HUME, MARTIN, AND CANNING." THE Whiggery of England is bad, because it is cold, sulky, and hypocritical: the Whiggery of London is worse, because it is cockneyfied into the bargain; but the Whiggery of Scotland is contemptible, and nothing but contemptible. It has never yet sent into Parliament one man of more than fifth-rate talents. Dr Joseph Hume, Lord Archibald Hamilton, and Mr Thomas Kennedy, are at present its tria lumina!!! But the Whiggery of Edinburgh is a subject more especially fit to be spit upon, and that for three excellent reasons: Firstly, it is the quackery of mere fools; secondly, it is the quackery of poor fools; and thirdly, it is the quackery of false fools. We say mere fools, because in a few years there is not one of them whose name will be remembered, except as being borne, perhaps, by some patre stulto filius stultior. We say poor fools, because they are, for the most part, poor, miserable, powerless creatures, holding no visible connexion with, nor exerting any shadow of authority over any perceptible part of the British population: a set of slavish, sneaking attorneys, and pert, pragmatical barristers who, if they were transplanted to-morrow in a body to Botany Bay, could scarcely, among them all, muster money enough to bring five fields into cultivation, or manners enough to overawe five felons-and, most assuredly, not manhood enough to fight five kangaroos. Thirdly, we say they are false fools; and this, each man, or rather each thing of them, in his secret chamber, confesses to himself: and this all the world acknowledges and avows, because all the world knows-that they abuse infidelity, and yet swear by a pack of Infidel Reviewers that they abuse indecency, and yet subscribed for Hone-that they presume to call themselves gentlemen, and yet but least suid is soonest mended, and we leave them to gulp a blank. We throw out these hints by way of relieving our readers from any fears of being much troubled by us with any farther allusions to the degraded dregs of the Whig faction here at our elbows. The truth is, that we intended to give them a slight dressing, when we took our pen into our hand; but a little good-natured pamphlet has lain on our table these two or three weeks, which may spare us the trouble of writing an article, and our readers the pain of reading a splenetic one, We are surprised that this beautiful little quarto did not reach us several months ago; but being sure that the Whigs of Edinburgh have not seen it any more than ourselves, we willingly dedicate a page or two to a few extracts. The poem, which is an exceedingly clever imitation of the New Bath Guide, gives a ludicrous account of the miseries of a modern M. P. Of these, of course, one of the chief is the occasional necessity of listening to Joseph Hume, Esq. that great Adam Smith of the radical interest. It is thus the Poet, who, having retired to take a cup of tea with our friend Lord Fife, and so hoped to escape this bore, describes his sensations-on finding the Montrose Doctor still prosing when he comes back to the House. "THOUGH for more than one hour I've been taking French leave, To give both mind and ears a much-wanted reprieve, I find one, whom I left speaking, still on his legs; (Yet I've thrice drain'd the tea-pot, with Fife, to the dregsFife, whose heart has been fashion'd with nature's best oreFife, who loves his King much, but his country still more.) • The Debate and Division: An Epistle, in Verse. London, 1821. 4to. pp. 44. Canning still leans his head on his finger and thumb, Then our hero sometimes, if you'll give him but due rope, By discussing at least twenty subjects at once. The neglect of poor Ireland-the fall in her staples- Paints the Manchester carnage-renews his attacks on Hay- With Napoleon's mild reign.-" O, how grievous a loss it is, And, Sir, here I must say, that, unless to go on you meant Which was blindly pursued during fifty dire years! Sir, the Noble Lord smiles! he should blush, since his name, For his share in these crimes, shall be branded with shame; And I'd say, (were I gifted like Grattan or Flood,) That in Ireland's sad page, 'tis recorded in blood! I hear Gentlemen cough!-be assured, Mr Speaker, If they murmur once more, I shall keep them a week here! I had something to charge Sir Nathaniel Conant with, And to dwell on the harshness our Viceroy treats Zant with,- The insidious dispatch of Sir William A'Court, Whom, I doubt not, instructions from home most disgraceful, Sir, to whom does John Bull, that vile print! owe its great run? 4 "Sir, I can't wish the Noble Lord joy on his levity; I perhaps owe the House an excuse for my brevity; Some allowance is due to the state of my chest ; I shall now only enter my solemn protest 'Gainst a system too base and destructive to last, And the Noble Lord's acts, present, future, or past!" Thus concludes his brief speech: and the choice friends who heard it, More especially Wilson, Wood, Hobhouse and Burdett, Most obligingly wedge a faint cry of "hear, hear," in Which the Chronicle next day reports as "loud cheering!” Then follow, Peel, Tierney, and some other orators, equally well hit off. The coup d'œil of the House, between the conclusion of the speech of Tierney and the uprising of Jack Martin of Galway, is capital. Now the morning's first beam feebly tinges the skies- Into sleep most profound: many sober one drunk: Some, half-roused, with their eyes staring out of their sockets; L. L. D.'s, F. R. S.'s, B. A.'s, K. C. B.'s, Placemen, Bankers, Beaux, Admirals, Lawyers, (too numerous); Overpower'd, as if kiln-dried, or baked in an oven; For the heat's so intense, (though they're anxious to ventilate,) But the change which must cause the most wonder to Phoebus, Is to see, that, instead of gay spruce evening suits, Many scores wear their hats, during each night's attendance, Tierney ends, (having laid down, for two hours, the law,) They shall lead me at once, if they please, to the block, An ironical allusion to their proverbial unpoliteness. But of this be assured, that I'll make good my right The Right Hon'rable Gentleman, much to his credit, When he said, the Whigs hold loaves and fishes so cheap; When they might have walk'd over the course with such ease; : Most unfairly for surely the whole of the sin is theirs, Can't be blamed, for, in self-defence, calling in Eady. Very much to itself, but still more to its foes; Who, by party invectives and mischievous votes, May be said to have more than once cut their own throats." Jack, as usual, sits down, amidst an uproar, all but diabolic, which nothing could allay, but the magical sound of Mr Canning's name uttered by the Speaker. Whig and Tory bristle and bustle, Whilst our modern Ulysses looks down on the floor, VOL. XI. * i. e. 2 G HUME, MARTIN, AND CANNING." THE Whiggery of England is bad, because it is cold, sulky, and hypocrit cal: the Whiggery of London is worse, because it is cockneyfied into the bar gain: but the Whiggery of Scotland is contemptible, and nothing but contemp tible. It has never yet sent into Parliament one man of more than fifth-rat talents. Dr Joseph Hume, Lord Archibald Hamilton, and Mr Thoms Kennedy, are at present its tria lumina!!! But the Whiggery of Edin burgh is a subject more especially fit to be spit upon, and that for thre excellent reasons: Firstly, it is the quackery of mere fools; secondly, is the quackery of poor fools; and thirdly, it is the quackery of false fools We say mere fools, because in a few years there is not one of them whose name will be remembered, except as being borne, perhaps, by some patre stulto filmu stultior. We say poor fools, because they are, for the most part, poor, misera. ble, powerless creatures, holding no visible connexion with, nor exerting any shadow of authority over any perceptible part of the British population: a set of slavish, sneaking attorneys, and pert, pragmatical barristers who, if they were transplanted to-morrow in a body to Botany Bay, could scarcely, among them all, muster money enough to bring five fields into cultivation, or manners enough to overawe five felons-and, most assuredly, not manhood enough to fight fiv kangaroos. Thirdly, we say they are false fools; and this, each man, or rather each thing of them, in his secret chamber, confesses to himself: and this all the world acknowledges and avows, because all the world knows-that they abuse infidelity, and yet swear by a pack of Infidel Reviewers that they abuse indecency, and yet subscribed for Hone-that they presume to call themselves gentlemen, and yet but least suid is soonest mended, and we leave them to gulp a blank. We throw out these hints by way of relieving our readers from any fears of being much troubled by us with any farther allusions to the degraded dregs of the Whig faction here at our elbows. The truth is, that we intended to give them a slight dressing, when we took our pen into our hand; but a little good-natured pamphlet has lain on our table these two or three weeks, which may spare us the trouble of writing an article, and our readers the pain of reading a splenetic one. We are surprised that this beautiful little quarto did not reach us several months ago; but being sure that the Whigs of Edinburgh have not seen it any more than ourselves, we willingly dedicate a page or two to a few extracts. The poem, which is an exceedingly clever imitation of the New Bath Guide, gives a ludicrous account of the miseries of a modern M. P. Of these, of course, one of the chief is the occasional necessity of listening to Joseph Hume, Esq. that great Adam Smith of the radical interest. It is thus the Poet, who, having retired to take a cup of tea with our friend Lord Fife, and so hoped to escape this bore, describes his sensations-on finding the Montrose Doctor still prosing when he comes back to the House. "THOUGH for more than one hour I've been taking French leave, To give both mind and ears a much-wanted reprieve, I find one, whom I left speaking, still on his legs; (Yet I've thrice drain'd the tea-pot, with Fife, to the dregsFife, whose heart has been fashion'd with nature's best oreFife, who loves his King much, but his country still more.) • The Debate and Division: An Epistle, in Verse. London, 1821. 4to, pp. 44. |