The Novel—A Satire. One night the Poet—(for in these dull times, Each fool becomes a poet when he rhymes)— Feasted his friend, yet gave no feast more fine Than plain boil’d beef, a pudding, and old wine. In gentle converse pass’d the hours away, Kings mix’d with grouse, and politics with hay ; Each in, soft chair luxuriously reclined, Each pleased with each, and every care resign’d ; Strong and more strong the stream of friendship flow’d ; Bright and more bright their wit and glances glow’d, Till the pleased Squire on many a mingled pile Of tales and statues cast approving smile— On Bowles and Blackstone fix’d his softest looks, And, though the scene was Suffolk, talk’d of books. The Squire. Thank Heaven, which many comforts round me placed, Gave health, ease, freedom, and denied me taste— No critic I, discerning or severe, To find a beauty there, a blemish here ; One equal rapture fills me as I stray : Through Scott’s bright song, or Shiel’s uproarious play— I own each fancy fine, each image just, And read Leigh Hunt himself—without disgust ! Poet. Ah ! blest your fate, who thus a charm can find Where scorn and anger vex another’s mind ; Whose spell-bound eyes, with Oberon’s plant o’erspread, See sense or beauty in an ass’s head ; Whose chemic mind, by reason uncontroll’d, Can turn the dross of dulness into gold. Alas ! some demon, when I read, presides, Reveals each fault, and every beauty hides ; Bids idiot pathos in each sentence whine, And vulgar folly flaunt in every line. Bards bold and true no more on earth are found To stir our hearts “ as with a trumpet’s sound,” But loud-tongued nonsense wakes the turgid strain, And impious weakness grovels in her train— Creation’s glories fill the soul of Ball, And Milton’s muse awakes at Cox’s call, Bœtian owls round hell’s vast confines croak, And Satan dies—o’ercome by Gummery’s smoke. Squire. These I disclaim ; with scorn I turn away From each dull driveller’s sanctimonious lay, Whose pompous rhymes Religion’s self degrade, Make Prayer a farce, and Piety a trade— Yet surely genius in our land is strong, Though now no longer it breaks forth in song— To other themes our bards have turn’d their might ; And, lo ! the Novel rises on the sight. Poet. Granted, that some remain, whose muse of fire, Though wing’d no longer, still escapes the mire ; Whose Pegasus no more in Cloudland glows, But drags Life’s chariot through the realms of prose ; Yet fiery still, scarce half subdued to earth, Th’ ethereal courser shews a heav’nly birth. But, lo ! what creatures follow in their track ! What tottering limbs betray each long-ear’d hack ! What hideous discord marks each jocund bray, As with vain toil they labour to be gay ! Squire. Oh, hard to please ! to wit’s best flashes blind ! Do force and humour fail to soothe your mind ? Does Fashion’s self describe her glittering train, And ope the secrets of her halls in vain ? Can high-born damsels write, yet fail to please, Nor letter’d lords your critic rage appease ? Can titled a unrequited tell, How princes talk, how wisely, and how well ? Poet. Titled indeed ! Miladi shews her skill In wondrous wit, and sense more wondrous still— Travels or Tales, whiche’er engage her mind, Shew the same spirit and deep thought combined, The virtuous wish, the pure and patriot heart, And the meek woman’s unassuming part. All these she shews; and flaunts before our eyes, A thing to elevate, instruct, surprise, The soul of whim, too meteor-like to fix, The chief in fashion, and in politics. Yet strong suspicions oft unbidden rise, That the fair lady is more fair than wise, That fancy still in all her statements blends, But revels chiefly in her list of friends,— That the dear dukes of whom she fondly sings Owe rank-and title to Utopian kings,— That her Romances scarce her facts outdo, And that her facts are all Romances too.— And fashion ?—Are there two of all the tribe Of would-be wits, who know what they describe ?— Lo ! the fair laundress, perch’d in high St Giles, Paints to one dimple how the Countess smiles ; While Prince and Peer their wit and wisdom owe To pilfering valets housed in Rottenrow. Footmen discharged draw statesmen out of place ; And cooks first pillage, and then paint his Grace. And Love, young Love, thou universal theme O’er fashion’s scribblers first, last, best, supreme ! Whether in Grosvenor Square thou takest thy rise, Where Weippert’s madd’ning bow resistless flies, Or in the country’s sentimental shades Attack’st patrician youths and noble maids, Thy fate’s the same, unceasing doom’d to stray Mid ball and rout, drums, opera, park, and play : The scoundrel friend deceives, the uncle dies, Pure, happy scenes to bless each charmer rise ; And thou, immortal Love ! so strong thy root, Surviv’st a duel and a Chancery suit ! Then flows such wealth as Lowther never knew, Then ope the stores of Stafford and Buccleuch ; Then shirtless scribes bestow whole counties’ rents, Exhaust the mint, and rob the four per cents,— And senseless heroes thus our praise secure— Their lordships may be fools, but shan’t be poor. — And oh ! what language marks each titled dame, How high each lord ranks Lindley Murray’s fame ! Indignant wit on prudish grammar frowns, While singular verbs coquette with plural nouns, And Ton exults in similes like these, “ As fine as tenpence,” and “ as thick as pease.” Proverbs from loveliest lips unnumber’d fly, And Lieven’s self “ has other fish to fry.” Austria’s gay princess who so blind as miss In “ dat, mi lor’, mit, vat, madear, and dis ?” * Such foreign graces every heart must melt— Alas ! they’re only foreign while they’re spelt. Squire. What only while they’re spelt ?—oh wise and sage ! Why, real French fills half of every page— Poet. And why ?—You can’t suppose that English wives Talk such a piebald babel all their lives ; That English daughters spoil their native grace With grin, and exclamation, and grimace ; End with bad English what worse French began, And speak upon the Hamiltonian plan— That English sons in every sentence shew Italian, French, and English in a row ; Swear with Dutch boors, or drink with Spanish friars— Poor polyglott editions of their sires. Believe it not; pure English undefiled, Such as of old was spoke when Wortley smiled, Such still is spoke—and surely far more dear Is good plain English to an English ear, Than lisp’d-out phrases stol’n from every clime, And strangely alter’d—to conceal the crime. Squire. Yet, without French, how dull the page would look ; Must no Italics mark when speaks a Duke ? Must peers and beauties flirt in common print ; And no small letters aid a statesman’s hint ? Poet. Yes ! let them write; let cook and scullion scrawl ; Let Colburn or Minerva print them all ! * Vid. The Exclusives. If lively Betty in her book transfer To Lady Jane, what Thomas sighs to her ; If the old Earl’s the coachman in disguise, And if the Duchess Dolly’s place supplies ; If John, ennobled, holds a high debauch, And breaks the head of Priscian and the watch, What is’t to me? The tale’s a pleasing tale, And murdering nature scarce deserves the jail. Flourish ye vulgar drivellings of the vain, The fill’d with folly, and the void of brain ! Ye Tales of Ton shine on for countless years, Proud of your idiot squires and witless peers ! Tales of High Life, in endless beauty bloom Mirrors of grandeur in the butler’s room ! And ye, in servants’ hall for aye be seen, Obscure Blue Stockings, Davenels, and D’Erbine ! Yet Sympathy her gentle woes may add, Where sorry authors made their readers sad ; The thoughtful student well may sigh to know That mortal dulness ever sank so low ; The pensive tear may innocently fall On scenes where simple Folly rules o’er all.— Not so, when Ribaldry, ’neath Fiction’s name, Shews equal dulness with a deadlier aim ; Paints not Almack’s to bid the kitchen stare, Nor fills the pantry with St James’s air ; But soars to crime, and strives to gain the art, To sap the morals, and corrupt the heart.— See where Ecarté’s prurient scenes betray The madd’ning reign of beauty and of play ; Seeming to guard against the bait they throw, Seeming to hide what most they mean to shew. Tempting, like Spartan maids, by half revealing, And tempting more, perhaps, by half concealing. Where’er we move, some yielding beauty woos, Rich in the sensual graces of the stews ; While warm descriptions every charm define, And all the brothel breathes from every line, Nor pass the Roué in this list of shame, Whose equal faults an equal scorn may claim,— Where Drury Lane her morals deigns to teach, And Covent Garden yields her flow’rs of speech ; Where heroes, witty, graceful, gay, polite, Act like Count Fathom, and like Egan write ;* Describe such scenes as Harriet might disgrace, Or call a blush on pimpled Hazlitt’s face ! Ingenious authors ! who so closely shape Your course betwixt seduction and a rape, That wondering readers catch the pleasing hope, To see your heroes dangling from a rope, Think ye the “ morals” ye draw forth at last, Shall shield, like penitence, your actions past ; Even though your rake, by one unchanging rule, Is tamed and married to a flirt or fool ? Or, harder fate, if harder fate you know, Dies e’er his pen has traced the last huge O !!!† Think ye two ribald volumes are forgiven, Provided in the third he talks of heaven ? * The comparison here is only to the “slang,” not to the vivacity of that ingeniousHistoriographer of the Ring. † The Roué concludes with this very appalling exclamation. As if, dull rogues ! our scorn ye could assuage, For Berkeley’s youth by Zachary’s old age ! Nature, which all things righteously ordains, Gives rascals malice, but denies them brains ; So to some puppy fill’d-with fear and spite, She gives the wish—without the power—to bite ; So to Sir Roger, scarce released from school,* She gives obsceneness—but proclaims him fool. But turn we now where other scenes invite, Where sense and pathos, wit and mirth, unite. Lo, in some dell, far hid amidst the wild, In virtue’s sunshine, blooms the cottage child ; No charm she borrows from appalling deeds, No spectres rise, no dark-eyed rival bleeds ; Yet in bleak vale, lone moor, or heath-clad hill, The awaken’d heart attends and loves her still. And near the poor man’s couch what thoughts arise ’Mid tearful prayers, as yon grey Elder dies ! How rock and cliff resound the shepherd’s lays ! How earth seems vocal with her Maker’s praise ! Whether with Hannah Lee we wander slow, Through the thick midnight and the drifting snow ; Or with lone Margaret every pang endure, Which makes her own pure heart more heavenly pure ; In smiles or tears, in storm or calm, we find, How thrills the touch of Genius through the mind ! And Nature holds her sway as Lockhart tells, How dark the grief that with the guilty dwells ; How various passions through the bosom move, Dalton’s high hope, and Ellen’s sinless love. Creative fancy gives a lovelier green To Godstowe’s glade ; and hallows all the scene Where Love’s low whisper sooth’d their wildest fears, Till Joy grew voiceless and flow’d forth in tears. But wherefore idly thus proceed to shew Where wit, truth, nature, mix in genial glow ? Galt’s humorous pow’r, Hogg’s tale to nature true, And her rich pencil who Clan Albin drew ? Smith—though a model seems before him still, And all his art seems imitative skill,— Though still the mimic in each step he shews, Like Davy “ majorin” in Bradwardine’s clothes,— Smith yet has wit, has humour, fancy, fire, And what the devil more can one desire ? De Vere and t’other Dromio—nice Tremaine, Well-bred, good dressers, sensible and vain ; Judges of wit, teas, beoks, and pantaloons, Are “ spoons” indeed, but then—they’re polish’d “ spoons.” Yet in this catalogue of glorious names, From Anastasius Hope, to Darnley James, First, best of all, oh, never be forgot—— Squire. Stop.  Not a single word of Walter Scott. I listen’d long impatient for a close, But still one name and then another rose ; I sigh’d, cough’d, yawn’d, and snored in very spite— I’ve had a pleasant sleep, and now—good-night. * This blockhead has published a novel called Sir Thomas Gasteneys, a minor ; ofwhich the less that is said the better.