shrink nor swerve nor start aside wherever duty and inclination may
  place me. My services, my life itself, are at your disposal—Whether
  to act or to suffer, I am yours—With HAMPDEN in the field, or with
  SIDNEY on the scaffold. My example may be more useful to you than my
  talents: and this head may perhaps serve your cause more
  effectually, if placed on a pole on Temple Bar, than if it was
  occupied in organizing your Committees, in preparing your
  Revolutionary Explosions, and conducting your Correspondence.”

  MR. MACFUNGUS said he should give, as an unequivocal test of his
  sentiments, “BUONAPARTE AND A RADICAL REFORM”.

  The conclusion of MR. MACFUNGUS’S speech was followed by a
  simultaneous burst of rapturous approbation from every part of the
  room. The applause continued for several minutes, during which MR.
  MACFUNGUS repeatedly rose to express his feelings.

  The conversation now became more mixed and animated; several
  excellent Songs were sung, and Toasts drank, while the progressive
  and patriotic festivity of the evening was heightened by the vocal
  powers of several of the most popular Singers. A new Song written by
  Captain MORRIS received its sanction in the warmest expression of
  applause. The whole company joined with enthusiasm in their old
  favourite Chorus of Bow! Wow!! Wow!!!]

  [MACFUNGUS stands for SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH, who, after studying
  medicine in Edinburgh, settled in London, and wrote for the
  opposition newspapers, particularly the _Morning Post_, Daniel
  Stuart, the proprietor, being his father-in-law. The first work that
  brought him into notice was his _Vindiciæ Gallicæ_ (1791), in reply
  to Burke’s _Reflections_ on the French Revolution, which splendid
  philippic it greatly surpassed in philosophic thought, sound
  feeling, and common sense. It was enthusiastically received by the
  Liberal party, whose leaders eagerly sought his acquaintance and
  co-operation; and when the _Association of the Friends of the
  People_ was formed, he was appointed Secretary. His subsequent
  successful career as an Advocate, Indian Judge, Member of
  Parliament, Minister under Lord Grey, and as an English historian,
  bore out the promise of his youth. He was born in 1765 and died in
  1832.—ED.]

                                 No. V.

                                                          Dec. 11, 1797.

We have already hinted at the principle by which the followers of the
Jacobinical sect are restrained from the exercise of their own favourite
virtue of charity. The force of this prohibition, and the strictness
with which it is observed, are strongly exemplified in the following
poem. It is the production of the same author [SOUTHEY] whose happy
effort in English Sapphics we presumed to imitate; the present effusion
is in Dactylics, and equally subject to the laws of Latin Prosody.

                          THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.

             Wēāry̆ wăy-wāndĕrĕr, lānguĭd ănd sĭck ăt hĕart,
             Trāvĕllĭng pāinfŭlly̆ ōvĕr thĕ rūggĕd roăd;
             Wīld vĭsăg’d wāndĕrĕr—āh fŏr thy̆ hēavy̆ chănce.

We think that we see him fumbling in the pocket of his blue pantaloons;
that the splendid shilling is about to make its appearance, and to
glitter in the eyes, and glad the heart of the poor sufferer. But no
such thing—the bard very calmly contemplates her situation, which he
describes in a pair of very pathetical stanzas; and after the following
well-imagined topic of consolation, concludes by leaving her to
Providence.

       Thy husband will never return from the war again;
       Cold is thy hopeless heart, _even as charity_;
       Cold are thy famished babes—_God help thee_, widow’d one!

We conceived that it would be necessary to follow up this general rule
with the particular exception, and to point out one of those cases in
which the embargo upon Jacobin bounty is sometimes suspended;[18] with
this view we have subjoined the poem of

                         THE SOLDIER’S FRIEND.
                               DACTYLICS.

        Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here:
        I am the soldier’s friend—here are some books for you;
        Nice clever books by TOM PAINE, the philanthropist.[19]
        Here’s half-a-crown for you—here are some handbills too—
        Go to the barracks, and give all the soldiers some.
        Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.

  _Exit Drummer Boy, with handbills and half-a-crown.—Manet Soldier’s Friend._

            Liberty’s friends thus all learn to amalgamate,
            Freedom’s volcanic explosion prepares itself,
            Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty.
              Reason, philosophy, “fiddledum diddledum,”
              Peace and fraternity, higgledy, piggledy,
              Higgledy, piggledy, “fiddledum diddledum”.

                                    _Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera._

                          SONNET.—TO LIBERTY.

            Just Guardian of man’s social bliss! for thee
              The paths of danger gladly would I tread:
              For thee! contented, join the glorious dead,
            Who nobly scorn’d a life that was not free!

            But worse than death it pains my soul to see
              The Lord of Ruin, by wild Uproar led,
              Hell’s first-born, ANARCHY, exalt his head,
            And seize thy throne, and bid us bow the knee!

            What though his iron sceptre, blood-imbrued,
              Crush half the nations with resistless might;
            Never shall this firm spirit be subdued:
              In chains, in exile, still the chanted rite,
            O LIBERTY! to thee shall be renew’d:
              O still be sea-girt ALBION thy delight!    D.

                                No. VI.

                                                          Dec. 18, 1797.

We cannot enough congratulate ourselves on having been so fortunate as
to fall upon the curious specimens of classical metre and correct
sentiment which we have made the subject of our late Jacobinical
imitations.

The fashion of admiring and imitating these productions has spread in a
surprising degree. Even those who sympathise with the principles of the
writer selected as our model, seem to have been struck with the ridicule
of his poetry.

There appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_ of Monday a _Sapphic Ode_,
apparently written by a friend and associate of our author, in which he
is however travestied most unmercifully. And to make the joke the more
pointed, the learned and judicious editor contrived to print the ode _en
masse_, without any order of lines, or division of stanza; so that it
was not discovered to be _verse_ till the next day, when it was
explained in a hobbling _erratum_.

We hardly know which to consider as the greater object of compassion in
this case—the original _Odist_, thus parodied by his friend, or the
mortified _Parodist_ thus mutilated by his printer. “_Et tu, Brute!_”
has probably been echoed from each of these worthies to his murderer, in
a tone that might melt the hardest heart to pity.

We cordially wish them joy of each other, and we resign the modern
_Lesbian lyre_ into their hands without envy or repining.

Our author’s DACTYLICS have produced a second imitation (conveyed to us
from an unknown hand), with which we take our leave of this species of
poetry also.

                        THE SOLDIER’S WIFE.[20]

                               DACTYLICS.

                     “Wēāry̆ wăy-wāndĕrĕr,” &c. &c.

                               IMITATION.

                               DACTYLICS.

  _Being the quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were, or ever
                           will be written._

              HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ABOVE.

       Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous,
       Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays—
       Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, “ah! for thy heavy chance!”

       Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet:
       Slow is the syllable which thou wouldst urge to speed,
       Lame and o’erburthen’d, and “screaming its wretchedness!”

                       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .[21]

       Ne’er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling-book;
       _Dilworth_ and _Dyche_[22] are both mad at thy quantities—
       DACTYLICS, call’st thou ’em—“God help thee, silly one!”

  [The following is the _Sapphic Ode_ alluded to above, which was
  intended by the poet of the _Morning Chronicle_ as a “retort
  courteous” to the _Friend of Humanity_. The printer of that paper,
  unfortunately, being new to “such branches of learning,” and not
  dreaming it could be intended for _poetry_, printed it as below. The
  mistake seems to have been immediately discovered, for it
  re-appeared next day (Dec. 12) in the guise of verse.—ED.]

                   THE COLLECTOR AND THE HOUSEHOLDER.

     _The Hint taken from the Anti-Jacobin, “Needy Knife-Grinders”_

     _H._ Greedy Collector, whither are you going, thus with your
          inkhorn in your buttonhole, and ledger so snugly underneath
          your coat? Say, greedy Collector.

     _C._ Much I rejoice that I have met you here, friend: turn back,
          I pri’thee, ’tis with you I want to speak; I am come on
          business of importance—gentle Householder.

     _H._ Greedy Collector, well I know your business, ’tis for my
          taxes you are come to dun me; well! ’tis the last time you
          will have a right to ask me for money. Buggy, no longer do
          I drive a smart one; smash went my gig, as long [ago] as
          Easter; down Highgate hill we tumbled altogether, horse,
          wife, and I, Sir. One broke his knees, and[23] another
          broke his collar-bone; there’s an end of pleasuring on
          Sundays. Take my last payment; there is your two pounds
          twelve shillings and ninepence.

     _C._ Gentle householder, much are you mistaken; Order, Religion,
          Constitution, Laws, and rational freedom, all demand from
          you a—triple assessment.

     _H._ Triple Assessment! What beside the old tax?

     _C._ Certainly: come, deposit, I’m a waiting.

     _H._ Wait and be damned. What is it you are after?

     _C._ Ten pounds eleven.

     _H._ Ten pounds eleven! have I not informed thee gig I have none?
          I’ve sent it to the hammer; Pay for a gig and not [to] have
          it!

     _C._ But you had one at Easter!

     _H._ Easter is past and gone. I’ll never pay thee.

     _C._ Gentle Householder, then I must proceed to shew thee a
          little bit of parchment, called a writ of distringer [for
          _distringas_].

          [_Exit_ Collector to take possession of the Householder’s
          bed and furniture.

The verses which we here present to the public were written immediately
after the Revolution of the 4th of September. We should be much obliged
to any of our classical and loyal correspondents for an English
translation of them.

                              LATIN VERSES
  _Written immediately after the Revolution of the 4th of September._

           Ipsa mali Hortatrix scelerumque uberrima Mater
           In se prima suos vertit lymphata furores,
           Luctaturque diù secum, et conatibus ægris
           Fessa cadit, proprioque jacet labefacta veneno.

             Mox tamen ipsius rursúm violentia morbi
           Erigit ardentem furiis, ultróque minantem
           Spargere bella procul, vastæque incendia cladis,
           Civilesque agitare faces, totumque per orbem
           Sceptra super Regum et Populorum subdita colla
           Ferre pedem, et sanctas Regnorum evertere sedes.

             Aspicis! Ipsa sui bacchatur sanguine Regis,
           Barbaraque ostentans feralis signa triumphi,
           Mole giganteâ campis prorumpit apertis,
           Successu scelerum, atque insanis viribus audax.

             At quà Pestis atrox rapido se turbine vertit,
           Cernis ibi, priscâ morum compage solutâ,
           Procubuisse solo civilis fœdera vitæ,
           Et quodcunque Fides, quodcunque habet alma verendi
           Religio, Pietasque et Legum fræna sacrarum.

             Nec spes Pacis adhuc—necdum exsaturata rapinis
           Effera Bellatrix, fusove expleta cruore.
           Crescit inextinctus Furor, atque exæstuat ingens
           Ambitio, immanisque irâ Vindicta renatâ
           Reliquias Soliorum et adhuc restantia Regna
           Flagitat excidio, prædæque incumbit opimæ.

             Una etenim in mediis Gens intemerata ruinis
           Libertate probâ, et justo libramine rerum,
           Securum faustis degit sub legibus ævum;
           Antiquosque colit mores, et jura Parentum
           Ordine firma suo, sanoque intacta vigore,
           Servat adhuc, hominumque fidem, curamque Deorum.
           Eheu! quanta odiis avidoque alimenta furori!
           Quanta profanatas inter spoliabitur aras
           Victima! si quando versis Victoria fatis
           Annuerit scelus extremum, terrâque subactâ
           Impius Oceani sceptrum fædaverit Hostis!

                                No. VII.

                                                          Dec. 25, 1797.

We have been favoured with a translation of the Latin verses inserted in
our last Number. We have little doubt that our readers will agree with
us, in hoping that this may not be the last contribution which we shall
receive from the same hand.[24]

          Parent of countless crimes, in headlong rage,
          War with herself see frantic _Gallia_ wage,
          Till worn and wasted by intestine strife,
          She falls—her languid pulse scarce quick with life.
          But soon she feels through every trembling vein,
          New strength collected from convulsive pain:
          Onward she moves, and sounds the dire alarm,
          And bids insulted nations haste to arm;
          Spreads wide the waste of war, and hurls the brand
          Of civil discord o’er each troubled land,
          While desolation marks her furious course,
          And thrones subverted bow beneath her force.

            Behold! she pours her Monarch’s guiltless blood,
          And quaffs with savage joy the crimson flood;
          Then, proud the deadly trophies to display
          Of her foul crimes, resistless bursts away,
          Unaw’d by justice, unappall’d by fear,
          And runs with giant strength her mad career.

            Where’er her banners float in barbarous pride,
          Where’er her conquest rolls its sanguine tide,
          There, the fair fabric of establish’d law,
          There social order, and religious awe,
          Sink in the general wreck; indignant there
          Honour and Virtue fly the tainted air;
          Fly the mild duties of domestic life
          That cheer the parent, that endear the wife,
          The lingering pangs of kindred grief assuage,
          Or soothe the sorrows of declining age.

            Nor yet can Hope presage th’ auspicious hour,
          When Peace shall check the rage of lawless Power;
          Nor yet th’ insatiate thirst of blood is o’er,
          Nor yet has Rapine ravaged every shore.
          Exhaustless Passion feeds th’ augmented flame,
          And wild Ambition mocks the voice of Shame;
          Revenge, with haggard look and scowling eyes,
          Surveys with horrid joy th’ expected prize;
          Broods o’er each remnant of monarchic sway,
          And dooms to certain death his fancied prey.

            For midst the ruins of each falling state,
          ONE FAVOUR’D NATION braves the general fate—
          One favour’d nation, whose impartial laws
          Of sober Freedom vindicate the cause;
          Her simple manners, midst surrounding crimes,
          Proclaim the genuine worth of ancient times;
          True to herself, unconquerably bold,
          The rights her valour gain’d she dares uphold;
          Still with pure faith her promise dares fulfil,
          Still bows submission to th’ Almighty will.

            Just Heav’n! how Envy kindles at the sight!
          How mad Ambition plans the desperate fight!
          With what new fury Vengeance hastes to pour
          Her tribes of rapine from yon crowded shore!
          Just Heav’n! how fair a victim at the shrine
          Of injured Freedom shall her life resign,
          If e’er, propitious to the vows of hate,
          Unsteady Conquest stamp our mournful fate,
          If e’er proud France usurp our ancient reign,
          And ride triumphant o’er th’ insulted main!

                 ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

            Far hence th’ unmanly thought—the voice of Fame
          Wafts o’er th’ applauding deep her DUNCAN’S name.
          What though the Conqueror of th’ Italian plains
          Deem nothing gain’d, while this fair isle remains;
          Though his young breast with rash presumption glow,
          He braves the vengeance of no vulgar foe:
          Conqueror no more, full soon his laurel’d pride
          Shall perish—whelm’d in Ocean’s angry tide;
          His broken bands shall rue the fatal day,
          And scatter’d fleets proclaim BRITANNIA’S sway.

                               No. VIII.

                                                           Jan. 1, 1798.

A correspondent has adapted the beautiful poem of the BATTLE OF SABLA,
in “Carlyle’s Specimens of Arabian Poetry,” to the circumstances of the
present moment. We shall always be happy to see the poetry of other
times and nations so successfully engaged in the service of our country,
and of the present order of society.

                              THE CHOICE.
            (FROM THE BATTLE OF SABLA, BY JAAFER BEN ALBA.)

                                     I.

           Hast thou not seen th’ insulting foe
             In fancied triumphs crown’d?
           And heard their frantic rulers throw
             These empty threats around?
           “Make now YOUR CHOICE! The terms we give,
             Desponding Britons, hear!
           These fetters on your hands receive,
             Or in your hearts the spear.”

           Can we forget our old renown;
             Resign the empire of the sea;
           And yield at once our sovereign’s crown,
             Our ancient laws and liberty?

           Shall thus the fierce destroyer’s hand
           Pass unresisted o’er our native land?
           Our country sink, to barb’rous force a prey,
           And _ransom’d_ ENGLAND bow to _Gallic_ sway?

                                     II.

           “Is then the contest o’er?” we cried,
             “And lie we at your feet?
           And dare you vauntingly decide
             The fortune we shall meet?
           A brighter day we soon shall see;
             No more the prospect lours;
           And Conquest, Peace, and Liberty
             Shall gild our future hours.”

           Yes! we will guard our old renown;
             Assert our empire o’er the sea;
           And keep untouch’d our sovereign’s crown,
             Our ancient laws and liberty.

           Not thus the fierce destroyer’s hand
           Shall scatter ruin o’er this smiling land;
           No barb’rous force shall here divide its prey;
           Nor _ransom’d_ ENGLAND bow to _Gallic_ sway.

                                     III.

           The foe advance. In firm array
             We’ll rush o’er Albion’s sands—
           Till the red sabre marks our way
             Amid their yielding bands!
           Then as they lie in death’s cold grasp,
             We’ll cry, “OUR CHOICE IS MADE!
           These hands the sabre’s hilt shall clasp,
             Your hearts shall feel the blade”.

           Thus Britons guard their ancient fame,
             Assert their empire o’er the sea,
           And to the envying world proclaim,
             One nation still is brave and free—

           Resolv’d to conquer or to die,
           True to their KING, their LAWS, their LIBERTY:
           No barb’rous foe finds here an easy prey—
           _Un-ransom’d_ ENGLAND spurns all foreign sway.[25]

The following poem has been transmitted to us, without preface or
introduction, by a gentleman of the name of IRELAND.[26] We apprehend
from the peculiarities of the style, that it must be the production of a
remote period. We are likewise inclined to imagine, that it may contain
allusions to some former event in English history. What that event may
have been, we must submit to the better judgment and superior
information of our readers, from whom we impatiently expect a solution
of this interesting question. The editor has been influenced solely by a
sense of its poetical merit.

              [JA’FAR SON OF ’ULBAH, OF THE BANU-L-HÂRITH.

  The Poet, with two companions, went forth to plunder the herds of
  ’Ukail, a neighbour-tribe, and was beset on his way back by detached
  parties of that tribe in the valley of Sahbal, whom he overcame and
  reached home safely.

  That even when under Sahbal’s twin peaks upon us drave
    the horsemen troop after troop, and the foemen pressed us sore—
  They said to us—“Two things lie before you: now must ye choose—
    the points of the spears couched at you, or, if ye will not,
       chains”.
  We answered them—“Yea, this thing may fall to you after fight,
    when men shall be left on ground, and none shall arise again;
  But we know not, if we quail before the assault of Death,
    how much may be left of life: the goal is too dim to see”.
  We strode to the strait of battle: there cleared us a space around
    the white swords in our right hands which the smiths had furbished
       fair.
  To them fell the edge of my blade on that day of Sahbal dale,
    and mine was the share thereof whereover my fingers closed.
                                                          ED.]

                    THE DUKE AND THE TAXING-MAN.[27]

             Whilome there liv’d in fair Englonde
               A Duke of peerless wealth,
             And mickle care he took of her
               Old Constitution’s health.
             Full fifty thousand pounds and more
               To him his vassals paid,
             But ne to King, ne Countree, he
               Would yield th’ assessment made.
             The taxing-man, with grim viságe
               Came pricking on the way;
             The taxing-man, with wrothful words,
               Thus to the Duke did say:
             “Lord Duke, Lord Duke, thou’st hid from me,
               As sure as I’m alive,
             Of goodly palfreys _seventeen_,
               Of varlets _twenty-five_”.
             Then out he drew his gray goose quill,
               Ydipp’d in ink so black,
             And sorely to SURCHARGE the Duke,
               I trowe, he was ne slack.
             Then ’gan the Duke to looken pale,
               And stared as one astound,
             Twaie coneynge Clerks[28] eftsoons he spies
               Sitting their board around.
             “O woe is me,” then cried the Duke,
               “Ne mortal wight but errs!
             I’ll hie to yon twaie coneynge Clerks,
               Yclept Commissioners.”
             The Duke he hied him to the board,
               And straight ’gan for to say,
             “A seely[29] wight I am, God wot,
               Ne ken I the right way.
             “These varlets twenty-five were ne’er
               _Liveried in white and red_;
             Withouten this, what signifie
               Wages, and board, and bed?
             “And by St. George, that stout horseman,
               My palfreys _seventeen_,
             For two years, or perchance for three,
               I had forgotten clean.”
             “Naie,” quoth the Clerk, “both horse and foot
               To hide was thine intent,
             Ne seely wight be ye, but didst
               With good advisament.[30]
             “Surcharge, surcharge, good Taxing-man,
               Anon our seals we fix,
             Of sterling pounds, Lord Duke, you pay
               Three hundred thirty-six.”[31]

                     EPIGRAM ON THE PARIS LOAN,[32]
                                 CALLED
                         THE LOAN UPON ENGLAND.

        The Paris cits, a patriotic band,
        Advance their cash on British freehold land.
        But let the speculating rogues beware—
        They’ve bought the _skin_, but who’s to kill _the bear_?

                                No. IX.

                                                           Jan. 8, 1798.

                            ODE TO ANARCHY.

                             BY A JACOBIN.

           (BEING AN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE XXXV. BOOK I.)

                   _O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium!_

       Goddess, whose dire terrific power
       Spreads from thy much-loved Gallia’s plains
       Where’er her blood-stain’d ensigns lower,
     Where’er fell Rapine stalks, or barb’rous Discord reigns!

       Thou, who canst lift to fortune’s height
       The wretch by truth and virtue scorn’d,
       And crush with insolent delight,
     All whom true merit rais’d, or noble birth adorn’d!

       Thee, oft the murd’rous band implores,
       Swift darting on its hapless prey:
       Thee, wafted from fierce Afric’s shores,
     The Corsair Chief invokes to speed him on his way.

       Thee, the wild Indian Tribes revere;
       Thy charms the roving Arab owns;
       Thee, kings, thee tranquil nations fear,
     The bane of social bliss, the foe to peaceful thrones.

       For, soon as thy loud trumpet calls
       To deadly rage, to fierce alarms,
       Just Order’s goodly fabric falls,
     Whilst the mad people cries, “To arms! to arms!”

       With thee Proscription, child of strife,
       With Death’s choice implements, is seen,
       Her Murderer’s gun, Assassin’s knife,
     And, “last not least in love,” her darling _Guillotine_.

       Fond Hope is thine,—the hope of Spoil,
       And Faith,—such faith as ruffians keep:
       They prosper thy destructive toil,
     That makes the Widow mourn, the helpless Orphan weep.

       Then false and hollow friends retire,
       Nor yield one sigh to soothe despair;
       Whilst crowds triumphant Vice admire,
     Whilst Harlots shine in robes that deck’d the Great and Fair.

       Guard our famed Chief to Britain’s strand!
       Britain, our last, our deadliest foe:
       Oh, guard his brave associate band!
     A band to slaughter train’d, and “nursed in scenes of woe”.

       What shame, alas! one little Isle
       Should dare its native laws maintain!
       At Gallia’s threats serenely smile,
     And, scorning her dread power, triumphant rule the main.

       For this have guiltless victims died
       In crowds at thy ensanguined shrine!
       For this has recreant Gallia’s pride
     O’erturned Religion’s Fanes, and braved the Wrath Divine!

       What Throne, what Altar, have we spared
       To spread thy power, thy joys impart?
       Ah! then, our faithful toils reward!
     And let each falchion pierce some loyal Briton’s heart.

            [THE FOLLOWING IS A TRANSLATION, BY DUNCOMBE, OF
                        HORACE’S ODE TO FORTUNE,
                 _Of which the above Ode is a parody_.

            O Goddess, whose propitious sway
            Thy Antium’s favourite sons obey;
            Whose voice from depth of woe recalls
          The wretch, and triumphs turns to funerals;

            From Thee, rich crops the needy swain
            Implores. Thee, sovereign of the main,
            The mariner invokes, who braves
          In a Bithynian bark the Cretan waves;

            Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near,
            And unrelenting Dacians, fear:
            The warlike sons of Italy;
          Cities, and realms, and empires, worship Thee.

            Mothers of barbarous monarchs dread,
            And purple tyrants, lest thou tread
            With spurning foot, and scatter round
          The sculptured column on th’ encumbered ground;

            And lest the fickle crowd should break
            Their bonds; and with loud clamours wake
            The peaceful to assert their right
          By force of arms, and quell usurping might.

            Ruthless necessity prepares
            The way for Thee; and ever bears
            Huge nails in her strong hands of brass
          The wedge, the hook, and lead’s hot molten mass.

            Thee Hope and white robed Faith, adore,
            So rarely found!—She, when no more
            Thou smil’st, attends the fallen great
          Stript of his gay attire and stately seat.

            But venal crowds and harlots fly:
            And, if the flowing casks are dry,
            When to the dregs the wine they drink,
          From friendship’s yoke the false associates shrink.

            Thy aid for Cæsar Rome implores,
            Conduct him safe to Britain’s shores,
            The limits of the world; and lead
          Our new-raised bands against the trembling Mede.

            Alas! we mourn our crimes, our scar
            And brethren slain in civil wars:
            How oft have Roman youth embrued
          Their savage hands in streams of social blood!

            What has this Iron Age not dared?
            What Gods revered? What Altars spared?
            O! point again the blunted steel,
          And let the Massagete our vengeance feel!—ED.]

The following Song is recommended to be sung at all _Convivial_
Meetings, convened for the purpose of opposing the Assessed-Tax Bill.
The correspondent who has transmitted it to us informs us that he has
tried it with great success among many of his well-disposed neighbours,
who had been at first led to apprehend that the 1–20th part of their
income was too great a sacrifice for the preservation of the remainder
of their property from French Confiscation.

              You have heard of REWBELL,[33]
              That demon of hell,
                And of BARRAS, his brother Director;
              Of the canting LEPAUX,
              And that scoundrel MOREAU,
                Who betray’d his old friend and protector.

              Would you know how these friends,
              For their own private ends,
                Would subvert our Religion and Throne?—
              Do you doubt of their skill
              To change Laws at their will?—
                You shall hear how they treated their own.

              ’Twas their pleasure to look,
              In a little blue book,
                At the Code of their famed legislation,
              That with truth they might say,
              In the space of one day
                They had broke every Law of the Nation.

              The first law that they see,
              Is “_the Press shall be free_!”
                The next is “_the Trial by Jury_”:
              Then, “_the People’s free Choice_”;
              Then, “_the Members’ free Voice_”—
                When REWBELL exclaim’d in a fury—

              “On a method we’ll fall
              For infringing them all—
                We’ll seize on each Printer and Member:
              No period so fit
              For a desperate hit,
                As our bloody month of _September_.

              “We’ll annul each election
              Which wants our correction,
                And name our own creatures instead.
              When once we’ve our will,
              No blood we will spill,
                (But let CARNOT be knock’d on the head).

              “To _Rochefort_ we’ll drive
              Our victims alive,
                And as soon as on board we have got ’em,
              Since we destine the ship
              For no more than one trip,
                We can just make a hole in the bottom.

              “By this excellent plan,
              On the _true Rights of Man_,
                When we’ve founded our _fifth Revolution_,
              Though _England’s_ our foe,
              An army shall go
                To _improve_ HER corrupt Constitution.

              “We’ll address to the Nation
              A fine Proclamation
                With offers of friendship so warm:
              Who can give BUONAPARTE
              A welcome so hearty
                As the friends of a THOROUGH REFORM?”

                                 No. X.

                                                          Jan. 15, 1798.

For the two following poems we are indebted to unknown correspondents.
They could not have reached us at a more seasonable period.

The former, we trust, describes the feelings common to every inhabitant
of this country. The second, we know too well, is expressive of the
sentiments of our enemies.

                                 LINES,
                 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1797.

       Loud howls the storm along the neighbouring shore;
       BRITAIN indignant hears the frantic roar:
       Her generous sons pour forth on every side,
       Firm in their country’s cause—their country’s pride!
       See wild Invasion threats this envied land:
       Swift to defend her, springs each Social Band:
       Her white rocks echoing to their cheerful cry,
       “GOD AND OUR KING!”—“ENGLAND AND VICTORY!”

         Yes! happy BRITAIN, on thy tranquil coast
       No trophies mad Philosophy shall boast!
       Though thy disloyal sons, a feeble band,
       Sound the loud blast of treason through the land;
       Scoff at thy dangers with unnatural mirth,
       And execrate the soil which gave them birth;
       With jaundiced eye thy splendid triumphs view,
       And give to FRANCE the palm to BRITAIN due:
       Or,—when loud strains of gratulation ring,[34]
       And lowly bending to the ETERNAL KING,
       Thy SOVEREIGN bids a nation’s praise arise
       In grateful incense to the fav’ring skies—
       Cast o’er each solemn scene a scornful glance,
       And only sigh for ANARCHY and FRANCE.

         Yes! unsupported _Treason’s_ standard falls,
       _Sedition_ vainly on her children calls,
       While Cities, Cottages, and Camps contend,
       Their King, their Laws, their Country to defend.[35]

         Raise, BRITAIN, raise thy sea-encircled head;
       Round the wide world behold thy glory spread;
       Firm as thy guardian oaks thou still shalt stand,
       The dread and wonder of each hostile land;
       While the dire fiends of discord idly rave,
       And, mad with anguish, curse the severing wave.

         QUEEN of the OCEAN, lo! she smiles serene,
       ’Mid the deep horrors of the dreadful scene;
       With heartfelt piety to Heav’n she turns—
       From Heav’n the flame of British courage burns—
       She dreads no power but HIS who rules the ball,
       At whose “great bidding” empires rise and fall;
       In HIM, on peaceful plain, or tented field,
       She trusts, secure in HIS protecting shield—
       GALLIA, thy threats she scorns—BRITAIN SHALL NEVER YIELD.
                                                 AN ENGLISHWOMAN.

                      TRANSLATION OF THE NEW SONG
                                 OF THE
                           “ARMY OF ENGLAND”.

             WRITTEN BY THE CI-DEVANT BISHOP OF AUTUN.[36]

                     WITH NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR.

              Good Republicans all,
              The Directory’s call
                Invites you to visit JOHN BULL;
              Oppress’d by the rod
              Of a King, and a God,[37]
                The cup of his misery’s full.

              Old JOHNNY shall see
              What makes a man FREE;
                Not parchments, nor Statutes on Paper;
              And stripp’d of his riches,
              Great Charter, and breeches,
                Shall cut a FREE Citizen’s caper.

              Then away, let us over
              To _Deal_, or to _Dover_—
                We laugh at his talking so big;
              He’s pamper’d with feeding,
              And wants a sound bleeding—
                _Par Dieu!_ he shall bleed like a pig!

              JOHN, tied to the stake,
              A grand baiting will make,
              When worried by mastiffs of France;
              What REPUBLICAN FUN,
              To see his blood run,
              As at _Lyons_, _La Vendée_, and _Nantz_![38]

              With grape-shot discharges,
              And plugs in his barges,
                With _National Razors_ good store,
              We’ll pepper and shave him,
              And in the _Thames_ lave him—
                How sweetly he’ll bellow and roar!

              What the villain likes worse,
              We’ll vomit his Purse,
                And make it the guineas disgorge;
              For your RAPHAELS and RUBENS
              We would not give two-pence;
                Stick, stick to the PICTURES OF GEORGE.

              No Venus of stone,
              But of good flesh and bone,
                Will do for a true Democrat;
              When weary with slaughter,
              With JOHN’S Wife and Daughter,
                We’ll join in a little _chit-chat_.

              The Shop-keeping hoard,
              The Tenant and Lord,
                And the Merchants,[39] are excellent prey:
              At our cannon’s first thunder,
              _Rape_, _pillage_, and _plunder_
                The _Order_ shall be _of the day_.

              French fortunes and lives,
              French daughters and wives,
                Have _five honest men_ to defend ’em!
              And BARRAS and Co.
              When to _England_ we go,
                Will kindly take JOHN’S _in commendam_.

                                No. XI.

                                                          Jan. 22, 1798.

We have said in another part of our paper of this day, “that though we
shall never begin an attack, we shall always be prompt to repel it”.

On this principle, we could not pass over in silence the EPISTLE TO THE
EDITORS OF THE _Anti-Jacobin_, which appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_
of Wednesday, and from which we have fortunately been furnished with a
motto for this day’s paper.

We assure the author of the epistle, that the answer which we have here
the honour to address to him, contains our genuine and undisguised
sentiments upon the merits of the poem.

Our conjectures respecting the authors and abettors of this performance
may possibly be as vague and unfounded as theirs are with regard to the
EDITORS of the _Anti-Jacobin_. We are sorry that we cannot satisfy their
curiosity upon this subject—but we have little anxiety for the
gratification of our own.

It is hardly to be expected, that the character of the epistle should be
taken on trust from the editors of this volume; it is thought best,
therefore, to subjoin the whole performance as it originally appeared—a
mode of hostility obviously the most fair, and in respect to the
combatants in the cause of Jacobinism, by much the most effectual. They
are always best opposed by the arms which they themselves furnish.
Jacobinism shines by its own light.

To the respectable names which the author of the following address has
thought proper to connect with the “ANTI-JACOBIN,” no apology is made
for thus preserving this otherwise perishable specimen of dulness and
defamation. He who has been reviled by the enemies of the
“ANTI-JACOBIN,” must feel that principles are attributed to him, of
which he need not be ashamed: and when the abuse is conveyed in such a
strain of feebleness and folly, he must see that those principles excite
animosity only in quarters of which he need not be afraid.

It is only necessary to add, what is most conscientiously the truth,
that this production, such as it is, is _by far the best_ of all the
attacks that the combined wits of the cause have been able to muster
against the “ANTI-JACOBIN”.

            EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.[40]

               _Hic Niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto!_

 To tell what gen’rals did, or statesmen spoke,
 To teach the world by truths, or please by joke;
 To make mankind grow bold as they peruse,
 Judge on existing things, and—weigh the news;
 For this a PAPER first display’d its page,
 Commanding tears and smiles through ev’ry age!

   Hail, justly famous! who in modern days
 With nobler flight aspire to higher praise;
 Hail, justly famous! whose discerning eyes
 At once detect MISTAKES, MIS-STATEMENTS, LIES;[41]           10
 Hail, justly famous! who with fancy blest,
 Use fiend-like virulence for sportive jest;
 Who only bark to serve your private ends—
 Patrons of Prejudice, Corruption’s friends!
 Who hurl your venom’d darts at well-earned fame—
 Virtue your hate, and Calumny your aim!

   Whoe’er ye are, all hail!—whether the skill
 Of youthful CANNING guides the ranc’rous quill;
 With powers mechanic far above his age,
 Adapts the paragraph and fills the page;                              20
 Measures the column, mends whate’er’s amiss,
 Rejects THAT letter, and accepts of THIS;
 Or HAMMOND,[42] leaving his official toil,
 O’er this great work consume the midnight oil—
 Bills, passports, letters, for the Muses quit,
 And change dull business for amusing wit:—
 His life of labour at one gasp is o’er,
 His books forgot—his desk beloved no more!
 Proceed to prop the Ministerial cause;
 See consequential MORPETH[43] nods applause;                 30
 In ev’ry fair one’s ears at balls and plays
 The gentle GRANVILLE LEVESON[44] whispers praise:
 Well-judging Patrons, whom such works can please;
 Great works, well worthy Patrons such as these!

   Who heard, not raptured, the poetic Sage
 Who sung of Gallia in a headlong rage,
 And blandly drew with no uncourtly grace
 The simple manners of our English race—
 Extoll’d great DUNCAN, and, supremely brave,
 Whelm’d BUONAPARTE’S pride beneath the wave?                 40
 I swear by all the youths that MALMESBURY[45] chose,
 By ELLIS’[46] sapient prominence of nose,
 By MORPETH’S gait, important, proud, and big—
 By LEVESON GOWER’S crop-imitating wig,
 That, could the pow’rs which in those numbers shine,
 Could that warm spirit animate my line,
 Your glorious deeds which humbly I rehearse—
 Your deeds should live immortal as my verse;
 And, while they wonder’d whence I caught my flame,
 Your sons should blush to read their fathers’ shame!                  50

   Proceed, great men!—your office is not done;
 Proceed with what you have so well begun:
 Load FOX (if you by PITT would be preferr’d),
 With ev’ry guilt that KENYON ever heard—
 Adult’rer, gamester, drunkard, cheat and knave,
 A factious demagogue and pension’d slave!
 Loose, loose your cry—with ire satiric flash:
 Let all the Opposition feel your lash;
 And prove them to these hot and partial times,
 A combination of the worst of crimes!                                 60

   But softer numbers softer subjects fit:
 In liquid phrases thrill the praise of PITT;
 Extol in eulogies of candid truth
 The Virgin Minister—the Heav’n-born Youth;
 The greatest gift that fate to England gave,
 Created to support and born to save;
 Prompt to supply whate’er his country lacks—
 Skilful to GAG, and knowing how to TAX!
 With him companions meet in order stand—
 A firm, compact, and well-appointed band;                             70
 Skill’d to advance or to retreat, DUNDAS,[47]
 And bear thick battle on his front of brass;
 GRENVILLE with pond’rous head, which match’d we find
 By equal ponderosity behind.——

   But hold, my Muse; nor farther these pursue!—
 Great Editors, we have digress’d from you;
 From you, to whom our trivial lays belong,
 From you, the sole inspirers of our song!
 Proceed:—urge on the same vindictive strain,
 To gain the applauses of great MALMESBURY’S train;           80
 With jaundiced eyes the noblest patriot scan:
 Proceed—be more opprobrious if you can;
 Proceed—be more abusive ev’ry hour;
 To be more stupid is beyond your power.

    TO THE AUTHOR OF THE EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

                  _Nostrorum sermonum candide judex!_

 Bard of the borrow’d lyre! to whom belong
 The shreds and remnants of each hackney’d song;
 Whose verse thy friends in vain for wit explore,
 And count but _one good line_ in eighty-four!
 Whoe’er thou art, all hail! Thy bitter smile
 Gilds our dull page, and cheers our humble toil!

   For _yet_—though firm and fearless in the cause
 Of pure Religion, Liberty, and Laws,—
 Though TRUTH approved, though fav’ring VIRTUE smiled,
 Some doubts remained: WE _yet_ were _unreviled_.        10

   Thanks to thy zeal! those doubts at length are o’er!
 Thy suffrage crowns our wish!—WE ask no more
 To stamp with sterling worth each honest line,
 Than Censure, cloth’d in vapid Verse like thine!

   But say—in full blown honours dost thou sit
 ’Midst BROOKES’S ELDERS[48] on the BENCH OF WIT,
 Where HARE,[49] chief-justice, frames the stern decree,
 While with their learned brother, sages three,
 FITZPATRICK,[50] TOWNSHEND,[51] SHERIDAN, agree?

   Or art thou One—THE PARTY’S flattered fool,[52]            20
 Train’d in _Debrett’s_, or _Ridgway’s_ civic school—
 One, who with rant and fustian daily wears,
 Well-natured RICHARDSON![53] thy patient ears;—
 Who sees nor Taste nor Genius in these times,
 Save PARR’S[54] _buzz_ prose,[55] and COURTENAY’S[56] kidnapp’d
    rhymes?[57]
 Or is it he,—the youth,[59] whose daring soul
 With _half a mission_ sought the Frozen Pole;—
 And then, returning from the unfinish’d work,
 Wrote _half a letter_,—to demolish BURKE?
 Studied Burke’s manner,—aped his forms of speech;                     30
 Though when he strives his metaphors to reach,
 One luckless slip his meaning overstrains,
 And loads the blunderbuss with BEDFORD’S brains.[60]

   Whoe’er thou art—ne’er may thy patriot fire,
 Unfed by praise or patronage, expire!
 Forbid it, Taste!—with Compensation large
 Patrician hands thy labours shall o’ercharge![61]
 BEDFORD and WHITBREAD shall vast sums advance,
 The _Land_ and _Malt_ of Jacobin Finance!

 Whoe’er thou art—before thy feet we lay,                              40
 With lowly suit, our _Number of to-day_!
 Spurn not our offering with averted eyes!
 Let thy pure breath revive the extinguished _Lies_!
 _Mistakes, Mis-statements_, now so oft o’erthrown,
 Rebuild, and prop with nonsense of thy own!
 Pervert our meaning, and misquote our text—
 And _furnish us a motto for the next_!

[Illustration: _LORD LONGBOW, the Alarmist, discovering the Miseries of
IRELAND.——with the puffing out of the little farthing Rush-light, & ye
story of Moll Coggin._]

                           ODE TO LORD MOIRA.

                           I.

 If on your head[62] some vengeance fell,
 MOIRA, for every tale you tell,
   The listening Lords to cozen;[63]
 If but one whisker lost its hue,
 Changed (like Moll Coggin’s tail) to blue,
   I’d hear them by the dozen.

                           II.

 But still, howe’er you draw your bow,[64]
 Your charms improve, your triumphs grow,
   New grace adorns your figure;
 More stiff your boots, more black your stock,                         10
 Your hat assumes a prouder cock,
   Like Pistol’s (if ’twere bigger).

                           III.

 Tell then your stories, strange and new,[65]
 Your Fathers fame[66] shall vouch them true;
   So shall the _Dublin Papers_;
 Swear by the stars[67] that saw the sight,
 That infant thousands die each night,[68]
   While troops _blow out their tapers_.

                           IV.

 SHUCKBURGH[69][70] shall cheer you with a smile,
 MACPHERSON[71][71] simpering all the while,                  20
   With BASTARD[71][72] and with Bruin:[73]
 And fierce NICHOLL,[74] who wields at will
 Th’ emphatic stick, or powerful quill,
   To prove his country’s ruin.

                           V.

 Each day new followers[75] crowd your board,
 And lean expectants hail my Lord
   With adoration fervent:
 Old THURLOW,[76] though he swore by G—
 No more to own a master’s nod,
   Is still your humble servant.                                       30

                           VI.

 Old PULTENEY[77][78] too, your influence feels,
 And asks from you th’ Exchequer Seals,
   To tax and save the nation:
 TOOKE trembles,[79] lest your potent charms
 Should lure CHARLES FOX from _his_ fond arms,
   To YOUR Administration.[81]                                36

              [TRANSLATION OF HORACE, BOOK II., ODE VIII.

                        BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

                 Avenger of insulted truth,
             Had Heaven, Barine, dimm’d one tooth;
             Or bade, in justice bade, thee wail
             A speck upon a single nail—
             I’d trust thee: but ere well the vow
             Has passed those treacherous lips, there glow
             New beauties mantling o’er thy cheek;
             And thee the youth, thee only seek.

                 It profits thee to be forsworn
             By thy dead mother’s hallowed urn;
             By heaven, and each mute nightly sign,
             And every deathless power divine.
             Yes: Venus laughs well-pleased, and lo!
             The gentle Nymphs are laughing too;
             And Cupid, who his burning darts
             Whets with fresh blood from lovers’ hearts.

                 Boyhood is rising to thy sway,
             Thy train of slaves augments: e’en they,
             Who swore thy threshold to forsake,
             Hug the fond chain they cannot break.
             Thee for their sons pale mothers fear,
             The frugal father for his heir:
             And plighted maidens, lest thy charms
             Keep the false truants from their arms.—ED.]

                    NOTES TO THE ODE TO LORD MOIRA.

[This Ode, written by GEORGE ELLIS, refers to the wish of a “Third
Party” in the House of Commons, who were dissatisfied with the conduct
of the war, the embarrassed state of the finances, and the alarming
situation of the country, to have an interview with LORD MOIRA, with a
view to effect a change of Ministry. The following extracts from a
letter from his Lordship to COL. M‘MAHON, dated June 15, 1797, will
throw some light on this negotiation. “They requested that I would
endeavour, on the assurance of their support, to form an administration,
on the principle of excluding persons, who had on either side made
themselves obnoxious to the public. I strenuously recommended them to
form an alliance with MR. FOX’S party, that might be satisfactory to
themselves, and reduce to strict engagement the extent of the measures,
which MR. FOX, when brought into office by themselves, would propose.
Hitherto nobody has been designated to any particular office but SIR
WILLIAM PULTENEY. The gentleman had said that he was the person whom
they should be most gratified in seeing CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, and
I had professed to them and to him that there was not any person with
whom I could act more confidently. I added, the introduction of LORD
THURLOW, SIR W. PULTENEY, and myself, into the Cabinet, would not assure
the public of a change of system.”—ED.]

                                No. XII.

                                                          Jan. 29, 1798.

The following Ode[A] was dropped into the letterbox in our Publisher’s
window. From its title—“A BIT OF AN ODE TO MR. FOX”—we were led to
imagine there was some mistake in the business, and that it was meant to
have been conveyed to Mr. Wright’s neighbour, Mr. Debrett, whom we
recollected to have been the Publisher of the “Half of a Letter” to the
same gentleman, which occasioned so much noise (of horse-laughing) in
the world. Our politics certainly do not entitle us to the honourable
distinction of being made the channel for communicating such a
production to the public. But, for our parts, as we are “not at war with
genius,” on whatever side we find it, we are happy to give this Poem the
earliest place in our Paper; and shall be equally ready to pay the same
attention to any future favours of the same kind, and from the same
quarter.

The Poem is a free translation, or rather, perhaps, imitation, of the
twentieth Ode of the second Book of HORACE. We have taken the liberty to
subjoin the passages of which the parallel is the most striking.

                    A BIT OF AN ODE TO MR. FOX.[82]

                                      I.

            On[83] grey goose quills sublime I’ll soar
            To metaphors unreach’d before,
              That scare the vulgar reader:
            With style well form’d from Burke’s best books—
            From rules of grammar (e’en HORNE TOOKE’S)
              A bold and free Seceder.

                                      II.

            I[84] whom, dear Fox, you condescend
            To call your “Honourable Friend,”
              Shall live for everlasting:
            That[85] Stygian Gallery I’ll quit,
            Where printers crowd me, as I sit
              Half-dead with rage and fasting.

                                      III.

            I[86] feel! the growing down descends,
            Like goose-skin, to my fingers’ ends—
              Each nail becomes a feather:
            My cropp’d head[87] waves with sudden plumes,
            Which erst (like Bedford’s, or his groom’s)
              Unpowder’d, braved the weather.[88]

                                      IV.

            I mount, I mount into the sky,
            “Sweet[89] bird,” to[90] _Petersburg_ I’ll fly;
              Or, if you bid, to _Paris_;
            Fresh missions of the _Fox and Goose_
            Successful Treaties may produce;
              Though PITT in all miscarries.

                                      V.

            Scotch,[91] English, Irish _Whigs_ shall read
            The Pamphlets, Letters, Odes I breed,
              Charm’d with each bright endeavour:
            _Alarmists_[92] tremble at my strain,
            E’en[93] PITT, made candid by champaign,
              Shall hail ADAIR “_the clever_”.

                                      VI.

            Though criticism assail my name,
            And luckless blunders blot my fame,[94]
              O![95] make no needless bustle;
            As vain and idle it would be
            To waste one pitying thought on me,
              As to[96] “unPLUMB a RUSSELL”.[97]

                  [LYRICS OF HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XX.

                   TRANSLATED BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

                Borne on no weak or vulgar wing,
              Upward through air, two-form’d, I’ll spring;
              Nor longer grovel here, but soar
              Where Envy shall pursue no more.
              Not I, from humble lineage sprung,
              Not I, dear Patron, whom thy tongue
              Summons to fame, will fear to die,
              Or bound by Styx’s fetters lie.

                A rougher skin my legs assume;
              My upward limbs the cygnet’s plume
              Invests; my shoulders, fingers feel
              The feathery softness o’er them steal.

                Fleeter than Icarus now I’ll haste,
              A tuneful swan, to Libya’s waste,
              And heaving sands, where Bospor’s wave
              Tosses, or Arctic tempests rave.
              Me Colchis, Dacia me shall learn,
              Who hides her fear of Marsian stern;
              Me Scythia’s hordes, the well-trained son
              Of Spain, and he who quaffs the Rhone.

                From my mock bier be far away
              The loud lament, the funeral lay;
              And, tribute to my fancied doom,
              Far the vain honours of the tomb!—ED.]

  [The charge of FOX’S having sent ADAIR to St. Petersburg, to
  counteract the measures of PITT’S government, first broached in Mr.
  Burke’s “Letter on the Conduct of the Minority,” has been vigorously
  contradicted, yet so late as April, 1854, it was alluded to as a
  fact by Lord Malmesbury in the House of Peers. It was, however, on
  this occasion again authoritatively denied by LORD CAMPBELL, who
  took occasion to observe that SIR ROBERT ADAIR was “now in his 90th
  year, and for many years had served his country with great assiduity
  and fidelity. He had been sent by successive ministers [Mr. Fox,
  Lord Grey, _Mr. Canning_ (who assisted in libelling him so often in
  the pages of the present work), Lord Wellesley, Lord Palmerston, the
  Duke of Wellington] to Vienna, to Constantinople, to Brussels, and
  to Berlin, and had represented the Crown of England upon some
  occasions of very great importance, in which he had uniformly
  acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the Government and for the
  benefit of his country. He believed a more honourable man had not
  lived in this country at any time.”

  The following denial by Sir Robert Adair himself is copied from his
  autograph statement, prefixed to the _Life of Wilberforce_,
  published in 1838:—“This idle story is here accredited by Mr.
  Wilberforce, and inserted by his sons, without due examination. It
  was grounded on a journey I made to Vienna and St. Petersburg in
  1791. Doctor Prettyman [_sic_], Bishop of Winchester, in a work
  entitled _The Life of the Right Hon. William Pitt_, published by him
  in 1823, brought forward the fact of my having gone upon this
  journey as a criminal charge against Mr. Fox, who, as he pretends,
  sent me upon it with the intent of counteracting some negociations
  then carrying on between Great Britain and Russia at St. Petersburg.
  I answered his accusation, I trust successfully, in two letters
  published by Longman & Co. [_Two Letters from Mr. Adair to the Bp.
  of Winchester, in answer to the charge of a High Treasonable
  Misdemeanour brought by his Lordship against Mr. Fox and himself in
  his Life of the Rt. Hon. W. Pitt_, 8vo., 1821], and explained the
  circumstances which induced me in my travels in 1791 to visit the
  two capitals above mentioned.—ROBERT ADAIR: 1838.”

  The “Mission” was, however, firmly believed in, and PITT was urged,
  but in vain, by the Duke of Richmond and others of the Government,
  to arrest FOX for high treason.

  The following extract from the _Political Memoranda of Francis,
  fifth Duke of Leeds, now first printed from the Originals in the
  British Museum; edited by Oscar Browning, for the Camden Society_,
  1884, is an illustration of the rumours current at the time, and
  many years after.

  “Saty. 24 Novr. 1792. LORD ST. HELENS dined with me. After the
  Ladies were gone upstairs we conversed, for some time on Foreign
  affairs.... Speaking of the Russian business of last year he
  reprobated in the strongest terms the conduct of FOX in sending an
  agent, MR. ADAIR, to Petersburg to counteract the negociations of
  this Court at that of Russia. He told me he knew for certain that
  MR. ADAIR had shewn to some English merchants at Petersburg the
  Empress’ Picture set in diamonds which had been given to him. That
  it was not one of the sort usually given, but of much greater value,
  being set round with large Brilliants, and the whole Picture covered
  with a Table Diamond instead of Chrystal. That this was a present
  seldom made but on some very particular occasion or to some great
  favorite (I remember to have seen such a one in the possession of P.
  Orlow). LD. ST. H. thought it must have been worth six or seven
  thousand pounds, and of too much value probably to have been meant
  for MR. ADAIR. The conclusion we both very naturally drew from this
  circumstance was not very favorable to MR. FOX.”

  The following additional particulars relating to the connection
  between FOX and ADAIR may not be thought out of place here. They are
  extracted from the highly interesting and important _Croker Papers,
  being the Correspondence and Diaries, 1809–1830, of the Rt. Hon._ J.
  W. CROKER, _M.P., Edited by Louis J. Jennings. M.P._, 3 vols., 8vo.,
  1884.

  The first is in these terms: “When ADAIR, whose father was a
  surgeon, went as FOX’S Ambassador to Russia, LORD WHITWORTH, then
  the King’s Minister, made a good joke, which tended not a little to
  lower ADAIR, and defeat his object. ‘Est-ce un homme très
  considérable, ce M. d’Adair?’ asked the EMPRESS. ‘Pas trop, Madame,’
  replied Lord Whitworth, ‘quoique son père était grand seigneur
  [saigneur].’” The other is taken from a very long statement on
  various matters, made by K. George IV., when Prince of Wales, to
  Croker personally. Adair’s wife, the Prince said, was a Frenchwoman
  with whom ANDREOSSI, when here as Buonaparte’s Minister, intrigued.
  THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE told him—the Prince of Wales—that Mrs.
  Adair had offered her a bribe of £10,000 down, and as much more
  whenever she might want it, if she would communicate the Cabinet
  secrets, with which the French thought she could not fail to be
  acquainted, through her intimacy with all the leaders of the
  Government. This caused a breach between FOX and ADAIR. But the
  former could only tell ADAIR that an obstacle—which he could neither
  reveal nor overcome, but which did not affect or alter FOX’S
  personal regard for him—prevented his appointment to be FOX’S
  Under-Secretary of State.—_Croker Papers_, i. 293.—ED.]

                               No. XIII.

                                                           Feb. 5, 1798.

                ACME AND SEPTIMIUS; OR, THE HAPPY UNION
               CELEBRATED AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR TAVERN.

           FOX,[98] with TOOKE to grace his side,
           Thus address’d his blooming bride—
           “Sweet! should I e’er, in power or place,
           Another Citizen embrace;
           Should e’er my eyes delight to look
           On aught alive save JOHN HORNE TOOKE,
           Doom me to ridicule and ruin,
           In the coarse hug[99] of _Indian_ Bruin!”
             He spoke;[100] and to the left and right,
             NORFOLK hiccupp’d with delight.
           TOOKE,[101] his bald head gently moving,
             On the sweet patriot’s drunken eyes
             His wine-empurpled lips applies,
           And thus returns in accents loving:
           “So, my dear[102] CHARLEY, may success
           At length my ardent wishes bless,
           And lead, through discord’s low’ring storm,
           To one grand RADICAL REFORM!
           As, from this hour I love thee more
           Than e’er I hated thee before!”
             He spoke, and to the left and right,
             NORFOLK hiccupp’d with delight.
           With this good omen they proceed;[103]
           Fond toasts their mutual passion feed;
           In FOX’S breast HORNE TOOKE prevails
           Before[104] rich _Ireland_ and _South Wales_;[105]
           And FOX (unread each other book),
           Is Law and Gospel to HORNE TOOKE.
             When were such kindred souls united?
             Or wedded pair so much delighted?

                  [ACME AND SEPTIMIUS. FROM CATULLUS.

                SEPTIMIUS said, and fondly prest
                The doating ACME to his breast:—
                “My Acme, if I prize not thee
                With love as warm as love can be,
                With passion spurning any fears
                Of growing faint in length of years,
                Alone may I defenceless stand
                To meet, on Lybia’s desert sand,
                Or under India’s torrid sky,
                The tawny lion’s glaring eye!”
                LOVE, before who utter’d still
                On the left-hand omens ill,
                As he ceased his faith to plight
                Laugh’d propitious on the right.
                Then ACME gently bent her head,
                Kiss’d with those lips of cherry red
                The eyes of the delightful boy,
                That swam with glistening floods of joy;
                And whisper’d as she closely prest—
                “SEPTIMIUS, soul of ACME’S breast,
                Let all our lives and feelings own
                One lord, one sovereign, Love alone!
                I yield to love, and yield to thee,
                For thou and love are one to me.
                Though fond thy fervent heart may beat,
                My feelings glow with greater heat,
                And madder flames my bosom melt
                Than all that thou hast ever felt.”—ED.]

  [The following account of the celebration of FOX’S Birth-day,
  printed in the _Anti-Jacobin_, has not hitherto appeared in the
  editions of the _Poetry_. _The Song by Mr. Fox_ refers to the
  Subscription raised, after a meeting at the Crown and Anchor, in the
  summer of 1793, for relieving him in his then present need, and
  purchasing an Annuity for him. A Caricature by GILLRAY on this
  meeting was published on the 12th June, 1793.

                          MR. FOX’S BIRTH-DAY.

  The public, distracted with the various accounts of the celebration
  of Mr. Fox’s Birth-day, naturally turn to us for an authentic detail
  of that important event—from a recollection of the correct and
  impartial statement we gave in a former Number, of what passed at a
  MEETING OF THE FRIENDS OF FREEDOM [page 32].

  To justify their confidence, we have had recourse to the _Morning
  Post_ and _Morning Chronicle_ (the _Courier_ being too stupid for
  our purpose), whose statements we have carefully read, and corrected
  from the information of several gentlemen who were present. We are
  thus enabled to lay before our readers a genuine narrative of the
  whole proceeding, which we defy the tongue of Slander to controvert
  in any material point.

  As Mr. Fox’s reputation had been for some time on the decline, it
  was thought necessary by the party (who are in great want of a
  _Head_) to make as respectable an appearance as possible on the
  present occasion. It was therefore suggested (at a previous meeting
  of confidential friends) that if the unfortunate shyness which
  subsisted between the _Whig Club_ and the _Corresponding Society_
  could be opportunely removed by a few unimportant concessions on the
  part of the former, such a number of citizens might be readily
  procured from that respectable body as would serve to give the day
  an _éclat_ it had not experienced since the fatal schism of 1792.

  This hint, so reasonable in itself, was immediately adopted, and Sir
  FRANCIS BURDETT, who was well acquainted with their haunts, was
  ordered into the neighbourhood of Smithfield with a competent number
  of tickets. He was on the point of setting out, when the Editor of
  the _Morning Post_ observed, that _forgery_[106] was so common at
  present, that he hardly thought it prudent to admit all who might
  come with a bit of scribbled paper: on this it was determined to
  distribute the price of admission amongst a certain number of people
  to be selected by the Envoy:—these, it was rightly concluded, would
  not fail to appear, from motives of vanity, as they could have no
  other possible chance of dining with the Premier Dupe, we would say
  Duke, in England. It now remained to determine the sum: this, after
  a short discussion, was fixed at Eight Shillings and Sixpence per
  head, “which,” said the Editor of the _Morning Post_, “will shew we
  cannot he persons of mean rank, since we can afford, in hard times,
  to give so much for a dinner”;[107] and Citizen BOSVILLE was desired
  to advance the money upon the credit of the Whig Fund.

  Previous to the meeting, the chairman dispatched a note to Sir
  WILLIAM ADDINGTON, requesting that the Crown and Anchor might be
  exempted from the visitation of his runners during the morning of
  the 24th [Jan., 1798]. To this Sir WILLIAM assented, on condition
  that it should be recommended to the gentlemen, to leave their
  pocket-books and watches at home, that there might be as little
  temptation as possible to break the peace. Thus everything was
  arranged with a precaution that seemed to set accident at defiance.

  Before four o’clock the passage to the LARGE ROOM was crammed, when,
  on a hint that dinner was on the point of being served, one of the
  head waiters advanced to the great door, and opened a wicket for the
  admission of the company, as fast as they paid down their money. Two
  or three had already passed in good order, when Mr. John Nicholls
  advanced, and instead of 8s. 6d., produced to the astonished
  receiver, _seventeen_ of his PRINTED SPEECHES, which, valuing them
  at sixpence a-piece, he contended would make up the sum required.
  These “_assets_” however, were absolutely rejected; and a violent
  dispute was on the point of commencing, when Sir CHRISTOPHER HAWKINS
  stept forward, and whispering a few words, which we did not hear,
  obtained leave for his friend to pass. The Speeches were therefore
  deposited, and Mr. NICHOLLS was already got within the wicket, when
  the man suddenly pulled him back by the coat, and the dispute
  recommenced with more violence than ever. Upon inquiry into the
  cause of this new tumult, we found that a wag (whom we afterwards
  discovered to be Mr. JEKYLL) had played the member for Tregony a
  trick; having taken an opportunity, in the crowd, of extracting the
  _genuine_ speeches from the pocket of the Honourable Member, and
  replacing them by the same number of the _spurious_ ones, printed
  for Mr. WRIGHT, the publisher of this Paper. These the waiter very
  properly refused to receive, alleging, and indeed truly, that
  instead of _six_ pence a-piece, the whole seventeen were not worth
  _six_ farthings.

  This altercation continued so long, that the company grew impatient;
  and Mr. BRYAN EDWARDS, a little ashamed of his friend, who still
  continued obstinate, offered to furnish his quota. Harmony now
  seemed to be restored, when all at once a cry of astonishment broke
  forth that beggars all description. On putting his hand into his
  pocket for the price of admission, Mr. E. suddenly turned pale, and
  exclaimed, “by G—, gentlemen, some of you have picked my pockets!” A
  hundred voices instantly repeated the same cry, and a dreadful scene
  of confusion and uproar took place.

               Ardebant cuncta et fracta compage ruebant.

  What the consequence would have been, it is impossible to say, had
  not the waiter, with an air of authority, commanded the doors to be
  shut at each end of the passage, and every man to exhibit the
  contents of his pocket. A faint cry of No! No! was over-ruled; and
  Sir FRANCIS BURDETT produced an old Red Cap from the bosom of his
  shirt, which he put into the hands of the Duke of BEDFORD, who was
  appointed collector-general _by acclamation_. With this his Grace
  went, from man to man, executing his duty with the utmost fairness
  and impartiality; and when he had finished, poured out the contents
  of the cap before them all. These, it must be confessed, were a
  little heterogeneous, consisting, besides a large sum of money, of a
  brass knocker (this was immediately claimed by the landlord), a
  pewter pot squeezed together, a pair of pattens, a pint decanter, a
  duck ready trussed for dressing, a great quantity of potatoes, and a
  vinegar cruet. What was most extraordinary was, that though, as his
  Grace afterwards declared, the money was found in very unequal
  portions, yet the total sum, which was £222, 5s. 6d., being divided
  among the company, amounting to 523 persons, produced 8s. 6d. for
  each individual, with the exception of the _Member_ for _Tregony_,
  who brought nothing but his speech, and Capt. MORRIS, who pays for
  everything with a Song.

  Nothing material occurred during the Dinner, which was allowed to be
  excellent of its kind, and where no such dish as Cow-heel (as
  maliciously reported in _The True Briton_) made its appearance.

  As soon as the cloth was removed, the Duke of NORFOLK took the Chair
  amidst repeated plaudits,[108] and addressed the Company in these
  words:

  “Three virtuous Men, Citizens, have stood up in defence of
  Liberty—MAXIMILIAN ROBESPIERRE, COLLOT D’HERBOIS, and CHARLES JAMES
  FOX:—The first is guillotined; the second transported to _Cayenne_;
  and the third”——Here all eyes were immediately upon Mr. FOX, who now
  entered the room, supported by Citizens JOHN GALE JONES and JOHN
  HORNE TOOKE—“As the Right Hon. Gentleman (resumed the Duke, a little
  peevishly) has mistaken his cue, and appeared sooner than he ought,
  I shall spare his modesty the panegyric I was preparing, and shortly
  conclude with proposing the health of CHARLES JAMES FOX.”—This was
  drank with three times three.

  As soon as the clamour had subsided, Mr. FOX arose and said, “That
  language, at least any which he could boast, was inadequate to the
  exquisite feelings of gratitude which at once delighted and
  oppressed him, at the sight of so numerous and so respectable a body
  of free and independent Citizens, met for a purpose which would make
  this the proudest and the happiest day of his life”. Having dwelt a
  little on this idea, Mr. FOX observed, “that he would not interrupt
  the conviviality of the day by a long Speech: he knew there were
  several present who came to hear him make a long Speech, but he
  would not make a long Speech—to what purpose should he do it?—what
  could he add to the Speech lately delivered by him, and so
  faithfully recorded in the ANTI-JACOBIN, a contemptible Publication,
  but one to which the praise of Accuracy could not be denied. The new
  and extraordinary circumstances of the times called for new and
  extraordinary measures: he would, therefore, if they pleased,
  compress what he had to say into a _Song_—(_loud applauses_)—One
  word only.—He owed both the _burden_ and the _idea_ of this Song to
  the _Morning Chronicle_. He had yesterday, the 23rd, found there A
  BEGGING ADDRESS to the Nation, with DATE OBOLUM BELISARIO prefixed
  to it as a Motto. This had pleased him much, and this morning at
  breakfast he had endeavoured to adapt it, _mutatis mutandis_, to his
  own circumstances: he should now have the honour of giving it.”

                            SONG BY MR. FOX.

                            _To the Tune of_
            “Good People of England, and all who love Ale.”

       Good People of England, of every degree,
       Lords, Commoners, listen, O! listen to me;
       Republicans, Royalists, all—mark my ditty—
       You’ll find I’ve a number of claims on your pity—
                                         Date Obolum Belisario.

       Ye who heard me assert that Lord NORTH, now so mourn’d,
       Was a _beast_ to be shunn’d, was a _fool_ to be scorn’d,
       Yet who saw me, with real or fancied alarms,
       Take the _fool_ to my councils, the _beast_ to my arms,
                                         Date Obolum Belisario.

       Ye who heard me declare the SUBSCRIBERS of REEVES
       Were a scoundrel collection of cut-throats and thieves,
       Yet who saw me immediately after repair,
       And SUBSCRIBE at the Long-Room in Hanover Square,
                                         Date Obolum Belisario.

       Ye who heard—when Invasion was close at our door,
       And _Parker_ and Liberty rul’d at the _Nore_—
       Ye who heard—no; I mean, who DID NOT HEAR me speak,
       While SHERIDAN,[109] damn him! affected to squeak,
                                         Date Obolum Belisario.

       Ye who heard me repeat that Resistance, at length,
       Was reduc’d, by PITT’S Bill, to a question of _Strength_,
       And that _prudence_ alone——

  We know not how far Mr. FOX might have proceeded, had he not been
  interrupted by a jangling of bells from the Side-table which
  immediately drew all eyes that way. This proceeded from Capt.
  MORRIS, who had fallen asleep during Mr. FOX’S Song, and was now
  nodding on his chair, with a large paper Cap on his head, ornamented
  with gilt tassels and bells, which one of the company had
  dexterously whipped on unperceived. The first motion was that of
  indignation; but the stupid stare of the unconscious Captain, who
  half opened his eyes at every sound of the bells as his head rose or
  fell, and immediately closed them again, _somno vinoque gravatus_,
  had such a powerful effect on the risible faculties of the Company,
  that they broke, as if by consent, into the most violent and
  convulsive fits of laughter; Mr. FOX himself not being exempt from
  the general contagion.

  As soon as the Captain was made sensible of the cause of this
  uproar, he attempted to pull off the Cap, but was prevented by a
  Citizen from the _Corresponding Society_, who maintained that the
  Company had a right to be amused by the Captain in what manner they
  pleased; and that, as he seemed to amuse them more effectually in
  _that state_ than in any other, he insisted, for one, on his
  continuing to wear the Cap. This was universally agreed to, with the
  exception of the Duke of NORFOLK. The Captain was therefore led to
  the upper table, with all his “jangling honours loud upon him!”
  Here, as soon as he was seated, his Noble Friend called upon him for
  a Song.

  The Captain sang the “PLENIPO” in his best manner.

  This was received with great applause; and then the Duke gave “The
  Defenders—of Ireland”—(_three times three_).

  Captain MORRIS then began

                     “And all the Books of Moses”;—

  but was interrupted, before he had finished the first line, by Mr.
  TIERNEY, who declared he would not sit there and hear anything like
  ridicule on the Bible.[110]—(_Much coughing and scraping_.)—Mr.
  Erskine took God to witness, that he thought the Captain meant no
  harm;—and a gentleman from Cambridge, whose name we could not learn,
  said, with great _naïveté_, that it was no more than was done every
  day by his acquaintance. Mr. TIERNEY, however, persisted in his
  opposition to the Song, and Captain MORRIS was obliged to substitute
  “Jenny Sutton” in the place of it.

  But the good humour of the company was already broken in upon, and
  Mr. TIERNEY soon after left the room (to which he did not return)
  with greater marks of displeasure in his face than we ever remember
  to have seen there.

  The Duke now gave RADICAL REFORM (_three times three, followed by
  continued shouts of applause_).

  A Counsellor JACKSON attempted to sing “Paddy Whack,” but was soon
  silenced, on account of his stupid perversion of the words, and his
  bad voice.

  Citizen GALE JONES then rose and said—that he was no Orator, though
  he got his living by oratory, being Chairman of a Debating Society.
  He had also written a book—which he was told had some merit. He did
  not rise to recommend it, but he thought it right to _hint_, that
  those who wished for Constitutional information might be supplied
  with it at the Bar; the price was trifling—Eighteen-pence was
  nothing to the majority of the Company;—to himself, indeed—(here Mr.
  HORNE TOOKE called out Order! Order! with some marks of
  impatience)—He begged pardon, he would say no more—there was no one
  whom he valued like Mr. TOOKE, there was no one indeed to whom he
  was under such obligations; the very shoes he had on were charged by
  Citizen HARDY to Mr. TOOKE’S account—Mr. TOOKE was also a great
  friend to a Radical Reform—he loved a Radical Reform himself; the
  Poor must always love Radical Reforms—he should therefore beg leave
  to propose the health of Mr. JOHN HORNE TOOKE.—(_Three times
  three._)

  Mr. TOOKE rose, and spoke nearly as follows: “You all know,
  Citizens, in what detestation I once held the Man whose Birth-day we
  are now met to commemorate. You cannot yet have forgot the ‘TWO PAIR
  OF PORTRAITS’ I formerly published, nor the glaring light in which I
  hung up him and his father to the execration of an indignant
  posterity. You must also be apprized of the charges of Corruption,
  Insurrection, and Murder (_much hissing and applause, the latter
  predominant_) which I brought against him, justly, as I must still
  think, at a former Election for Westminster. How happens it then,
  you will say, that I now come forward to do him honour? I will tell
  you. At the last Election for Westminster, I had still my suspicions
  of his sincerity; he appeared too anxious to preserve measures with
  the spruce and powdered Aristocrats who usually attended him to the
  Hustings; nor was it till the fourth or fifth day before the close
  of the Poll, that those suspicions were removed. Aware that he was
  losing ground among the People, he determined to make one great
  effort to re-establish his popularity. He therefore came forward,
  and addressed the free and independent Electors in front of the
  Hustings, in a Speech, of which the remembrance yet warms my heart.
  From that moment, I marked him as my own! Retractation was
  impossible; and the panegyric he lately delivered on a Radical
  Reform, in a House which I despise too much to name, was the natural
  and inevitable consequence of that day’s declaration. You may
  remember, that when I addressed my Friends, I only said, ‘Gentlemen,
  Mr. FOX has spoken my sentiments; he has even gone beyond them—but I
  thank him’.—What I then said I now repeat, with regard to his Speech
  on a late occasion—‘I AM MOST PERFECTLY SATISFIED WITH HIS CONDUCT;
  NOR DO I WISH TO ADVANCE ONE STEP IN THE CAUSE OF REFORM, BEYOND
  WHAT MR. FOX HAS PLEDGED HIMSELF TO GO!!!’”[111]

  Mr. TOOKE then begged leave to propose Mr. FOX’S health for the
  second time, and sat down amidst a thunder of applause.[112]

  The Duke of NORFOLK observed to the Company, that as they had drunk
  the health of a Man dear to the People, he would now call upon them
  to drink the health of their Sovereign[113]—here a hiccup
  interrupted his Grace, and a most violent cry of “No Sovereign! no
  Sovereign!” resounded through the room, and continued for several
  minutes, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of the Duke to be
  heard. Order was, however, restored at length, when his Grace gently
  chid the Company for taking advantage of a slight infirmity of
  nature, to impute a design to him which was wholly foreign from his
  heart—(_loud applause_). He augured well, however, of their
  patriotism, and would now afford them an opportunity of repairing
  the injury they had done him, by giving the Toast as he
  intended—“THE HEALTH OF OUR SOVEREIGN—THE MAJESTY OF THE
  PEOPLE”.[114]—(_Loud and incessant shouts of applause._)

  A disgusting scene of uproar and confusion followed, which we shall
  not attempt to detail. The Chairman sank under the table in a state
  of stupefaction, and the rest of the Company, maddened alike with
  noise and wine, committed a thousand outrages, till they were
  literally turned into the streets by the Waiters. As many of them as
  could speak were conducted home by the watchmen; others were
  conveyed “in silent majesty” to the Round-house; and not a few of
  them slept out the remainder of the night upon the steps of the
  neighbouring houses. The Reporters of the Jacobin Papers were sought
  out, and conveyed home by the pressmen, devils, &c., and one poor
  youth, whom we afterwards found to be a Writer in the _Morning
  Chronicle_ (hired for the day by _The True Briton_)[115] had his
  pockets picked of a clean white Handkerchief and a Notebook, after
  being severely beaten for deserting his former Employers.

[Illustration: '_The]

                                No. XIV.

                                                          Feb. 12, 1798.

It has been our invariable custom to suppress such of our
correspondents’ favours as conveyed any compliments to ourselves; and we
have deviated from it in the present instance, not so much out of
respect to the uncommon excellence of the Poem before us, as because it
agrees so intimately with the general design of our paper—to expose the
deformity of the French Revolution, to counteract the detestable arts of
those who are seeking to introduce it here, and above all, to invigorate
the exertions of our countrymen against every Foe, foreign and domestic,
by showing them the immense and inexhaustible resources they yet possess
in British Courage and British Virtue!

                                   TO
                    THE AUTHOR OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

        FOE TO THY COUNTRY’S FOES! ’tis THINE to claim
        From Britain’s genuine sons a British fame—
        Too long French manners our fair isle disgraced;
        Too long French fashions shamed our native taste.
        Still prone to change, we half-resolved to try
        The proffered charms of FRENCH FRATERNITY.

          Fair was her form, and FREEDOM’S honour’d name
        Conceal’d the horrors of her secret shame:
        She claim’d some kindred with that guardian pow’r,
        Long worshipp’d here in Britain’s happier hour:
        Virtue and Peace, she said, were in her train,
        The long-lost blessings of ASTRÆA’S reign—
        But soon the vizor dropp’d—her haggard face
        Betray’d the FURY lurking in the GRACE—
        The false attendants that behind her press’d,
        In vain disguised, the latent guilt confess’d:
        PEACE dropt her snow-white robe, and shudd’ring show’d
        AMBITION’S mantle reeking fresh with blood;
        Presumptuous FOLLY stood in REASON’S form,
        Pleased with the power to ruin,—not reform;
        PHILOSOPHY, proud phantom, undismay’d,
        With cold regard the ghastly train survey’d;
        Saw PERSECUTION gnash her iron teeth,
        While _Atheists_ preach’d the _eternal sleep of death_;
        Saw ANARCHY the social chain unbind,
        And DISCORD sour the blood of human kind;
        Then talk’d of Nature’s Rights, and Equal Sway;
        And saw her system safe—AND STALK’D AWAY!

          Foil’d by our ARMS, where’er in ARMS we met,
        With ARTS LIKE THESE the foe assails us yet.
        Hopeless the fort to storm, or to surprise,
        More secret wiles his envious malice tries;
        Diseas’d himself, spread wide his own despair,
        Pollutes the fount, and taints the wholesome air.

          While many a Chief, to glory not unknown,
        Alarms each hostile shore, and guards our own,
        ’Tis THINE, the latent treachery to proclaim;
        An humbler warfare, but the cause the same.
        In vain had POMPEY crush’d the PONTIC HOST,
        And chas’d the pirate swarm from every coast;
        The crew that leagu’d their country to o’erthrow;
        The base confederates of a GALLIC[116] foe;
        Had not the Civic Consul’s watchful eye
        Track’d through the windings of conspiracy,
        Exposed, confounded, shamed, and forced away,
        The “JACOBIN REFORMER[117] of his day”.

          ’Tis THINE a subtler mischief to pursue,
        And drag a deeper, darker, plot to view;
        Whate’er its form, still ready to engage,
        Detect its malice, or resist its rage;
        Whether it whispers low, or raves aloud,
        In sneers profane, or blasphemies avow’d;[118]
        Insults its King, reviles its Country’s cause,
        And, ’scaped from Justice, braves the lenient Laws:
        Whate’er the hand in desperate faction bold,
        By native hate inspired, or foreign gold;
        Traitors absolved, and libellers released,
        The recreant Peer, or renegado Priest;[119]
        The _Sovereign-people’s_ cringing, crafty slave,
        The dashing fool, and instigating knave,
        Each claims thy care; nor think the labour vain—
        VERMIN HAVE SUNK THE SHIP THAT RULED THE MAIN.

          ’Tis THINE, with Truth’s fair shield to ward the blow,
        And turn the weapon back upon the foe:
        To trace the skulking fraud, the candid cheat,
        That can retract the falsehood, yet repeat;
        To wake the listless, slumb’ring as they lie,
        Lapt in th’ embrace of soft security;
        To rouse the cold, re-animate the brave,
        And shew the cautious all they have to save.

          Erect that standard ALFRED first unfurl’d,
        Britain’s just pride, the wonder of the world;
        Whose staff is Freedom’s spear, whose blazon’d field
        Beams with the CHRISTIAN CROSS, the REGAL SHIELD;
        That standard which the PATRIOT BARONS bore,
        Restored, from RUNIMEDE’S resounding shore;
        Which since consign’d to WILLIAM’S guardian hand,
        Waved in new splendour o’er a grateful land;
        Which oft in vain by force or fraud assail’d,
        Has stood the shock of ages—and prevail’d.

          Yes! the BRIGHT SUN OF BRITAIN yet shall shine—
        The clouds are earth-born, but his fire divine;
        That temperate splendour, and that genial heat,
        Shall still illume, and cherish Empire’s Seat;
        While the red Meteor, whose portentous glare
        Shot plagues infectious through the troubled air;
        Admired, or fear’d no more, shall melt away,
        Lost in the radiance of HIS BRIGHTER DAY!

[Illustration: '_DESIGN]

                                 LINES.
    _Written under the Bust of Charles Fox at the Crown and Anchor._

       I’ll not sell Uncle NOLL, Charles Surface cries;—
       I’ll not sell CHARLEY FOX, John Bull replies:
       Sell him, indeed! who’ll find me such another?—
       Fox is above all price; so hold your pother.
                                         _Morning Post, Feb. 6._

To make our readers some amends for this miserable doggrel, we will
present them, in our turn, with some lines written _under a bust_, NOT
_at the Crown and Anchor_, by an ENGLISH TRAVELLER just returned from
Petersburgh. We believe they are more just; we are certain they are more
poetical.

                                 LINES.
   _Written by a Traveller at Czarco-zelo under the Bust of a certain
     Orator, once placed between those of Demosthenes and Cicero._

                                       I.

               THE GRECIAN Orator of old,
             With scorn rejected PHILIP’S laws,
               Indignant spurn’d at foreign gold,
             And triumph’d in his country’s cause.

                                       II.

               A foe to every wild extreme,
             ’Mid civil storms, the Roman Sage
               Repress’d Ambition’s frantic scheme,
             And check’d the madding people’s rage.

                                       III.

               Their country’s peace, and wealth and fame,
             With patriot zeal their labours sought,
               And Rome’s or Athens’ honoured name
             Inspired and govern’d every thought.

                                       IV.

               Who now, in this presumptuous hour,
             Aspires to share the Athenian’s praise?
               —The advocate of foreign power,
             The Æschines of later days.

                                       V.

               What chosen name to Tully’s join’d,
             Is thus announced to distant climes?
               —Behold, to lasting shame consign’d,
             The _Catiline_ of modern times![120]

                                No. XV.

                                                          Feb. 19, 1798.

                       THE PROGRESS OF MAN.[121]

                           =A Didactic Poem,=

   IN FORTY CANTOS, WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY: CHIEFLY OF A
                        PHILOSOPHICAL TENDENCY.

                    DEDICATED TO R. P. KNIGHT, ESQ.

                              CANTO FIRST.

  CONTENTS.—The Subject proposed.—Doubts and Waverings.—Queries not to
    be answered.—Formation of the stupendous Whole.—Cosmogony; or the
    Creation of the World:—the Devil—Man—Various Classes of
    Being:—ANIMATED BEINGS—Birds—Fish—Beasts—the Influence of the Sexual
    Appetite—on Tigers—on Whales—On Crimpt Cod—on Perch—on
    Shrimps—on Oysters.—Various Stations assigned to different
    Animals:—Birds—Bears—Mackerel.—Bears remarkable for their
    fur—Mackerel cried on a Sunday—Birds do not graze—nor Fishes fly—nor
    Beasts live in the Water.—Plants equally contented with their
    lot:—Potatoes—Cabbage—Lettuce—Leeks—Cucumbers.—MAN only
    discontented—born a Savage; not choosing to continue so, becomes
    polished—resigns his Liberty—Priest-craft—King-craft—Tyranny of Laws
    and Institutions.—Savage Life—description thereof:—The Savage
    free—roaming Woods—feeds on Hips and Haws—Animal Food—first notion
    of it from seeing a Tiger tearing his prey—wonders if it is
    good—resolves to try—makes a Bow and Arrow—kills a Pig—resolves to
    roast a part of it—lights a fire—APOSTROPHE to fires—Spits and Jacks
    not yet invented.—Digression.—CORINTH—SHEFFIELD.—Love, the most
    natural desire after Food.—Savage Courtship.—Concubinage
    recommended.—Satirical Reflections on Parents and Children—Husbands
    and Wives—against collateral Consanguinity.—FREEDOM the only
    Morality, &c. &c. &c.

 Whether some great, supreme o’er-ruling Power
 Stretch’d forth its arm at Nature’s natal hour,
 Composed this mighty whole with plastic skill,[122]
 Wielding the jarring elements at will?
 Or whether, sprung from Chaos’ mingling storm,                         5
 The mass of matter started into form?
 Or Chance o’er earth’s green lap spontaneous fling
 The fruits of autumn and the flowers of spring?
 Whether material substance unrefined,
 Owns the strong impulse of instructive mind,                          10
 Which to one centre points diverging lines,
 Confounds, refracts, invig’rates, and combines?[123]
 Whether the joys of earth, the hopes of heaven,
 By man to God, or God to man, were given?[124]
 If virtue leads to bliss, or vice to woe?                             15
 Who rules above, or who reside below?[125]
 Vain questions all—shall man presume to know?
 On all these points, and points obscure as these,
 Think they who will,—and think whate’er they please!

   Let us a plainer, steadier theme pursue—                            20
 Mark the grim savage scoop his light canoe;
 Mark the dark rook, on pendent branches hung,
 With anxious fondness feed her cawing young.—
 Mark the fell leopard through the desert prowl,
 Fish prey on fish, and fowl regale on fowl;—                          25
 How Lybian tigers’ chawdrons[126] love assails,
 And warms, ’midst seas of ice, the melting whales;—[127]
 Cools the crimpt cod, fierce pangs to perch imparts,
 Shrinks shrivell’d shrimps, but opens oysters’ hearts;—[128]
 Then say, how all these things together tend                          30
 To one great truth, prime object, and good end?

   First—to each living thing, whate’er its kind,
 Some lot, some part, some station is assign’d.
 The feather’d race with pinions skim the _air_—[129]
 Not so the mackerel, and still less the bear;[130]                    35
 _This_ roams the _wood_, carniv’rous for his prey![131]
 _That_ with soft roe pursues his _watery_ way:[132]
 _This_, slain by hunters, yields his shaggy hide;[133]
 _That_, caught by fishers, is on _Sundays_ cried.—[134]

   But each contented with his humble sphere,                          40
 Moves unambitious through the circling year;
 Nor e’er forgets the fortune of his race,
 Nor pines to quit, or strives to change his place.
 Ah! who has seen the mailed lobster rise,
 Clap her broad wings, and soaring claim the skies?[135]               45
 When did the owl, descending from her bow’r,
 Crop, ’midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flow’r;
 Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb,
 In the salt wave,[136] and fish-like strive to swim?

   The same with plants[137]—potatoes ’tatoes breed—[138]              50
 Uncostly cabbage springs from cabbage seed;
 Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed;
 Nor e’er did cooling cucumbers presume
 To flow’r like myrtle, or like violets bloom.
 —Man, only,—rash, refined, presumptuous man,                          55
 Starts from his rank, and mars creation’s plan.
 Born the free heir of nature’s wide domain,
 To art’s strict limits bounds his narrow’d reign;
 Resigns his native rights for meaner things,
 For faith and fetters—laws, and priests, and kings.                   60

                          (_To be continued._)

We are sorry to be obliged to break off here. The remainder of this
admirable and instructive Poem is in the press, and will be continued
the first opportunity.

                                                             THE EDITOR.

  [The following is the commencement of Knight’s poem:—

              Whether primordial motion sprang to life
              From the wild war of elemental strife;
              In central chains the mass inert confined,
              And sublimated matter into mind:
              Or, whether one great all-pervading soul
              Moves in each part and animates the whole;
              Unnumbered worlds to one great centre draws,
              And governs all by pre-established laws:
              Whether in fates’ eternal fetters bound,
              Mechanic nature goes her endless round:
              Or ever varying, acts but to fulfil
              The sovereign mandates of Almighty will;—
              Let learned folly seek, or foolish pride,
              Rash in presumptuous ignorance, decide.—ED.]

  [Eminent as Richard Payne Knight was as a classical scholar and
  archæologist, his poetical powers were not highly appreciated by his
  literary contemporaries, as is amusingly shown in a letter from
  Horace Walpole, dated 22nd March, 1796, to the Rev. W. Mason, in
  which he declares how much he is “offended and disgusted by Mr.
  Knight’s new, insolent, and self-conceited poem”. He winds up thus:
  “I send you a parody on two lines of Mr. Knight, which will show you
  that his poem is seen in its true light by a young man of allowed
  parts, MR. CANNING, whom I never saw. The originals are the two
  first lines at the top of page 5:”—

          “Some fainter irritations seem to feel,
          Which o’er its languid fibres gently steal”.—KNIGHT.

   “Cools the crimp’d cod, to pond-perch pangs imparts,
   Thrills the shelled shrimps, and opens oysters’ hearts.”—CANNING.

  It is evident from this that Canning had thought of parodying the
  poem immediately after its publication, and that Walpole had seen a
  specimen in manuscript, nearly two years before its publication in
  the _Anti-Jacobin_, in which the two lines (28, 29) are thus
  altered:—

        “Cools the crimpt cod, fierce pangs to perch imparts,
        Shrinks shrivell’d shrimps, but opens oysters’ hearts”.

  By an oversight, Peter Cunningham, in his edition of Walpole’s
  Letters, attributes the latter’s attack to a previous production of
  Knight’s, published in 1794, entitled _The Landscape: a didactic
  Poem in three Books_, a work which had excited Walpole’s high
  indignation by expressing opinions opposed to his own.—ED.]

                                No. XVI.

                                                        Feb. 26, 1798.

The specimen of the poem on the “Progress of Man,” with which we
favoured our Readers in our last Number, has occasioned a variety of
letters, which we confess have not a little surprised us, from the
unfounded, and even contradictory charges they contain. In one, we are
accused of Malevolence, in bringing back to notice a work that had been
quietly consigned to oblivion;—in another, of Plagiarism, in copying its
most beautiful passages;—in a third, of Vanity, in striving to imitate
what was in itself inimitable, &c., &c. But why this alarm? has the
author of the “_Progress of Civil Society_” an exclusive patent for
fabricating _Didactic_ poems? or can we not write against Order and
Government without incurring the guilt of Imitation? We trust we were
not so ignorant of the nature of a didactic poem (so called from
_didaskein_, to teach, and _poema_, a poem; because it teaches nothing,
and is not poetical) even before the _“Progress of Civil Society”_
appeared, but that we were capable of such an undertaking.

We shall only say further, that we do not intend to proceed regularly
with our Poem; but having the remaining thirty-nine Cantos by us, shall
content ourselves with giving, from time to time, such extracts as may
happen to suit our purpose.

The following passage, which, as the reader will see by turning to the
Contents prefixed to the head of the Poem, is part of the First Canto,
contains so happy a deduction of MAN’S present state of Depravity, from
the first slips and failings of his Original State, and inculcates so
forcibly the mischievous consequences of _social_ or _civilized_, as
opposed to _natural_ society, that no dread of imputed imitation can
prevent us from giving it to our readers.

                            PROGRESS OF MAN.

 Lo! the rude savage, free from civil strife,[139]
 Keeps the smooth tenour of his guiltless life;
 Restrain’d by none, save Nature’s lenient laws,
 Quaffs the clear stream, and feeds on hips and haws.
 Light to his daily sports behold him rise!                            65
 The bloodless banquet health and strength supplies.[140]
 Bloodless not long—one morn he haps to stray[141]
 Through the lone wood—and close beside the way
 Sees the gaunt tiger tear his trembling prey;
 Beneath whose gory fangs a leveret bleeds,                            70
 Or pig—such pig as fertile China breeds.[142]

 Struck with the sight, the wondering savage stands,
 Rolls his broad eyes, and clasps his lifted hands!
 Then restless roams—and loaths his wonted food;
 Shuns the salubrious stream, and thirsts for blood.                   75

 By thought matured, and quicken’d by desire,[143]
 New arts, new arms, his wayward wants require.
 From the tough yew a slender branch he tears,
 With self-taught skill the twisted grass[144] prepares;
 Th’ unfashioned bow, with labouring efforts bends                     80
 In circling form, and joins th’ unwilling ends.
 Next some tall reed he seeks—with sharp-edg’d stone
 Shapes the fell dart, and points with whiten’d bone.[145]

   Then forth he fares. Around in careless play,
 Kids, pigs, and lambkins unsuspecting stray;                          85
 With grim delight he views the sportive band,
 Intent on blood, and lifts his murderous hand.
 Twangs the bent bow—resounds the fateful dart,
 Swift-wing’d, and trembles in a porker’s heart.

   Ah, hapless porker! what can now avail[146] 90
 Thy back’s stiff bristles, or thy curly tail?
 Ah! what avail those eyes so small and round,
 Long pendent ears, and snout that loves the ground?[147]

   Not unreveng’d thou diest!—in after times[148]
 From thy spilt blood shall spring unnumber’d crimes.                  95
 Soon shall the slaught’rous arms that wrought thy woe,
 Improved by malice, deal a deadlier blow;[149]
 When _social_ man shall pant for nobler game,
 And ’gainst his fellow man the vengeful weapon aim.

   As love, as gold, as jealousy inspires,[150]                       100
 As wrathful hate, or wild ambition fires,
 Urged by the statesman’s craft, the tyrant’s rage,
 Embattled nations endless wars shall wage,
 Vast seas of blood the ravaged field shall stain,
 And millions perish—that a _king_ may reign!                  105

   For blood once shed, new wants and wishes rise;[151]
 Each rising want invention quick supplies.
 To roast his victuals is man’s next desire,
 So two dry sticks he rubs, and lights a fire.
 Hail fire, &c. &c.

                               No. XVII.

                                                          March 5, 1798.

We are obliged to a learned correspondent for the following ingenious
imitation of BION.—We will not shock the eyes of our fair readers with
the original Greek, but the following _Argument_ will give them some
idea of the nature of the Poem here imitated.

                               ARGUMENT.

  Venus is represented as bringing to the Poet, while sleeping, her son
    Cupid, with a request that he would teach him Pastoral Poetry—Bion
    complies, and endeavours to teach him the rise and progress of that
    art:—Cupid laughs at his instructions, and in his turn teaches his
    master the Loves of Men and Gods, the Wiles of his Mother,
    &c.—“Pleased with his lessons,” says BION, “I forgot what I lately
    taught Cupid and recollect in its stead only what Cupid taught me.”

                          IMITATION, &c.[152]

                      WRITTEN AT ST. ANNE’S HILL.

            Scarce had sleep my eyes o’erspread,
            Ere Alecto sought my bed;
            In her left hand a torch she shook,
            And in her right led JOHN HORNE TOOKE.
            O thou! who well deserv’st the bays,
            Teach him, she cried, Sedition’s lays—
            She said, and left us; I, poor fool,
            Began the wily priest to school;
            Taught him how MOIRA sung of lights,
            Blown out by troops o’ stormy nights;[153]
            How ERSKINE, borne on rapture’s wings,
            At clubs and taverns sweetly sings
            Of _self_—while yawning Whigs attend—
            _Self_ first, last, midst, and without end;[154]
            How BEDFORD piped, ill-fated Bard;[155]
            Half-drown’d, in empty Palace-yard;
            How LANSDOWNE, nature’s simple child,
            At BOWOOD trills his wood-notes wild—[156]
            How these and more (a phrenzied choir)
            Sweep with bold hand Confusion’s lyre,
            Till madding crowds around them storm
            “FOR ONE GRAND RADICAL REFORM!”

              TOOKE stood silent for a while,
            Listening with sarcastic smile;
            Then in verse of calmest flow,
            Sung of treasons, deep and low,
            Of rapine, prisons, scaffolds, blood,
            Of war against the great and good;
            Of Venice, and of Genoa’s doom,
            And fall of unoffending Rome;
            Of monarchs from their station hurl’d,
            And one waste desolated world.

              Charm’d by the magic of his tongue,
            I lost the strains I lately sung,
            While those he taught, remain impress’d
            For ever on my faithful breast.
                                                  DORUS.

                [BION. IDYLLIUM III. THE TEACHER TAUGHT.

                         TRANSLATED BY FAWKES.

           As late I slumbering lay, before my sight
           Bright VENUS rose in visions of the night:
           She led young Cupid; as in thought profound
           His modest eyes were fixed upon the ground;
           And thus she spoke: “To thee, dear swain, I bring
           My little son; instruct the boy to sing”.
           No more she said; but vanished into air,
           And left the wily pupil to my care:
           I,—(sure I was an idiot for my pains),
           Began to teach him old bucolic strains;
           How PAN the pipe, how PALLAS formed the flute,
           PHŒBUS the lyre, and MERCURY the lute:
           LOVE, to my lessons quite regardless grown,
           Sang lighter lays, and sonnets of his own,
           Th’ amours of men below, and gods above,
           And all the triumphs of the queen of love.
           I, sure the simplest of all shepherd swains,
           Full soon forgot my old bucolic strains;
           The lighter lays of LOVE my fancy caught,
           And I remembered all that Cupid taught.—ED.]

Something like the same idea seems to have dictated the following
Stanzas, which appear to be a loose imitation of the beautiful Dialogue
of Horace and Lydia, and for which, though confessedly in a lower style
of poetry, and conceived rather in the _slang_, or _Brentford_ dialect,
than in the classical Doric of the foregoing Poem, we have many thanks
to return to an ingenious academical correspondent.

                        THE NEW COALITION.[157]

                                   I.

         FOX.—When erst I coalesced with North
         And brought my _Indian bantling_ forth[158]
         In place—I smiled at faction’s storm,
         Nor dreamt of _radical reform_.

                                   II.

         TOOKE.—While yet no patriot project pushing,
         Content I thump’d old Brentford’s cushion,
         I pass’d my life so free and gaily;
         Not dreaming of that d——d _Old Bailey_.

                                   III.

         FOX.—Well! now my favourite preacher’s _Nickle_,[159]
         He keeps for PITT a rod in pickle;
         His gestures fright th’ astonish’d gazers,
         His sarcasms cut like Packwood’s razors.

                                   IV.

         TOOKE.—_Thelwall’s_[160] my man for state alarm;
         I love the rebels of _Chalk Farm_;
         Rogues that no statutes can subdue,
         Who’d bring the French, and head them too.

                                   V.

         FOX.—A whisper in your ear, JOHN HORNE,[161]
         For _one great end_ we both were born,
         Alike we roar, and rant, and bellow—
         Give us your hand, my honest fellow.

                                   VI.

         TOOKE.—Charles, for a shuffler long I’ve known thee:
         But come—for once, I’ll not disown thee;
         And since with patriot zeal thou burnest,
         With thee I’ll live—or hang _in earnest_.

                      [HORACE. BOOK III., ODE IX.

     HORACE.—Whilst I was fond, and you were kind,
               Nor any dearer youth, reclined
               On your soft bosom, sought to rest,
               Not Persia’s monarch was so blest.

     LYDIA.—Whilst you adored no other face,
               Nor loved me in the second place,
               Your Lydia’s celebrated fame
               Outshone the Roman Ilia’s name.

     HORACE.—Me _Chloe_ now possesses whole;
               Her voice and lyre command my soul:
               Nor would I death itself decline,
               Could I redeem her life with mine.

     LYDIA.—For me young lovely _Calaïs_ burns,
               And warmth for warmth my heart returns.
               Twice would I life for him resign,
               Could _his_ be ransomed thus with _mine_.

     HORACE.—What if the God, whose bands we broke,
               Again should tame us to the yoke!
               What if my _Chloe_ cease to reign,
               And _Lydia_ her lost power regain!

     LYDIA.—Though Phosphor be less fair than _he_;
               _Thou_ wilder than the raging sea;
               Lighter than down; yet gladly I
               With _thee_ would live, with _thee_ would die.—ED.]

  [Another version of this Ode published in the _Anti-Jacobin Review_,
  vol. 1, pp. 597–8 (the successor to the _Anti-Jacobin_), may perhaps
  not be considered out of place here. It was written by the Rev. C.
  E. Stewart, a constant contributor to the former journal.

                    THE HONEY-MOON OF FOX AND TOOKE.

                       _Donec gratus eram tibi._

           FOX.—Since Fox of his Tooke is possest,
                     No sorrows my bosom can harass;
                   What Director was ever so blest?
                     I’m greater, far greater than Barras.

           TOOKE.—If Fox to his consort is true,
                     And this blest Coalition sincere,
                   I’ll engage as a private with you,
                     Nor envy thy fame, Robespierre.

           FOX.—You once were the worst of my foes,
                     E’en Pitt I detested not more,
                   When you dar’d my Election oppose,
                     And eternal antipathy swore.

           TOOKE.—Not to you was my hatred confin’d,
                     Your father I styled “The Defaulter,”
                   Drew a portrait of both, and consign’d
                     Both father and son to the halter.

           FOX.—Drive these hated reflections away;
                     For you I would gladly resign.
                   Jockey Norfolk, big Bedford, and Grey;
                     But they answer your purpose and mine.

           TOOKE.—Whate’er you attempt or intend,
                     I am yours, and will bring at your call,
                   Binns, Gurney, Scott, Ferguson, Frend,
                     Corresponding Society—all.

           BOTH.—Thus reconcil’d, fond, and delighted,
                     Together we’ll ride in the storm,
                   While Jacobin Clubs, all united,
                     Make a radical, perfect Reform.—ED.]

                               No. XVIII.

                                                         March 12, 1798.

We are indebted for the following exquisite imitation of one of the most
beautiful Odes of Horace, to an unknown hand. All that we can say is,
that it came to us in a blank cover sealed with a ducal coronet, and
that it appears evidently to be the production of a mind not more
classical than convivial.

                                  ODE.

             Whither, O Bacchus, in thy train,[162]
             Dost thou transport thy votary’s brain
               With sudden inspiration?
             Where dost thou bid me quaff my wine,
             And toast new measures to combine
               The _Great_ and _Little Nation_?

             Say, in what tavern I shall raise[163]
             My mighty voice in Charley’s praise,
               And dream of future glories,
             When FOX, with salutary sway
             (Terror the Order of the Day),
               Shall reign o’er King and Tories?

             My mighty feelings must have way![164]
             A toast I’ll give—a thing I’ll say,
               As yet unsaid by any,—
             “OUR SOV’REIGN LORD!”—let those who doubt
             My honest meaning, hear me out—
               “HIS MAJESTY—THE MANY!”

             Plain folks may be surprised, and stare,[165]
             As much surprised as BOB ADAIR
               At Russia’s wooden houses;
             And Russian snows, that lie so thick;[166]
             And Russian boors[167] that daily kick,
               With barbarous foot, their spouses.

             What joy, when drunk, at midnight’s hour,[168]
             To stroll through Covent Garden’s bow’r,
               Its various charms exploring;
             And, ’midst its shrubs and vacant stalls,
             And proud Piazza’s crumbling walls,
               Hear trulls and watchmen snoring!

             Parent of wine, and gin, and beer,[169]
             The nymphs of Billingsgate you cheer;
               Naiads robust and hearty;
             As Brookes’s chairmen fit to wield
             Their stout oak bludgeons in the field,
               To aid our virtuous party.

             Mortals! no common voice you hear;[170]
             _Militia Colonel, Premier Peer,
               Lieutenant of a County_!
             I speak high things! yet, god of wine,
             For thee, I fear not to resign
               These gifts of royal bounty.

                [HORACE. BOOK III., ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS.

                         TRANSLATED BY FRANCIS.

          Whither in sacred ecstasy,
          BACCHUS, when full of thy divinity,
          Dost thou transport me? To what glades?
          What gloomy caverns, unfrequented shades?
          In what recesses shall I raise
          My voice to sacred Cæsar’s deathless praise,
          Amid the stars to bid him shine,
          Ranked in the councils of the powers divine?
          Some bolder song shall wake the lyre,
          And sounds unknown its trembling strings inspire.
          Thus o’er the steepy mountains’ height,
          Starting from sleep, thy priestess takes her flight:
          Amazed, behold the Thracian snows,
          With languid streams where icy Heber flows
          Or Rhodopé’s high-towering head,
          Where frantic choirs barbarian measures tread.
          O’er pathless rocks, through lonely groves,
          With what delight my raptured spirit roves!
          O thou, who rul’st the Naiad’s breast;
          By whom the Bacchanalian maids, possessed
          With sacred rage inspired by thee,
          Tear from the bursting glebe th’ uprooted tree;
          Nothing or low, or mean, I sing,
          No mortal sound shall shake the swelling string.
          The venturous theme my soul alarms;
          But warmed by thee the thought of danger charms.
          When vine-crowned Bacchus leads the way,
          What can his daring votaries dismay?—ED.]

  [The preceding Ode, written in the character of Charles Howard,
  eleventh DUKE OF NORFOLK, refers to the famous toast, “Our
  Sovereign’s health—THE MAJESTY OF THE PEOPLE,” proposed by his Grace
  at a Banquet at the “Crown and Anchor Tavern,” Strand, on the 24th
  January, 1798, given to celebrate the birth-day of C. J. FOX. For
  this toast and other sentiments promulgated at the meeting, his
  Grace a few days after received notice of his dismissal from the
  Lord-Lieutenancy of the West Riding of Yorkshire and his Colonelcy
  in the Militia, and on the 6th of February Earl Fitzwilliam was
  gazetted to the former office, vice the Duke of Norfolk, _resigned_.
  But sixteen years earlier, this _Toast_ was not considered
  seditious; for in the _General Advertiser_ of the 13th of April,
  1782, then edited by Perry (afterwards the eminent proprietor of the
  _Morning Chronicle_), we find an account of a dinner of the electors
  of Westminster held the preceding day at the Shakespeare Tavern,
  _Earl Fitzwilliam_ in the chair. The first toast given by his
  Lordship was, “THE MAJESTY OF THE PEOPLE”. It was drunk by the Earl
  of Effingham, the Earl of Surrey (afterwards Duke of Norfolk, and
  the subject of the present remarks), Mr. Secretary Fox, Burke,
  Windham, Dean Jebb, J. Churchill, Brand Hollis, Dr. Brocklesby, &c.
  Thus the identical toast was proposed and drunk by the Earl of
  Fitzwilliam, to whom the Lord-Lieutenancy now taken from the Duke of
  Norfolk was given. It is not a little remarkable that Lord
  Fitzwilliam himself was dismissed by his new Tory allies, Oct. 23,
  1819, from the same Lord-Lieutenancy of the West Riding of
  Yorkshire, having signed the requisition for the York meeting, at
  which resolutions were passed condemning the measures of Ministers
  (Lords Liverpool, Eldon, Bathurst, Castlereagh, Palmerston, &c.),
  respecting the Manchester Reform Meeting, called by Henry Hunt, on
  16th August, at which occurred what is known as the “Peterloo
  Massacre”.—ED.]

       [“THE MAJESTY OF THE PEOPLE,” AS GIVEN ON FOX’S BIRTH-DAY.

  The company was a very large one, but the estimated number of 2000
  diners is surely an error. The Duke of Norfolk presided, supported
  by the Duke of Bedford, the Earls of Lauderdale and Oxford,
  Sheridan, Tierney, Erskine, Capt. Morris (who produced three new
  songs for the occasion), and Horne Tooke; the latter became
  reconciled to Fox by the explanation the latter gave of his
  sentiments on parliamentary reform. On the cloth being removed, he
  rose and said, “We are met in a moment of most serious difficulty to
  celebrate the birth of a man dear to the friend of freedom. I shall
  only recall to your memory that not twenty years ago, the
  illustrious GEORGE WASHINGTON had not more than two thousand men to
  rally round him when his country was attacked. America is now free.
  This day full two thousand men are assembled in this place. I leave
  the application to you. I propose to you the health of CHARLES JAMES
  FOX.”

  In the course of the evening the Duke’s health was drunk with great
  enthusiasm. He returned thanks, and concluded his speech with these
  words, “Give me leave to call on you to drink, Our Sovereign’s
  health,

                      “THE MAJESTY OF THE PEOPLE”.

  After this toast had been drunk and warmly applauded, the Duke gave
  successively, “The Rights of the People,” “Constitutional Redress of
  the Wrongs of the People,” “A speedy and effectual Reform in the
  Representation of the People in Parliament,” “The genuine Principles
  of the British Constitution,” “The People of Ireland, and may they
  be speedily restored to the Blessings of Law and Liberty”.

  On the 6th of February, the next monthly meeting of the _Whig Club_
  was held at the London Tavern, Ludgate Hill. The DUKE OF NORFOLK
  presided. He gave as a toast, “The Man who dares be honest in the
  worst of times—

                          “CHARLES JAMES FOX”.

  FOX returned thanks, and then toasted

                    “THE SOVEREIGNTY OF THE PEOPLE”.

  He subsequently proposed the health of the Duke of Norfolk in a most
  powerful speech. He adverted to the dismissal of the DUKE. “No
  reason had been officially assigned; it was, however, generally
  understood that it had arisen from the eulogium pronounced on
  GENERAL WASHINGTON. Was it to be wondered at, that the noble Duke,
  who had uniformly opposed the American war, should have done so?
  What Englishman, what man of any country, whose heart was animated
  with a love of freedom, did not venerate the name of that
  illustrious patriot? It seems also “a toast” has given offence—the
  Majesty of the People. I do not know upon what times we are fallen,
  but the sovereignty of the people of Great Britain is surely a thing
  not new to the language, to the feelings, nor the hearts of
  Englishmen. It is the basis of the whole system of our Government.
  It is an opinion, which if it be not true, King William was an
  usurper. By what right did the glorious and immortal King William
  the Third, whose portrait is placed on our chair, come to the throne
  of these realms, if not by that of the sovereignty of the people?...
  The King holds his title by an Act of Parliament. Who called that
  Parliament? King William the Third. By what right did he obtain it?
  By a Convention representing the sovereignty of the people. The
  Convention of Representatives in fact did the thing. It is whimsical
  enough to deprive the noble Duke of his appointments for an offence
  which, if he had not committed during the reigns of George I. and
  George II., would have subjected him to the charge of being a
  Jacobite, and an adherent of the exiled family.... Of the persons of
  his Majesty’s Ministers I will not say a word. There are several of
  them to whom I may fairly say this sentiment is not new. One member
  of the Cabinet (the Duke of Portland) is still a member of this
  club; another (Mr. Windham) was a member; and a third (Earl Spencer)
  long gloried in holding the same tenets. How often with the two
  first have we drunk the sentiment in this room! What did they mean
  when they drank the Sovereignty of the People? What, but that they
  recognised by this approved and customary method a truth which
  belongs to all people in reality, but is the avowed basis of the
  Government of England, that the people of every country are its
  legitimate Sovereign, and that all authority is delegated from and
  for them? I should be ashamed, on account of my old respect for
  those persons, if they did not honestly avow this to be their sense
  of the sentiment.”

  While adverting, on this occasion, to the dismissal of the DUKE OF
  NORFOLK from his Lord-Lieutenancy and Colonelcy of Militia, FOX
  remarked, “I have nothing the Ministers can take from me. I am still
  indeed a Privy Councillor, at least I know nothing to the contrary;
  and if this sentiment entitles the Noble Duke to this animadversion,
  I shall certainly feel that I am equally entitled to this mark of
  his Majesty’s displeasure.” This anticipation was verified shortly
  afterwards.

  On the 1st of May following, at the Freemasons’ Tavern, another
  dinner of the _Whig Club_ took place. FOX was in the chair, and
  gave, as the first toast—

           “THE SOVEREIGNTY OF THE PEOPLE OF GREAT BRITAIN”.

  The Duke of Norfolk proposed “The Health of the Man who dares be
  Honest in the worst of Times—

                          “CHARLES JAMES FOX”.

  FOX responded in a most impressive speech. He said: “On any other
  occasion, he should have contented himself with returning thanks,
  but in the very peculiar embarrassments in which the country was now
  plunged, he thought it necessary to say a few words in the only
  place in which he thought it might be useful for him to deliver his
  sentiments. The circumstances and events of public affairs of late
  had induced him and many of his friends to abstain from their usual
  assiduous attendance in Parliament. Their exertions for the
  preservation of the Constitution had been of no avail; two years ago
  they had seen the repeal of the Bill of Rights carried by a
  triumphant majority; they had seen the functions of the
  Constitutional Law suspended, on alarm created by the Ministers
  themselves; and however well-founded the alarm might now be, he
  scorned the idea that it was necessary for him to attend in his
  place in the House of Commons, for the purpose only of vindicating
  himself from the vulgar calumny that he was not an enemy to a
  foreign invasion. It would be an insult on his whole life if such a
  declaration could be expected from him. He believed there was not a
  voice in the assembly he addressed which was not in unison with his
  own—namely, that every man who heard him was both ready and willing
  to stand forth in defence of his country, with the spirit that
  belongs to Englishmen. He found no fault with those who thought it
  necessary to make these professions elsewhere. Thus much only would
  he say in this place for himself. _The present Government of the
  country, he had no hesitation in saying, was a Government of
  Tyranny. They had adopted the principles of Robespierre, and their
  object was to establish tyranny in England._ Look at the situation
  of the Sister Kingdom; our own will soon be the same. He had no
  remedy to recommend but that the friends of freedom should be united
  and firm, and wait for better times. Tyranny was now the order of
  the day in every country in Europe. Notwithstanding the arbitrary
  proceedings of our own Ministers, he was persuaded the unanimous
  feeling of the country, the universal determination of every man in
  it was to be ready to take the field against a foreign foe; and,
  indeed, they had a powerful motive to do so, for if they were
  united, they had a better chance to get rid of the tyranny of their
  own Ministers than they could possibly have by the success of a
  foreign invasion. Even in his present retirement he should be ready
  to come forward, in every constitutional effort, to regain our lost
  liberties; and he should be in the foremost of the ranks to repel
  the invasion of a daring enemy.”

  This speech led to a most important consequence—the erasing from the
  Privy Council Book the name of one of the most illustrious statesmen
  which had ever adorned it. FOX’S name was struck out by the King on
  the 9th of May.

  On the 6th of June, after the dinner at the _Whig Club_, the DUKE OF
  BEDFORD proposed “THE HEALTH OF CHARLES FOX,” and remarked in severe
  terms on Ministers having caused the King to strike his name out of
  the list of the Privy Council. FOX said: “It would be most unfit for