============ The evils of the Court of Chancery have latterly been so much discussed, that I have thought it unnecessary to enter into long explanations upon the different objects of censure contained in the poem. The notes, therefore, contain only such observations as appeared absolutely necessary to make some of the verses more intelligible than could be effected in poetry, without a very tedious and dull circumlocution. The books of Chancery, practice and the report of the commissioners appointed to investigate the subject, will supply all deficiencies of this sort. R. I. B. THE COURT Like some rich jewel in dark cavern hid. Quick was his mind each error to perceive;— Much craft had those who could that mind deceive— A moment’s thought would often shew a flaw, Which those who look’d much deeper never saw. Well was he skill’d to crack a wretched jest, And all who laughed were sure to be caress’d. He bore no rival in his high career, As Leach On those who blam’d him hate itself was spent; This Brougham Deprived by malice of a silken gown. And yet his visage, like a crocodile Intending mischief, still could wear the smile. Oft times a tear-drop down his cheek would flow, While aged victims told their tale of woe— Told of their hopes delay’d and run to waste, With wealth before them, which they could not taste— Told of their starving babes and buried wife,— Themselves just tottering on the brink of life. Then would he clasp his hands with false intent, And call on heaven to witness what he meant, With promise send the discontent away,— Their judgment certain on a future day. As God’s his judge, the papers are not here— Where can they be?—his careful wife Has torn the dusty lumber into scraps. Mishap unfortunate! the suitor cries, His Lordship nods assent, and wipes his eyes With ’kerchief clean, in which a potent leak Draws from each orb the stream that wets his cheek. “Alas! my lord, when will the judgment come?— “Send me the papers, and I’ll take them home.” The papers got, be sure to hand them in, Tho’ Hand Has left no cranny for the smallest mouse. This all results from pre-concerted plan; The master trifles, why should not his man; Excuse, the judgment day by day protracts, His mind still wavering, or forgot the facts; And yet he seems not unabashed by shame, Thus forced in self-defence the lie to frame. As carelessly around his glance he throws, Each eye takes shelter underneath his brows, Then with apparent calmness in the face, He strives to meet you, but ’tis all grimace; Look as he will, the thinking mind can see He half detests his own duplicity; Shrinks from the gaze of those who weep around, And in his bosom feels a deeper wound. Oft have I marked him in an inward trance, And watched the changes of his countenance; Thus have I seen, or fancied to have seen, Remorse and terror painted on his mein: And terror; but how short the reign of both, More lively feelings soon his grief restrain, And heartless Eldon is himself again. Albeit, when thieves in penitence begin To weep their guilty deeds, and fly from sin, The world oft profits by their former vice, Should chance enroll them in the state police; They follow crime as some old fox might do, Who hunted once, another should pursue, Woe to the wretch, that struggles to evade The wary cunning of such renegade; In vain each wile, each mazy turn he tries, For justice triumphs, and the culprit dies. So hopes the world that Eldon, now resigned, Will own the faults to which his eyes were blind; Chase out corruption from his dark abode, And cleanse each path where fraud the usurper strode; The burning stigma of a life’s disgrace. Shrink not, my lord, whate’er the muse appears, She wars but feebly with declining years; Compassion fetters what she fain would sing, And robs severity of half its sting: Those hoary locks command respect from youth, But cannot wholly close the lips of truth. Suppose the judgment given Of endless labour, and a million tears: Suppose the minutes by his lordship’s scrawl Drawn out and settled, after many a brawl; An empty clapper in a brazen shell. Hark! how the frothy nonsense from his lips Involves the audience in one black eclipse, From which in vain they struggle to be free. When darkness triumphs, who can hope to see? Gods! what a tongue, and what a lack of wits! How well the former with the latter sits! In him the worst of causes finds a friend; pan class="i2">How singularly fortunes changes fall! Slow sneaking forth comes learned Weatherall. Yet half asleep, he seems just rous’d from bed; Still shines the greasy nightcap on his head. Unwash’d his face and hands, uncomb’d his hair, Cut is his beard, but left the lather there. One stocking decently his leg adorns, The other, inside out, it’s neighbour scorns. No brace sustains his small-clothes from the dirt, Nor keeps conceal’d the mysteries of shirt. Still is there something in his face and eye, That serves to shew the mind’s ability,— A strange effect of visage, that foretells Profound research, e’en while it’s glance repells— The light of wisdom ting’d by folly’s shade,— Scholastic knowledge turned to masquerade. He speaks; his diction, exquisitely rare, Astounds the wise, and makes the simple stare. Greek, Latin, Hebrew, tear his wearied lungs, And English learns to speak in other tongues. Fantastic thoughts fantastic language glean, And reason wonders what they both can mean. Ill has he tried to mount the heights of fame By barter’d honor, and a turncoats name. Why did he plead for traitors all unask’d? The truth in vain dissimulation mask’d:— ’Twas injured pride, and baffled hope that urg’d,— The patriot counsel in the madman merg’d. How frail for him the web ambition spun;— As now he is, so was his race begun. What if he fall, or if he rise again, We take no pleasure, and we feel no pain. Few seek his friendship, or to hate have room,— His heart a wilderness, his head a tomb; From this the sympathies of life refuse To spring, or soon their balmy fragrance lose; That serves to bury Wisdom’s ancient lore, But drives the living from its murky door. All hail! Sir Charles! not Master of the Rolls, Tho’ half decreed to tend those musty scrolls; Had but the Premier sooner told his mind, Or thou, Sir Charles, less hastily resign’d. Sir Charles! what more? the sybil sisters fly, And hide in mist the book of destiny! From realms of darkness let us turn to light— But where, if not to thee, ingenious Knight? An able draftsman, and a speaker bold, By prudence guided, ne’er by fear controlled, To clients faithful, not to foes unjust, In better hands his suit could no one trust. By honour urg’d, thou wilt not facts conceal, But with strong argument their force repeal. Thus truth is ever to thy speech attached, Nor hopeless cause by blund’ring falsehood patch’d. With whom can doubt on safer grounds advise! Tho’ young in years, so prematurely wise. In thee deep study, with experience crown’d, Refines a judgment naturally sound; Gives force to sense with which the mind is fraught, And stamps decision on each passing thought. Thy private life it boots not here to scan, But as the counsel, so excels the man; Thy courteous mein, and disposition bland, Can tame down envy, and it’s rage withstand. Thee love of virtue leads; nor rough the way To those, who bend her dictates to obey. Oh! may’st thou well the tide of glory stem, And earn thy meed, the legal diadem! Lo! Pepys with recent dignity elate Appears, a not unpleasing advocate! Fast from his lips the dulcet accents fall, But not in tediousness, the ear to pall; Seldom or never from that tone they part, And by their sweetness wind into the heart. Rise, Basil Montagu Great legislator of the bankrupt race! In thee I find a character so strange, Description hardly can its traits arrange. That tongue’s licentiousness, and cheek of brass Betray the stock, of which thy lineage was. Not void of intellect, but blind with pride, In vain discretion strives thy course to guide. Loud mirth precedes, each struggle for a hit, And empty sneers supply the place of wit. If careless clerks pay not retaining fees, Be free as air, and plead for whom you please; Make use of knowledge, you were paid to learn For other’s good, and all to mischief turn. Now state a case, now on thyself reply, And shine the monarch of absurdity! Nor less thy brains in making books excell— Let who will read them, so the volumes sell. Hodge bought his razors for a bargain, but Was quite surprised to find they would not cut. We buy thy books, yet not like Hodge admire; To give the cut, we throw them in the fire. To read would go beyond thine own intent, And fix on us a double punishment. For loss of money grief will soon abate,— But what for loss of time can compensate? Away; with tomes no more the world appal, But rule supreme thy Court of Basinghall. Maintain thy temple in its purest state,— A den of thieves to rapine consecrate. Let perjured rogues the plunder first prepare, And just partition be thine only care! Away with conscience, ’tis an idle tale, Reward thy service ’till the assets fail! The service what? Each sovereign fee to store, And curse the law, because it gives no more; To hear a bankrupt, or a counsel prate,— < nger calls, employ again thy pow’r, But mangle not, unless thou can’st devour. Of death itself we little should complain, If lingering torments did not add to pain. Exhaustion summons; not that matter fails, But idle nature o’er my muse prevails. A weariness in her perhaps may find The same sensations in a reader’s mind. Enough for me, if one amid the throng Shall learn to profit by my humble song; Embark not vainly in a losing cause, Nor seek protection from deficient laws. Enough for me, if by exposure shamed, One wretch shall be from vicious acts reclaim’d; Admit that truth has temper’d censure’s rod, And rescued him from Beelzebub to God! THE END. FOOTNOTES: He, who between man and wife interposes Will get black eyes, and bloody noses. |