Walked out with daughter BID—was shown
The House of Commons and the Throne,
Whose velvet cushion's just the same
NAPOLEON sat on—what a shame!
Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers,
When LOUIS seated thus we see,
That France's "fundamental features"
Are much the same they used to be?
However,—God preserve the Throne,
And cushion too—and keep them free;
From accidents, which have been known
To happen even to Royalty![4]
August 28.
Read, at a stall (for oft one pops
On something at these stalls and shops,
That does to quote and gives one's Book
A classical and knowing look.—
Indeed, I've found, in Latin, lately,
A course of stalls improves me greatly)—
'Twas thus I read that in the East
A monarch's fat's a serious matter;
And once in every year, at least,
He's weighed—to see if he gets fatter:[5]
Then, if a pound or two he be
Increased, there's quite a jubilee![6]
Suppose, my Lord—and far from me
To treat such things with levity—
But just suppose the Regent's weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, every sessions, at the close,—
'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is
Heavy and dull enough, God knows—
We were to try how heavy he is.
Much would it glad all hearts to hear—
That, while the Nation's Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,
The PRINCE, God bless him! gains a few.
With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,
I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—
But, for the REGENT, my advice is,
We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance——-'s quarto volumes,
Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominie STODDART'S Daily columns,
"Prodigious!"—in, of course, we'd clap them—
Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites,
In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,
And never comes to a Conclusion:—
Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet—or his head—
(Ah! that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY;
That Baronet of many words,
Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops—and so nigh
Unto their wigs in whispering goes,
That you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose!—
If this wont do, we in must cram
The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM;
(A Book his Lordship means to write,
Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting":)
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His rump's a host—we'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the REGENT'S pondrous scale,
Why, then, my Lord, in heaven's name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of RAGLEY'S beauteous Dame—
If that wont raise him, devil's in it!
August 31.
Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS
About those famous spies at Rome,[8]
Whom certain Whigs—to make a fuss—
Describe as much resembling us,
Informing gentlemen, at home.
But, bless the fools, they can't be serious,
To say Lord SIDMOUTH'S like TIBERIUS!
What! he, the Peer, that injures no man,
Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!—
'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to
All sorts of spies—so doth the Peer, too.
'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs,
And deal in perjury—ditto TIB's.
'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid
His rogues from justice—ditto SID.
'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib
At moral speeches—ditto TIB.
'Tis true the feats the Tyrant did
Were in his dotage—ditto SID.
So far, I own, the parallel
'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well;
But there are points in TIB that strike
My humble mind as much more like
Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him,
Of the India Board—that soul of whim!
Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke,
On matters, too, where few can bear one;
E. g. a man cut up, or broke
Upon the wheel—a devilish fair one!
Your common fractures, wounds and fits,
Are nothing to such wholesale wits;
But, let the sufferer gasp for life,
The joke is then, worth any money;
And, if he writhe beneath a knife,—
Oh dear, that's something quite too funny.
In this respect, my Lord, you see
The Roman wag and ours agree:
Now as to your resemblance—mum—
This parallel we need not follow:
Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by some
Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow;
Whips, chains—but these are things too serious
For me to mention or discuss;
Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS,
PHIL. FUDGE'S part is Tacitus!
September 2.
Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got
Any good decent sort of Plot
Against the winter-time—if not,
Alas, alas, our ruin's fated;
All done up and spiflicated!
Ministers and all their vassals,
Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,—
Unless we can kick up a riot,
Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet!
What's to be done?—Spa-Fields was clever;
But even that brought gibes and mockings
Upon our heads—so, mem.—must never
Keep ammunition in old stockings;
For fear some wag should in his curst head
Take it to say our force was worsted.
Mem. too—when SID an army raises,
It must not be "incog." like Bayes's:
Nor must the General be a hobbling
Professor of the art of cobbling;
Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,
Should say, with Jacobinic grin,
He felt, from soleing Wellingtons,[9]
A Wellington's great soul within!
Nor must an old Apothecary
Go take the Tower, for lack of pence,
With (what these wags would call, so merry,)
Physical force and phial-ence!
No—no—our Plot, my Lord, must be
Next time contrived more skilfully.
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing
So troublesomely sharp and knowing,
So wise—in short, so Jacobin—
'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.
September 6.
Heard of the fate of our Ambassador
In China, and was sorely nettled;
But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er
Till all this matter's fairly settled;
And here's the mode occurs to me:—
As none of our Nobility,
Tho' for their own most gracious King
(They would kiss hands, or—anything),
Can be persuaded to go thro'
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;
And as these Mandarins won't bend,
Without some mumming exhibition,
Suppose, my Lord, you were to send
GRIMALDI to them on a mission:
As Legate, JOE could play his part,
And if, in diplomatic art,
The "volto sciolto"'s meritorius,[10]
Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!