Chapter 17
I do not mean to perplex you with a tedious argument upon a subject already so discussed that inspiration could hardly throw a new light upon it. There are, however, two points of view in which it particularly imports your Majesty to consider the late proceedings of the House of Commons. By depriving a subject of his birthright they have attributed to their own vote an authority equal to an act of the whole legislature, and, though perhaps not with the same motives, have strictly followed the example of the Long Parliament, which first declared the regal office useless, and soon after, with as little ceremony, dissolved the House of Lords. The same pretended power which robs an English subject of his birthright may rob an English king of his crown. In another view, the resolution of the House of Commons, apparently not so dangerous to your Majesty, is still more alarming to your people. Not contented with divesting one man of his right, they have arbitrarily conveyed that right to another. They have set aside a return as illegal, without daring to censure those officers who were particularly apprised of Mr. Wilkes' incapacity, not only by the declaration of the House, but expressly by the writ directed to them, and who, nevertheless, returned him as duly elected. They have rejected the majority of votes, the only criterion by which our laws judge of the sense of the people; they have transferred the right of election from the collective to the representative body; and by these acts, taken separately or together, they have essentially altered the original constitution of the House of Commons. Versed as your Majesty undoubtedly is in the English history, it cannot escape you how much it is your interest as well as your duty to prevent one of the three estates from encroaching upon the province of the other two, or assuming the authority of them all. When once they have departed from the great constitutional line by which all their proceedings should be directed, who will answer for their future moderation? Or what assurance will they give you that, when they have trampled upon their equals, they will submit to a superior? Your Majesty may learn hereafter how nearly the slave and tyrant are allied.
Some of your council, more candid than the rest, admit the abandoned profligacy of the present House of Commons, but oppose their dissolution, upon an opinion, I confess, not very unwarrantable, that their successors would be equally at the disposal of the treasury. I cannot persuade myself that the nation will have profited so little by experience. But if that opinion were well founded, you might then gratify our wishes at an easy rate, and appease the present clamour against your government, without offering any material injury to the favourite cause of corruption.
You have still an honourable part to act. The affections of your subjects may still be recovered. But before you subdue their hearts you must gain a noble victory over your own. Discard those little, personal resentments which have too long directed your public conduct. Pardon this man the remainder of his punishment; and, if resentment still prevails, make it what it should have been long since--an act, not of mercy, but of contempt. He will soon fall back into his natural station, a silent senator, and hardly supporting the weekly eloquence of a newspaper. The gentle breath of peace would leave him on the surface, neglected and unremoved. It is only the tempest that lifts him from his place.
Without consulting your minister, call together your whole council. Let it appear to the public that you can determine and act for yourself. Come forward to your people. Lay aside the wretched formalities of a king, and speak to your subjects with the spirit of a man and in the language of a gentleman. Tell them you have been fatally deceived. The acknowledgment will be no disgrace, but rather an honour, to your understanding. Tell them you are determined to remove every cause of complaint against your government, that you will give your confidence to no man who does not possess the confidence of your subjects, and leave it to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a future election, whether or no it be in reality the general sense of the nation that their rights have been arbitrarily invaded by the present House of Commons, and the constitution betrayed. They will then do justice to their representatives and to themselves.
These sentiments, Sir, and the style they are conveyed in, may be offensive, perhaps, because they are new to you. Accustomed to the language of courtiers, you measure their affections by the vehemence of their expressions, and when they only praise you indifferently, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to trifle with your fortune. They deceive you, Sir, who tell you that you have many friends, whose affections are founded upon a principle of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship is not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality with which they are received and may be returned. The fortune which made you a king forbade you to have a friend. It is a law of nature which cannot be violated with impunity. The mistaken prince who looks for friendship will find a favourite, and in that favourite the ruin of his affairs.
The people of England are loyal to the House of Hanover, not from a vain preference of one family to another, but from a conviction that the establishment of that family was necessary to the support of their civil and religious liberties. This, Sir, is a principle of allegiance equally solid and rational, fit for Englishmen to adopt, and well worthy of your Majesty's encouragement. We cannot long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of Stuart, of itself, is only contemptible; armed with the sovereign authority, their principles are formidable. The prince who imitates their conduct should be warned by their example, and, while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remember that, as it was acquired by one revolution, it may be lost by another.
ROBERT BURNS.
(1759-1796.)
XLVI. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.
My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither; The cleanest corn that ere was dight May ha'e some pyles o' caff in; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin'.--_Solomon_.--Eccles. vii. 16.
This undoubtedly ranks as one of the noblest satires in our literature. It was first published as a broadside, and afterwards incorporated in the Kilmarnock and Edinburgh editions.
Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious an' sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark an' tell Your neebour's fauts an' folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun[216] mill, Supplied wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's[217] ebbing still, An' still the clap plays clatter.
Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, For glaiket[218] Folly's portals; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie[219] tricks, their black mistakes Their failings an' mischances.
Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, An' shudder at the niffer[220], But cast a moment's fair regard, What mak's the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding.
Think, when your castigated pulse Gi'es now an' then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop. Wi' wind an' tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.
See social life an' glee sit down, All joyous an' unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown Debauchery an' drinking: Oh would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gi'e poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination-- But, let me whisper i' your lug[221], Ye'er aiblins[222] nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: An' just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord--its various tone, Each spring--its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
[Footnote 216: well-going.]
[Footnote 217: hopper.]
[Footnote 218: idle.]
[Footnote 219: unlucky.]
[Footnote 220: exchange.]
[Footnote 221: ear.]
[Footnote 222: perhaps.]
XLVII. HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.
The hero of this daring exposition of Calvinistic theology was William Fisher, a farmer in the neighbourhood of Mauchline, and an elder in Mr. Auld's session. He had signalized himself in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, elsewhere alluded to; and Burns appears to have written these verses in retribution of the rancour he had displayed on that occasion. Fisher was afterwards convicted of appropriating the money collected for the poor. Coming home one night from market in a state of intoxication, he fell into a ditch, where he was found dead next morning. The poem was first published in 1801, along with the "Jolly Beggars".
Oh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, an' ten to hell, A' for thy glory, An' no for ony guid or ill They've done afore thee!
I bless an' praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place.
What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Thro' Adam's cause?
When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might ha'e plunged me deep in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep an' wail, In burnin' lake, Whare damned devils roar an' yell, Chain'd to a stake.
Yet I am here, a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great an' ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock.
But yet, oh Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd[223] wi' fleshly lust; An' sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in: But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin.
Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en an' morn Lest he owre high an' proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted; If sae, Thy ban' maun e'en be borne, Until Thou lift it.
Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace And public shame.
Lord, mind Cawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes[224], Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' grit an' sma'[225], Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.
And whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore[226], As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us,-- Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.
Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin', To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin', Held up his head.
Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare,
But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear[227] and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, amen!
EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.
Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay Tak's up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some ither way, I fear the left-hand road.
Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun', Observe wha's standing wi' him.
Your brunstane[228] devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye ha'e nane; Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gane.
But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof[229] like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.
[Footnote 223: troubled.]
[Footnote 224: cards.]
[Footnote 225: great and small.]
[Footnote 226: row.]
[Footnote 227: wealth.]
[Footnote 228: brimstone.]
[Footnote 229: fool.]
CHARLES LAMB.
(1775-1835.)
XLVIII. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
Published originally in 1811 in _The Reflector_, No. 4. As Lamb himself states, it was meditated for two years before it was committed to paper in 1805, but not published until six years afterwards.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, Great Plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passions to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness
Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras-- Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze. But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite-- Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexed lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike, And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, Loving Foe,-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.
Or as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any title of her state, Though a widow or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the byplaces And the suburbs of thy graces, And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite.
THOMAS MOORE.
(1779-1852.)
XLIX. LINES ON LEIGH HUNT.
Suggested by Hunt's _Byron and his Contemporaries_.
Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage Of the late noble lion at Exeter 'Change.
Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad", 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how lions behave--among friends.
How that animal eats, how he moves, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the lion was no such great things after all.
Though he roar'd pretty well--this the puppy allows-- It was all, he says, borrow'd--all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour.
'Tis indeed as good fun as a cynic could ask, To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task, And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.
Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) With sops every day from the lion's own pan, He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcase, And--does all a dog, so diminutive, can.
However the book's a good book, being rich in Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, Who'll feed on them living, and foul them when dead.
GEORGE CANNING.
(1770-1827.)
L. EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE.
Published in _Fugitive Verses_, and thence included among Canning's works.
Oft you have ask'd me, Granville, why Of late I heave the frequent sigh? Why, moping, melancholy, low, From supper, commons, wine, I go? Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd, By day no peace, by night no rest? Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew A tale so tender, and so true-- Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain, My pen with freedom shall explain. Say, Granville, do you not remember, About the middle of November, When Blenheim's hospitable lord Received us at his cheerful board; How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled, Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild? And mark'd you not, how many a glance Across the table, shot by chance From fair Eliza's graceful form, Assail'd and took my heart by storm? And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal, I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal? And how, when conversation's charms Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms, My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder, When talking to her at the _winder_? These facts premised, you can't but guess The cause of my uneasiness, For you have heard, as well as I, That she'll be married speedily; And then--my grief more plain to tell-- Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,--farewell! But still, tho' false the fleeting dream, Indulge awhile the tender theme, And hear, had fortune yet been kind, How bright the prospect of the mind. O! had I had it in my power To wed her--with a suited dower-- And proudly bear the beauteous maid To Saltrum's venerable shade,-- Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em,-- Then had I tasted bliss sincere, And happy been from year to year. How changed this scene! for now, my Granville, Another match is on the anvil. And I, a widow'd dove, complain, And feel no refuge from my pain-- Save that of pitying Spencer's sister, Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister.
LI. REFORMATION OF THE KNAVE OF HEARTS.
This is an exquisite satire on the attempts at criticism which were current in _pre-Edinburgh Review_ days, when the majority of the journals were mere touts for the booksellers. The papers in question are taken from Nos. 11 and 12 of the _Microcosm_, published on Monday, February 12th, 1787--when Canning was seventeen years of age.
The epic poem on which I shall ground my present critique has for its chief characteristics brevity and simplicity. The author--whose name I lament that I am, in some degree, prevented from consecrating to immortal fame, by not knowing what it is--the author, I say, has not branched his poem into excrescences of episode, or prolixities of digression; it is neither variegated with diversity of unmeaning similitudes, nor glaring with the varnish of unnatural metaphor. The whole is plain and uniform; so much so, indeed, that I should hardly be surprised if some morose readers were to conjecture that the poet had been thus simple rather from necessity than choice; that he had been restrained, not so much by chastity of judgment, as sterility of imagination.