And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave—
A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read;
While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,
We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.
Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing
To teach other bishops to "seek the right way;"[1]
And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,
Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.
For our parts, gravity's good for the soul,
Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on,
We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll,"
Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.
[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your
Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and
N. E. you had turned about," etc.—SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the
Bishop of London.
THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.
IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.
What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,
And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
Alike may laugh at patronage!
No, no—those times are past away,
When, doomed in upper floors to star it.
The bard inscribed to lords his lay,—
Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs with air dependent.
His "little bark may sail attendant"
Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launched triumphant in the Row,
Or taken by Murray's self in tow.
Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.
Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whiskt from England by the gale.
But bears on board some authors, shipt
For foreign shores, all well equipt
With proper book-making machinery,
To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,
Of all such lands as they shall see,
Or not see, as the case may be:—
It being enjoined on all who go
To study first Miss Martineau,
And learn from her the method true,[too.
To do one's books—and readers,
For so this nymph of nous and nerve
Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"
And, lest mankind at all should swerve,
Teaches them also "What to Observe."
No, no, my friend—it cant be blinkt—
The Patron is a race extinct;
As dead as any Megatherion
That ever Buckland built a theory on.
Instead of bartering in this age
Our praise for pence and patronage,
We authors now more prosperous elves,
Have learned to patronize ourselves;
And since all-potent Puffing's made
The life of song, the soul of trade.
More frugal of our praises grown,
We puff no merits but our own.