hone[16], and many more I know—
But these the worst,—I spare each meaner foe.
Still are there some this station doom’d to fill,
Who shame their masters by superior skill,
In Kensit’s[17] talent all a refuge find
From the dark nothingness of Stratford’s mind;
And when at Cross the sense indignant groans,
It seeks for solace in thy kindness, Jones.
Fortune! from thee one favour let me crave!
Debase each tyrant, and exalt each slave!
Let those, who now ride topmost on thy wheel,
The sad reverse of bitter thraldom feel;
Look up to those on whom they now look down,
And learn the terror of a despot’s frown.
Erroneous judgment breeds a like report,
And both will bear revision by the court;
Then must the cause experience more delay,
Last in the list that lengthens every day.
What if his Honor, after two long years,
Decide the question that he never hears!
Before the Vice or Rolls, it matters not
How heard or judged; alike the suitors lot.
From either sentence you may take appeals,
If faulty deemed, to him who holds the seals;
Then will some paltry point, of little worth
To him who doubts, or him who gave it birth,
Enchain the suit for ages, like a spell,
From which Impatience will in vain rebel;
Alas! my lord, yon starving paupers see!
How can they live upon a bare term fee?
Let still the client all his pangs endure,
But for thy brother tribe provide a cure.
Be Lord High Chancellor, if so you must,
But oh! resign some portion of thy trust—
Its various duties more attention claim
Than one weak head can muster for the same.
Young Peer[18], be wise, and if you court success,
Outdo your senior[19] by attempting less.
His failure served great talents to produce;
But what is intellect if not of use?
Well could he coin a doubt, or problem make—
But slow to solve, and there was his mistake.
His brains were sound; but little good they did.
Like some rich jewel in dark cavern hid.
Quick was his mind each error to perceive;—
Much craft had those who could that mind deceive—
A moment’s thought would often shew a flaw,
Which those who look’d much deeper never saw.
Well was he skill’d to crack a wretched jest,
And all who laughed were sure to be caress’d.
He bore no rival in his high career,
As Leach[20] can tell, at whom he lov’d to sneer;—
To Flattery he yielded blind assent;
On those who blam’d him hate itself was spent;
This Brougham[21] has felt,—tho’ all his merit own,
Deprived by malice of a silken gown.
And yet his visage, like a crocodile
Intending mischief, still could wear the smile.
Oft times a tear-drop down his cheek would flow,
While aged victims told their tale of woe—
Told of their hopes delay’d and run to waste,
With wealth before them, which they could not taste—
Told of their starving babes and buried wife,—
Themselves just tottering on the brink of life.
Then would he clasp his hands with false intent,
And call on heaven to witness what he meant,
With promise send the discontent away,—
Their judgment certain on a future day.
It comes—again he feigns the ready tear,—
As God’s his judge, the papers are not here—
Where can they be?—his careful wife[22] perhaps
Has torn the dusty lumber into scraps.
Mishap unfortunate! the suitor cries,
His Lordship nods assent, and wipes his eyes
With ’kerchief clean, in which a potent leak
Draws from each orb the stream that wets his cheek.
“Alas! my lord, when will the judgment come?—
“Send me the papers, and I’ll take them home.”
The papers got, be sure to hand them in,
Tho’ Hand[23] to take them deem it half a sin,
And swears the mass now in his Lordship’s house
Has left no cranny for the smallest mouse.
This all results from pre-concerted plan;
The master trifles, why should not his man;
Excuse, the judgment day by day protracts,
His mind still wavering, or forgot the facts;
And yet he seems not unabashed by shame,
Thus forced in self-defence the lie to frame.
As carelessly around his glance he throws,
Each eye takes shelter underneath his brows,
Then with apparent calmness in the face,
He strives to meet you, but ’tis all grimace;
Look as he will, the thinking mind can see
He half detests his own duplicity;
Shrinks from the gaze of those who weep around,
And in his bosom feels a deeper wound.
Oft have I marked him in an inward trance,
And watched the changes of his countenance;
Thus have I seen, or fancied to have seen,
Remorse and terror painted on his mein:
Remorse for mischief done at best in sloth,
And terror; but how short the reign of both,
More lively feelings soon his grief restrain,
And heartless Eldon is himself again.