TRIFLES.

1814.

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.

LAST night I toss'd and turn'd in bed,
But could not sleep-at length I said,
'I'll think of Viscount C-stl-r-gh,
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 dream'd-O frightful dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;

never wrote or borrow'd

Any horror, half so horrid !

Methought the P-e, in whisker'd 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 vapours-
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, O jacobinic papers!

As though 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 threaten'd worst of all the bevy.
Then Common-Hall addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R-g-t's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read!

Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly,

And Tradesmen's Bills, we know, mount high;
Nay, e'en 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!
Shock'd 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 wak'd-and pray'd with lifted hand,
'Oh! never may this dream prove true;
Though Paper overwhelms the land,
Let it not crush the Sovereign too!

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.

AT length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh,
When, with P-rc-v-l'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 Y-rm-th and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided-

That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion-

For, though H-rtf-rd 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;
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd 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.
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,

Would lose all their beauty if purified once;

1 The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

And think-only think-if our Father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,

That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser-
That R- -se was grown honest, or W-stm-rel-nd wiser-
That R-d-r was, e'en by one twinkle, the brighter-
Or L-v-rp-l's 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,
There's such good mutton cutlets and strong curaçoa,1
That the Marchioness call'd me a duteous old boy,
And my Y-rm-th's red whiskers grew redder for joy!

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last Sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles

From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles ;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,

Might have sooth'd her with hope-but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes-but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the K-ng ever will die!

A new era's arrived-though you'd hardly believe it— And all things, of course, must be new to receive it. New villas, new fêtes (which e'en Waithman attends)— New saddles, new helmets, and-why not new friends?

*

I repeat it, 'New Friends'-for I cannot describe

The delight I am in with this P―rc-v-1 tribe.

Such capering!-Such vapouring!-Such rigour !-Such vigour ! North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,

That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,

And leave us no friends-but Old Nick and Algiers,

When I think of the glory they've beam'd on my chains,
'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains!

It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we furnish our Allies with breeches !
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,

To put the last lingering few who remain,

Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.

Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother! For Papist the one, and with Papist the other;

One crushing Napoleon by taking a city,

While t'other lays waste a whole Cath'lic committee !
Oh, deeds of renown!-shall I boggle or flinch,

With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.

1 The letter-writer's favourite luncheon.

No-let England's affairs go to rack, if they will,
We'll look after th' affairs of the Continent still,
And, with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread, and keep Sicily quiet.
I am proud to declare I have no predilections,
My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections
Are just danced about for a moment or two,

And the finer they are, the more sure to run through:
Neither have I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal-except (now I think on't) Beau Br-mm-1,
Who threaten'd, last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut me, and bring the old K-ng into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present,
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumber'd by faith in my dealings
(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket, the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the vendor of Best Patent Blacking,
'To meet with the generous and kind approbation
Of a candid, enlighten'd, and liberal nation.'

By-the-bye, ere I close this magnificent letter
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better),
Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugg'd so long
With the notion (good men !) that I knew right from wrong,
Would a few of them join me-mind, only a few-

To let too much light in on me never would do ;
But even Grey's brightness sha'n't make me afraid,

While I've C-md-n and Eld-n to fly to for shade;
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,

While there's W-stm-rel-nd near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it,

Sure joining with H-rtf-rd and Y-rm-th will do it!
Between R-d-r and Wh-rt-n let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit;
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
E'en in Whitbread himself we've a host in G-rge R-se!
So, in short, if they wish to have places they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose),
By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;
And now, dearest Fred (though I've no predilection),
Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to P-rc-v-1 going

Good Lord! how St. Stephens will ring with his crowing!

ANACREONTIC.

TO A PLUMASSIER.

FINE and feathery artisan!
Best of Plumists, if you can
With your art so far presume,
Make for me a P-e's Plume-
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a P- -e to wear!

First, thou downiest of men!
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no Cocks at hand!
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on P-e's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!)
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.
Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo,
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates
Pluck him well-be sure you do-
Who wouldn't be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a R-y-1 crest?

Bravo, Plumist!-now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third ?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl-
Bigot bird, that hates the light,
Foe to all that's fair and bright!
Seize his quills (so form'd to pen
Books, that shun the search of men;
Books, that, far from every eye,
In 'swelter'd venom sleeping' lie!)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and old Cuckoo.

Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie, whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue ;
Sullied now-alas, how much!
Only fit for Y-rm-th's touch.

There-enough-thy task is done;
Present worthy G- -ge's Son!
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write I serve' and all's complete.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

Wednesday.

THROUGH M-nch-st-r Square took a canter just now
Met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look, oh, 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!-incog. he was travelling about,
And I, like a noodle, must go find him out!

Mem.-When next by the old yellow chariot I ride
To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.

At levee to-day made another sad blunder-
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The P- e was as cheerful, as if all his life,
He had never been troubled with friends or a wife-
'Fine weather,' says he-to which I, who must prate,
Answer'd, Yes, Sir, but changeable rather of late.'
He took it, I fear, for he look'd somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,

-