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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,
Londonderry still smiles-still Brag Bathurst looks glum ;
While the Speaker, except when he's whisp'ring to Knox,
Seems as woe-begone quite, as if jamm'd in the stocks.
Though you've no place secured, you may sit at your ease,
Where the long file of names represents absentees.

Then our hero sometimes, if you'll give him but due rope,
In the course of two hours takes you all over Europe!
And bewilders each auditor, saint, sage, or dunce,

By discussing at least twenty subjects at once.

The neglect of poor Ireland-the fall in her staples-
The nefarious designs of vile despots on Naples-

Paints the Manchester carnage-renews his attacks on Hay-
Strides from Parga to Mexico, Norway and Saxony;
And at length compares Castlereagh's Irish atrocities

With Napoleon's mild reign.-" O, how grievous a loss it is,
That the greatest of monarchs, who never unfurl'd
War's standard, except to give peace to the world;
(Whom for one I shall ever name Emp'ror of France),
Victor always by skill, vanquish'd only by chance,
Whom my learned friend taunted just now as ambitious,
But in whom e'en that fault almost ceased to be vicious-
(Here a murmur)-"Yes, yes, I repeat it again!
One, who march'd into Germany, Russia, and Spain,
To diffuse the rich blessings of order and freedom,
By an act of injustice, whose grossness strikes me dumb,
Should be sent to that sterile bleak rock, St Helena.
(Just before a staunch patriot could serve a subpoena,)
Where no wretch would, by choice, were he ever so poor, go!
Recollect, too, the barbarous outrage on Gourgaud!
How the Noble Lord's satellites bullied and kick'd him!—
Him, that horrible Alien Act's ill-fated victim!

And, Sir, here I must say, that, unless to go on you meant
In the same mad career, you'd destroy that vile monument
Of the system so foul," (here the cote-gauche cheers)

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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 blood shed by the crew of a custom-house cutter-
The immense falling off in our exports of butter-
The fell massacres sanction'd in Greece by the Porte,-

The insidious dispatch of Sir William A'Court,

Whom, I doubt not, instructions from home most disgraceful,
Sent to aid the old Monarch, that perjured and base fool:

Sir, to whom does John Bull, that vile print! owe its great run?
To the arts of its powerful apostle and patron!
Who arrays all his powers against Liberty's standard?
And by whom is our Queen still degraded and slander'd?
Sir, the crimes of the Noble Lord in the blue ribbon
Must be traced, not by me, but by some future Gibbon!
I could scarce recount all, had I twenty loud tongues!
And at present a grievous complaint on the lungs
Has attack'd both my nerves and my physical strength,
And disables me wholly from speaking at length"-
(Here Lord Binning and Holmes scarce suppress a loud laugh,
For his speech had just lasted an hour and a half)—

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-
Just as Tierney sits down, you perceive the sun rise;
And, should Phoebus look on, O how motley a crew,
Which the House at that moment presents to his view!
Smiling-frowning-pale-flush'd-list'ning-whispering-sunk

Into sleep most profound: many sober one drunk:

Some, half-roused, with their eyes staring out of their sockets;
Others stand at the door, with their hands in their pockets;
Some are coughing, some yawning, some loll at their ease:

L. L. D.'s, F. R. S.'s, B. A.'s, K. C. B.'s,

Placemen, Bankers, Beaux, Admirals, Lawyers, (too numerous);
Old and young; handsome, plain; rich and poor; dull and humorous;
Here a saint, there a rake-here a fop, there a sloven —

Overpower'd, as if kiln-dried, or baked in an oven;

For the heat's so intense, (though they're anxious to ventilate,)
That for one who comes early, there always are twenty late.

But the change which must cause the most wonder to Phoebus,
(Since I'm scribbling so freely de omnibus rebus,)

Is to see, that, instead of gay spruce evening suits,
All the Cabinet Ministers come down in boots:
Londonderry himself, during two busy Sessions,
Very often appear'd in knee-breeches and Hessians;
Nay, in proof of their dignified, stern independence,

Many scores wear their hats, during each night's attendance,
Whilst they loll in their seats; but, the most zealous lover
Of this right so refined, must, when rising, uncover.

Tierney ends, (having laid down, for two hours, the law,)
Amid shouts of " Hear, hear! Question, question! Withdraw!"
When, lo! Martin of Galway gets up to explain,
Clasps his hands, looks around him again and again;
Shrugs, where diffidence, grace, and decision combine,
Are as much thrown away, as pearls cast before swine;
So he stands erect, frowning, with both fists akimbo,
Till at last e'en the Whigs keep their tongues all in limbo;
He's no fav'rite with them; very few so expert as he
To upbraid them, when wanting in patience and courtesy.
"The Whig Chesterfields yonder lose more time in coughing,
Than, if civilly heard, I'd myself let 'em off in;

They shall lead me at once, if they please, to the block,
If for more than two minutes I speak, by the clock;
All attempts will be useless, to silence or flurry;
But if gentlemen please, I'm in no kind of hurry;
If they wish to cough on, for the sake of delay,
I've no sort of objection to stand here all day;

An ironical allusion to their proverbial unpoliteness.

But of this be assured, that I'll make good my right
To explain, if I keep them all barking till night.

The Right Hon'rable Gentleman, much to his credit,
(I for one, went along with him quite, when he said it,)
Has confessed, that the Whigs, though not pining for place,
Would, if sent for, come in, with a very good grace:-
Sir, this fact, (though some patriots have angrily scouted it)
Is so clear that the country has never once doubted it;
And the public becomes more convinced every day,
That they've all got the will, though they can't find the way.
But I own, that it quite struck me all of a heap,

When he said, the Whigs hold loaves and fishes so cheap;
And I think that one's infatuation would border”-
(Order, order! Hear, hear!)—" Sir, am I out of order?"
(Question, question!)-" I wonder what gentlemen mean !
I'm not going to say one single word on the Queen-
What I meant, sir, was this: I'm explaining, that they
Should to Coventry send my Lords Grenville and Grey;
Since the folly of these two great Statesmen and Co.
Kept them all out of office just nine years ago,

When they might have walk'd over the course with such ease;
But these Doctors so learn'd had a row about fees,
And took huff, when his Majesty dared to prohibit 'em
From discharging his other physicians ad libitum :*
So the King (then Prince Regent) was left to the quacks,
Whom now the Right Hon'rable Member attacks

:

Most unfairly for surely the whole of the sin is theirs,
If the noble Lord here and his colleagues are Ministers:
If a patient can't get Dr Tierney,† indeed he

Can't be blamed, for, in self-defence, calling in Eady.
Sir, the administration undoubtedly owes

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."
The House laughs; but the Whigs don't quite relish the joke:
Mr Lambton" to order!"-loud cries of "Spoke, spoke!"
M. "Sir, this rudeness"-L. " Sir, no human patience can bear;
These disorderly taunts"- "M. I appeal to the chair.".
Now the Speaker, who sees them exchange a dark frown,
Amid cries of "Chair, chair!" beckons both to sit down:
Bland and courteous, like Nestor, who sooth'd Agamemnon
And Achilles, without proper cause he d condemn none:
"The Hon'rable Member who claims my protection,
I am sure will allow, on a moment's reflection,
That he long since has greatly exceeded the latitude
Which the House". "Sir, I bow; and with cordial gratitude
For the candid indulgence with which I've been heard-"
(Question! spoke !) "I beg pardon, and shan't add a word."

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,
Folds his arms, and then pauses two minutes or more.
"At this hour of the night, or I may say
the morning,
I reluctantly rise; and need no other warning,
Than my own urgent want of repose and relief,
To convince and remind me I ought to be brief;

VOL. XI.

* i. e.
dismissing the household.
+ Sir Matthew Tierney, Bart.

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.

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