The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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[2] Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the
Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting
each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The
_Sunni_ is the established sect in Turkey, and the _Shia_ in
Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important
points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite
Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their
hands on the lower part of the breasts, the Schiahs drop their arms in
straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press
their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc.--_Forster's
Voyage_.

[4] "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a
great abomination."--_Mariti_.

[5] This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally
translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he
alludes is the _Juftak_, of which I find the following account in
Richardson:--"A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the
opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that,
when they fly, they are fastened together."

LETTER VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'--
Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!--would _get up_ prodigiously well--
Its only defect is--it never would sell.
And tho' _Statesmen_ may glory in being _unbought_,
In an _Author_ 'tis not so desirable thought.

Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read--
Tho' the _gold_ of Good-sense and Wit's _small-change_ are fled,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!

However, Sir--if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible--we are your men.

Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a _Traveller_ greatly--
No job, Sir, more easy--your _Country_ once planned,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell--
And a lick at the Papists is _sure_ to sell well.
Or--supposing you've nothing _original_ in you--
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2]
(Mind--_not_ to her _dinners_--a _second-hand_ Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to _mess_ with the _Blues_.)
Or--in case nothing else in this world you can do--
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not _review_!

Should you feel any touch of _poetical_ glow,
We've a Scheme to suggest--Mr. Scott, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for _the Row_.[3])
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,
Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town;
And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay)
Means to _do_ all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to _meet_ him;
Who by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches--
May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.
Such, Sir, is our plan--if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you _in training_ next week.
At present, no more--in reply to this Letter,
A line will oblige very much
Yours, _et cetera_.

_Temple of the Muses_.

[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.

[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to
have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a
certain ingenious Parodist.

[3] Paternoster Row.

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.

Come to our Fete and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fete and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;
When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"--
When Cits came wondering from the East
And thought thee Poet Pye _at least_!

Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Tho' more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face and amply spread,
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red--
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like Harry Alexander,
Too precious to be washt,) thy _rings_,
Thy seals--in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield in frogs and fringe to none
But the great Regent's self alone;
Who--by particular desire--
_For that night only_, means to hire
A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1]
Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!
_Both_ gay Lotharios--both good dressers--
Of serious Farce _both_ learned Professors--
_Both_ circled round, for use or show,
With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2]

Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor--
Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.[3]
The Ball-room opens--far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems one sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade that bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:--
With every step a star hath fled,
And suns grow dim beneath their tread,
So passeth life--(thus Scott would write,
And spinsters read him with delight,)--
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!--
I meant to say, thou'lt see that night
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the Prince neglects the arts--
Neglects the arts?--no, Strahlweg,[4] no;
_Thy_ Cupids answer "'tis not so;"
And every floor that night shall tell
How quick thou daubest and how well.
Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion,
Thou'rt _best_ beneath a French cotillion;
And still comest off, whate'er thy faults,
With _flying colors_ in a Waltz.
Nor needest thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assigned by fate.
While _some chef-d'oeuvres_ live to weary one,
_Thine_ boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With "Molly put the kettle on!"[5]

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left--so must be brief.
This festive Fete, in fact, will be
The former Fete's _facsimile_;[6]
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
All trickt up in such odd costumes,
(These, Porter,[7] are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;
And each to make the olio pleasant
Had sent a State-Room as a present.
The same _fauteuils_ and girondoles--
The same gold Asses,[8]pretty souls!
That in this rich and classic dome
Appear so perfectly at home.
The same bright river 'mong the dishes,
But _not_--ah! not the same dear fishes--
Late hours and claret killed the old ones--
So 'stead of silver and of gold ones,
(It being rather hard to raise
Fish of that _specie_ now-a-days)
Some sprats have been by Yarmouth's wish,
Promoted into _Silver_ Fish,
And Gudgeons (so Vansittart told
The Regent) are as good as _Gold_!

So, prithee, come--our Fete will be
But half a Fete if wanting thee.

[1] An amateur actor of much risible renown.

[2] The crest of Mr. Coates, the very amusing amateur tragedian here
alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness,
etc. covered wit this ornament.

[3] To those who neither go to balls nor read _The Morning Post_, it may
be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ballrooms, in general, are
chalked for safety and for ornament with various fanciful devices.

[4] A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

[5] The name of a popular country-dance.

[6] "Carleton House will exhibit a complete _facsimile_ in respect to
interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fete. The same splendid
draperies," etc.--_Morning Post_.

[7] Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms
of Carletone House.

[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince's _own_ table were in the form of an
Ass with panniers.

* * * * *

APPENDIX.

LETTER IV. PAGE 584.

Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. Duigenan's Letter, was found an Heroic
Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is
rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This
female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others of
Germany,) who at an early age disguised herself in male attire and
followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens where she studied with
such effect that upon her arrival at Rome she was thought worthy of being
raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom
she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal
_accouchement_, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.

She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together
at Athens--when, as she says,

--"by Ilissus' stream
"We whispering walkt along, and learned to speak
"The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek;
"Ah! then how little did we think or hope,
"Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope![1]
"That I, the humble Joan, whose housewife art
"Seemed just enough to keep thy house and heart,
"(And those, alas! at sixes and at sevens,)
"Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!"

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such
a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them--that she

"Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum,
"And let a _little Pope_ pop out before 'em--
"Pope _Innocent_! alas, the only one
"That name could e'er be justly fixt upon."

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and
enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell
forever:--

"But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over--
"Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover!
"I made _thee_ Cardinal--thou madest _me_--ah!
"Thou madest the Papa of the world Mamma!"

I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I
presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to
deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must
be unworthy of Emancipation _now_, because they had a Petticoat Pope in
the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that
Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (_eheu posteri negabitis_!)
emancipatus FOEMINAE
_fert vallum_!

[1] Spanheim attributes the unanimity with which Joan was elected to that
innate and irresistible charm by which her sex, though latent, operated
upon the instinct of the Cardinals.

LETTER VII. PAGE 588.

The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be
a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book,"[1] of which the Theatres,
of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs.
Lackington and Co. This rejected Drama however possesses considerable
merit and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my
Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner--_Time_, three o'clock in
the morning--_Scene_, the Bourbon Chamber[2] in Carleton House--
Enter the Prince Regent _solus_--After a few broken sentences, he
thus exclaims:--

Away--Away--
Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,
I meet thee--trace thee, whereso'er I look.
I see thy damned _ink_ in Eldon's brows--
I see thy _foolscap_ on my Hertford's Spouse--
Vansittart's head recalls thy _leathern_ case,
And all thy _blank-leaves_ stare from R--d--r's face!
While, turning here (_laying his hand on his heart_,)
I find, ah wretched elf,
Thy _List_ of dire _Errata_ in myself.
(_Walks the stage in considerable agitation_.)
Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curacoa!
Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!
Delicious drams! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing _Book-worm_ in my heart?

He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some
scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and "by the
light of two magnificent candelabras" discovers the following unconnected
words, "_Wife neglected"--"the Book"--"Wrong Measures"--"the Queen"--"Mr.
Lambert"--"the Regent_."

Ha! treason in my house!--Curst words, that wither
My princely soul, (_shaking the papers violently_) what Demon
brought you hither?
"My Wife;"--"the Book" too!--stay--a nearer look--
(_holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras_)
Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book--
Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene
of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the
course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for
the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. The intermediate time is
filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid
Personages rush on alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and
the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, "to
maintain the becoming splendor of his office."[3] The Regent produces the
appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into
exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following
portentous dream:

'Tis scarcely two hours since
I had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!--
Methought I heard thee midst a courtly crowd
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,
"Worship my whiskers!"--(_weeps_) not a knee was there
But bent and worshipt the Illustrious Pair,
Which curled in conscious majesty! (_pulls out his handkerchief_)--
while cries
Of "Whiskers; whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.--
Just in that glorious hour, me-thought, there came,
With looks of injured pride, a Princely Dame
And a young maiden, clinging by her side,
As if she feared some tyrant would divide
Two hearts that nature and affection tied!
The Matron came--within her _right_ hand glowed
A radiant torch; while from her _left_ a load
Of Papers hung--(_wipes his eyes_) collected in her veil--
The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,
The wounding hint, the current lies that pass
From _Post_ to _Courier_, formed the motley mass;
Which with disdain before the Throne she throws,
And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose.

(_Weeps_.)

Heavens, how it blazed!--I'd ask no livelier fire,
(With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!--
But ah! the Evidence--_(weeps again)_ I mourned to see--
Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee:
And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung,
And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;
While _Post_ and _Courier_, faithful to their fame,
Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame.
When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,
Now singes _one_ now lights the _other_ whisker.
Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurls
Her fairy standard in defence of curls?
Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke,
The watchman cried "Past One," and--I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (who has
been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as
characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands
to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held--
all the Servants, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had
come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of
the best superfine _clinquant_ in describing) was the only person who
had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly,
determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous
resolution to be vigorous.

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and
Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]--but as this forms the _under_ plot
of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following
speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "_exeunt_
severally" to Prison:--

Go to your prisons--tho' the air of Spring
No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;
Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away,
And all your portion of the glorious day
May be some solitary beam that falls
At morn or eve upon your dreary walls--
Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed,
To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!
Yet go--for thoughts as blessed as the air
Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there;
Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crew
In rich conservatories _never_ knew;
Pure self-esteem--the smiles that light within--
The Zeal, whose circling charities begin
With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near,
And spread till all Mankind are in its sphere;
The Pride that suffers without vaunt or plea.
And the fresh Spirit that can warble free
Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged
group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board--Their task
evidently of a _royal_ nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs,
etc., that lie about--They all rise and come forward, while one of them
sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down."

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees,
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,
While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers),
The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors!
Derry down, down, down
derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,
While _His_ short cut to fame is--the cut of his coat;
Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul,
But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole.
Derry down, etc.

Look thro' all Europe's Kings--those, at least, who go loose--
Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose.
So, God keep him increasing in size and renown,
Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town!
Derry down, etc.

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary
of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect
of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is
interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to
the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now
hastens rapidly in its development--the management of the Tailor's
examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is
natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally
gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said
fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to
send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the
corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced
and skilfully laid beside the others, the following _billet-doux_ is the
satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,

Honored Colonel--my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns,
Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns.
She sent the wrong Measures too--shamefully wrong--
They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young;
But, bless you! they wouldn't go half round the Regent--
So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery--the Regent resumes his wonted
smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all
parties.

[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century,
which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time.
Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear
that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book
ever existed. It was entitled, "_Liber de tribus impostoribus_." (See
Morhof. Cap. "_de Libris damnatis_.")

[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of
the Bourbons at the first Grand Fete, and which was ornamented (all "for
the Deliverance of Europe") with _fleurs de-lys_.

[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to
maintain it in becoming splendor." (_A loud laugh_.)--Lord
CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill_.

[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person
from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it."
--Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment,
April 14, 1812_.

Last night I tost and turned in bed,
But could not sleep--at length I said,
"I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh,
"And of his speeches--that's the way."
And so it was, for instantly
I slept as sound as sound could be.
And then I dreamt--so dread a dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;
Lewis never wrote or borrowed
Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state
Before me at his breakfast sate;
On one side lay unread Petitions,
On t'other, Hints from five Physicians!
_Here_ tradesmen's bills,--official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors
_There_ plans of Saddles, tea and toast.
Death-warrants and _The Morning Post_.

When lo! the Papers, one and all.
As if at some magician's call.
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced, oh jacobinic papers!
As tho' they said, "Our sole design is
"To suffocate his Royal Highness!"
The Leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition,
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threatened worst of all the bevy;
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets and took their aim
Right at the Regent's well-drest head,
As if _determined_ to be read.
Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly,
And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high;
Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too and join the rest.

But, oh the basest of defections!
His letter about "predilections"!--
His own dear letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shocked with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur "_et_ Tu _Brute_?"
Then sunk, subdued upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked--and prayed, with lifted hand,
"Oh! never may this Dream prove true;
"Tho' paper overwhelms the land,
"Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs are decided--
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion)--
For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question,
I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two _other_ Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2]
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more _limited_ Monarchy could not well be.
I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle.
To choose my own Minister--just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3]
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching:
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4]
Would loose all their beauty if purified once;
And think--only think--if our Father should find.
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5]
That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser--
That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser--
That R--d--r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter--
Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter--
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No!--far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6]
There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curacoa,[7]
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,
And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.