Next Rose and Bickersteth their names display;
The last sedate, the first perhaps too gay.
This in astuteness, that excells in sense,
Matur’d by thought, and labour more intense.
The one with head erect and measur’d stride,
The pink of glory, and the pearl of pride;—
Seems as ambitious of a taller form,
Or sick of herding with each brother worm.
That dormant eye and inexpressive cheek
But little promise in the other speak,—
In fact not much has either to admire,
Tho’ each may hope to set the Thames on fire.
If little Rose can make the waters blaze,
Be mine the wonder, and be his the praise.
Should plodding Bickersteth obtain the start,
His head is deeper than his looks impart.
How singularly fortunes changes fall!
Slow sneaking forth comes learned Weatherall.[40]
Yet half asleep, he seems just rous’d from bed;
Still shines the greasy nightcap on his head.
Unwash’d his face and hands, uncomb’d his hair,
Cut is his beard, but left the lather there.
One stocking decently his leg adorns,
The other, inside out, it’s neighbour scorns.
No brace sustains his small-clothes from the dirt,
Nor keeps conceal’d the mysteries of shirt.
Still is there something in his face and eye,
That serves to shew the mind’s ability,—
A strange effect of visage, that foretells
Profound research, e’en while it’s glance repells—
The light of wisdom ting’d by folly’s shade,—
Scholastic knowledge turned to masquerade.
He speaks; his diction, exquisitely rare,
Astounds the wise, and makes the simple stare.
Greek, Latin, Hebrew, tear his wearied lungs,
And English learns to speak in other tongues.
Fantastic thoughts fantastic language glean,
And reason wonders what they both can mean.
Ill has he tried to mount the heights of fame
By barter’d honor, and a turncoats name.
Why did he plead for traitors all unask’d?
The truth in vain dissimulation mask’d:—
’Twas injured pride, and baffled hope that urg’d,—
The patriot counsel in the madman merg’d.
How frail for him the web ambition spun;—
As now he is, so was his race begun.
What if he fall, or if he rise again,
We take no pleasure, and we feel no pain.
Few seek his friendship, or to hate have room,—
His heart a wilderness, his head a tomb;
From this the sympathies of life refuse
To spring, or soon their balmy fragrance lose;
That serves to bury Wisdom’s ancient lore,
But drives the living from its murky door.
All hail! Sir Charles! not Master of the Rolls,
Tho’ half decreed to tend those musty scrolls;
Had but the Premier sooner told his mind,
Or thou, Sir Charles, less hastily resign’d.
Sir Charles! what more? the sybil sisters fly,
And hide in mist the book of destiny!
From realms of darkness let us turn to light—
But where, if not to thee, ingenious Knight?[41]
An able draftsman, and a speaker bold,
By prudence guided, ne’er by fear controlled,
To clients faithful, not to foes unjust,
In better hands his suit could no one trust.
By honour urg’d, thou wilt not facts conceal,
But with strong argument their force repeal.
Thus truth is ever to thy speech attached,
Nor hopeless cause by blund’ring falsehood patch’d.
With whom can doubt on safer grounds advise!
Tho’ young in years, so prematurely wise.
In thee deep study, with experience crown’d,
Refines a judgment naturally sound;
Gives force to sense with which the mind is fraught,
And stamps decision on each passing thought.
Thy private life it boots not here to scan,
But as the counsel, so excels the man;
Thy courteous mein, and disposition bland,
Can tame down envy, and it’s rage withstand.
Thee love of virtue leads; nor rough the way
To those, who bend her dictates to obey.
Oh! may’st thou well the tide of glory stem,
And earn thy meed, the legal diadem!
Lo! Pepys with recent dignity elate
Appears, a not unpleasing advocate!
Fast from his lips the dulcet accents fall,
But not in tediousness, the ear to pall;
Seldom or never from that tone they part,
And by their sweetness wind into the heart.
Rise, Basil Montagu[42], and shew thy face,
Great legislator of the bankrupt race!
In thee I find a character so strange,
Description hardly can its traits arrange.
That tongue’s licentiousness, and cheek of brass
Betray the stock, of which thy lineage was.
Not void of intellect, but blind with pride,
In vain discretion strives thy course to guide.
Loud mirth precedes, each struggle for a hit,
And empty sneers supply the place of wit.
If careless clerks pay not retaining fees,
Be free as air, and plead for whom you please;
Make use of knowledge, you were paid to learn
For other’s good, and all to mischief turn.
Now state a case, now on thyself reply,
And shine the monarch of absurdity!
Nor less thy brains in making books excell—
Let who will read them, so the volumes sell.
Hodge bought his razors for a bargain, but
Was quite surprised to find they would not cut.
We buy thy books, yet not like Hodge admire;
To give the cut, we throw them in the fire.
To read would go beyond thine own intent,
And fix on us a double punishment.
For loss of money grief will soon abate,—
But what for loss of time can compensate?
Away; with tomes no more the world appal,
But rule supreme thy Court of Basinghall.[43]
Maintain thy temple in its purest state,—
A den of thieves to rapine consecrate.
Let perjured rogues the plunder first prepare,
And just partition be thine only care!
Away with conscience, ’tis an idle tale,
Reward thy service ’till the assets fail!
The service what? Each sovereign fee to store,
And curse the law, because it gives no more;
To hear a bankrupt, or a counsel prate,—
Sometimes a dividend to calculate,—
(But this not oft, if truth confessed must be,
As lawyers seldom know the rule of three,
Or by their art so much the estate reduce,
That luckless Cocker is no more of use)
To tender oaths in heathen mockery,
And send to Newgate all who will not lie;
To hold ten meetings at a time, because
Ten golden coins, instead of one, it draws;
To do and not to do—that is to leave
Undone the business, but the cash receive;
To make adjournments ’till another day
Of what might be dispatched without delay,
If Avarice could brook the lesser pay.
These are the pleasures of thy realm, where trade,
At war with honesty, it’s grave hath made;
Where pale Britannia sits in speechless woe,
And trembling marks the inroads of a foe,
Whose arts at last will public safety sap,
And tear the fruits of commerce from her lap—
Atchieve what foreign states have tried in vain—
To crush her empire—or curtail her reign!
But speed, my muse, thy roving spirit mend,
Or rhymes, like causes, ne’er will have an end.
Let portraiture no more thy thoughts engage,
Nor stoop to make a law-list of thy page.
Where praise is due, let public fame bestow
The meed; and scorn to want of merit shew.
Off to the court, a cause the criers call,
And echo answers from the neighbouring hall.
’Tis ours at last; and now shall law decide
How long possession must a title guide,—
If sixty years less one unlucky day
Might turn Giles Dobbin from his farm away;
Not that a soul disputes his present claim,
But what may be, is, as it were, the same:—
That is, if Giles to neighbour Gripe dispose
A field, and Gripe should by the bargain lose,—
Giles with delight his contract seeks to keep,
And Gripe a loop-hole from the net to creep:—
Nor hard the task; for error shines reveal’d,
Tho’ dark itself, from others not conceal’d.
But what in law is error? ask the wind,
Whence comes it? goes it? what it’s shape or kind?
Seek from the moon to know each mystic spot,
And judge what constitutes a legal blot.
’Tis something coin’d of ignorance and doubt,
Despis’d by sense, yet seldom found without;
A light, that glimmers thro’ some narrow screen,
Which scarce admits the feeble ray between;
A poison’d bubble, floating in the air,
That, when it bursts, will leave it’s venom there;
A Gorgon’s head, on which the eye, once set,
Must think with terror, and not soon forget;
A monster gliding underneath the wave,
That but appears, to prove the swimmers grave;
A flame that gouls from moulder’d coffins rouse
To shew the horrors of the Charnel-house;
A lamp of Hell, by imp malignant wrought
To scare the sight, and agonize the thought;
’Tis this, that mars all peace; engenders strife,
And adds self-ruin to the woes of life.
See, from the dust a novel creature spring,
The serpent’s nature with an eagles wing!
With tooth so sharp, and pow’r to soar as high
Thro’ all the pathless realms of sophistry!
Conveyancer[44]! so call’d, because his art
Can change and motion to estates impart;
Not by the efforts of mechanic hand,
But using legal error for a wand.
In vain the son his grandsires right displays,
And widow’d mother for her dowry prays.
A deed unsign’d, or signed too late, too soon,
A secret testament, a prior boon—
No stamp, or one not properly affixed,—
An instrument with fraud or weakness mix’d,—
A marriage, not by proper ritual grac’d,—
A seal by chance destroy’d or name effac’d,—
A passage interlined, or falsely crost;
A fine unlevied, or recov’ry lost,—
Construction varying with the varying mind,
And best opinions changing, like the wind,—
A meaning clear, tho’ doubtfully express’d,—
A meaning doubtful, tho’ in clearness dress’d,—
A rule of law, by folly misapplied,—
A point, which justice never yet has tried;—
All these, and thousands more the muse could name
The strength enfeeble of possessive claim;—
Give to this monster necromantic skill,
And make the law subservient to his will.
Lo! at his bidding money chang’d to lands,
And lands to money, as his voice commands;—
Estates for life a stinted term bewail,
And those in fee are hamper’d by a tail,—
O’ergrown remainders vanish into dust.
And useless uses take the form of trust.
’Tis his to conjure doubts, to breed dismay,
And hunt, a jackall, for the lions prey,—
To lend his aid, when crafty villains ask,
And clothe their purpose in an honest mask!
Nor rare the tribe; altho’ at first confin’d
To few; and those of scientific mind,
But yet not much enlighten’d;—as the spark
Of ill-wrought taper makes the night more dark,
Such Hargreave, Butler, Fearne, and many more,
Whose names have added to the mystic lore,
Which all must own was mist enough before.—
But these have had their day; and Preston[45] now
Assumes the sway with dictatorial brow.
And who is he? from whence? and what his claim
To be inscrib’d upon the rolls of fame?
In Devon born, he duly serv’d his time,
That long five years apprenticeship to crime—
Which at the desk he spent without a bribe,—
The ready copyist, and the unsullen scribe.
From Shepherd’s Touchstone next he drew a source
Of knowledge useful for his future course;
Thence did he learn each deed with curious eye.
To scan by practice of anatomy:—
As surgeons carefully dissect the heart,
To gain experience of each inward part.
Thus plodding on, while greater talents slept,
He and his doctrines into notice crept.
But novelty is past; and, like the worm,
That, for a time, has ta’en some brighter form,
Turns to the grub again, when life is gone;—
So Preston’s glory into air hath flown.
See in his chamber, where yon mirror hangs!
’Tis there he studies for his court harangues:
Harangues, whereby he seldom gains a cause,
Yet never fails to win his own applause.
He lisps—did not Demosthenes the same,
Before with pebbles he that fault o’ercame?
What, if conceit possesses Preston’s mind?
Pray, was not Cicero as vainly blind?
Not that I mean—no, reason aid me there—
With one or other Preston to compare.
They shine bright stars of eloquence sublime,
Each name untarnish’d by the rust of time;
While Preston’s name will last no longer than
The brief continuance of his own short span.
Fate in himself hath wisely plac’d the key
Of all he ever was, is, or shall be.
His praise with life shall to the grave descend,
One common burial and one common end!—
Unless, perchance in folly’s rank supreme,
He still may live to be of mirth the theme,
When those, who pass yon barren moors, shall state
How well he tried those heaths to cultivate;
Raise vegetation from the granite stone,
And rule the will of nature by his own.
The cause is open’d. Bell begins to plead,
And argues thus that Dobbin must succeed,[46]
“My Lord, your Lordship sees by common sense
“What is the object of my friend’s defence.
“A losing contract don’t exactly please,
“And that’s the reason, as your lordship sees.
“This having thus premised”—“nay, stop,” cries Horne;
“The statement really is not to be borne;
“A client breathes not, who can mine excell,
“At least as upright as my brother Bell.”
Then Bell resumes his speech with stutt’ring phrase,
“Why interrupt me when I state the case.
“Your Lordship knows that when men feel despair,
“They strive by noise to dissipate their care;
“Just so my friend that feeling would repress
“By dint of rage and stormy scornfulness;
“And well I know this conduct is but meant
“To break the order of one’s argument.
“So this I say, the judgment seat before,
“That right is right;—I do not plead for more.
“Defendant will not to his purchase stand,
“Whereby my client loses cash and land.
“Can this be right? No. Then, ’tis clear to me
“Relief with costs your Lordship will decree!”