The Liberal in Text IssuesThe Liberal - Vol. 1, Issue 1The Vision of Judgment, by QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.

The Vision of Judgment, by QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.

                                                   
                                                    THE 
                                                 LIBERAL.

                                                    No. I.

                               __________________

                              THE VISION OF JUDGMENT,

                              BY QUEVEDO⁽¹⁾  REDIVIVUS.

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF

                                          “WAT TYLER.”(2)

                “A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!

              I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.”(3)

                            ___________________

                                               PREFACE.

       IT hath been wisely said, that “One fool makes many;”(4)

and it hath been poetically observed,

 

    “That fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” – Pope.(5)

 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no busi-

ness, and where he never was before, and never will be 

again, the following poem would not have been written. 

It is not impossible that it may be as good as his own, see-

ing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or 

acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, 

the renegado intolerance and impious cant of the poem by 

the author of Wat Tyler, are something so stupendous as to 

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form the sublime of himself—containing the quintessence of 

his own attributes.

       So much for his poem—a word on his preface. In this 

preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw 

the picture of a supposed “Satanic School,” the which he 

doth recommend to the notice of the legislature, thereby 

adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an infor-

mer. If there exists anywhere, excepting in his imagina-

tion, such a school, is he not sufficiently armed against it 

by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are 

certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have 

“talked of him; for they laughed consumedly.”(6)

       I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he 

is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual 

capacities, have done more good in the charities of life to 

their fellow-creatures in any one year, than Mr. Southey has 

done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; 

and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions 

to ask.

       1stly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler?

       2ndly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest 

Judge of his beloved England, because it was a blasphemous 

and seditious publication?

       3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Par-

liament, “a rancorous Renegado?”(7)

       4thly. Is he not Poet Laureate, with his own lines on Mar-

tin the Regicide staring him in the face?(8)

       And, 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, 

with what conscience dare he call the attention of the laws 

to the publications of others, be they what they may?

       I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its 

meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the 

motive, which is neither more nor less, than that Mr. S. has 

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been laughed at a little in some recent publications,(9) as he

was of yore in the “Anti-jacobin” by his present patrons.(10)

Hence all this “skimble scamble stuff” about “Satanic,” 

and so forth. However, it is worthy of him—“Qualis ab 

incepto.”

       If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opinions 

of a portion of the public, in the following poem, they may 

thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as 

he has written every thing else, for aught that the writer 

cared—had they been upon another subject. But to attempt 

to canonize a Monarch, who, whatever were his household 

virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king,—inas-

much as several years of his reign passed in war with 

America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon

France,—like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets 

opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in 

this new “Vision,” his public career will not be more favour-

ably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (al-

though a little expensive to the nation) there can be no 

doubt.

       With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I 

can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an 

honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert 

Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The 

way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals 

about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judg-

ment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would 

be something worse. I don’t think that there is much more 

to say at present.

                                                               QUVEDEDO REDIVIVUS.

       P.S.—It is possible that some readers may object, in 

these objectionable times, to the freedom with which saints, 

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angels, and spiritual persons, discourse in this “Vision.” 

But for precedents upon such points I must refer him to 

Fielding’s “Journey from this World to the next,”(11) and to

the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or trans-

lated.(12) The reader is also requested to observe, that no doc-

trinal tenets are insisted upon or discussed; that the person 

of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more 

than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper 

to make him talk, not “like a school divine,” but like the 

unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on 

the outside of Heaven; and Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, Pulci’s 

Morgante Maggiore, Swift’s Tale of a Tub, and the other 

works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom 

with which saints, &c. may be permitted to converse in 

works not intended to be serious.

                                                                                             Q. R.

       [^*_*^* Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, 

threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer.(13) It is to be hoped that

his visionary faculties will in the mean time have acquired a little more judg-

ment, properly so called: otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. 

These apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. 

Mr. Southey laudeth grievously “one Mr. Landor,” who cultivates much 

private renown in the shape of Latin verses; and not long ago, the Poet 

Laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the 

strength of a poem called Gebir.(14) Who would suppose, that in this same

Gebir, the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth 

into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of his friend Mr. 

Southey’s heaven,—yea, even George the Third! See also how personal 

Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of 

our late gracious Sovereign:—

          Prince Gebir having descended into(15) the infernal regions, the shades

       of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called up to his view, and he 

       exclaims to his ghostly guide)—

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          “Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch 

          Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow? 

          Listen! him yonder, who, bound down supine,

          Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung.

          He too among my ancestors! I hate

          The despot, but the dastard I despise. 

          Was he our countryman?”

                                                         “Alas, O King!

          Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst

          Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east.” 

          “He was a warrior then, nor fear’d the gods?” 

          “Gebir, he fear’d the Demons, not the Gods, 

          Though them indeed his daily face ador’d;

          And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 

          Squander’d, as stones to exercise a sling!

          And the tame cruelty and cold caprice—

          Oh madness of mankind! addrest, adored!”—Gebir, p. 28.(16)

    I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics(17) of Savagius, wishing to keep

the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper 

will suffer it; but certainly these teachers of “great moral lessons” are apt 

to be found in strange company.]

                                            ______________

                                        THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.

                                                              I.

 

SAINT Peter sat by the celestial gate,

   His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,

So little trouble had been given of late;

   Not that the place by any means was full, 

But since the Gallic era “eighty-eight,”

   The devils had ta’en a longer, stronger pull,

And “a pull altogether,” as they say

At sea—which drew most souls another way.

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                                                          II.

The angels all were singing out of tune,

   And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

   Or curb a runaway young star or two,

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 

   Broke out of bounds o’er the ethereal blue, 

Splitting some planet with its playful tail,

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

                                                        III.

The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 

   Finding their charges past all care below; 

Terrestrial business fill’d nought in the sky

   Save the recording angel’s black bureau; 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply

   With such rapidity of vice and woe,

That he had stripped off both his wings in quills,

And yet was in arrear of human ills.

                                                          IV.

His business so augmented of late years,

   That he was forced, against his will, no doubt,

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)

   For some resource to turn himself about,

And claim the help of his celestial peers,

   To aid him ere he should be quite worn out

By the increased demand for his remarks;

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

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                                                          V.

This was a handsome board—at least for heaven; 

   And yet they had even then enough to do,

So many conquerors’ cars were daily driven,

   So many kingdoms fitted up anew;

Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 

   Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,

They threw their pens down in divine disgust— 

The page was so besmear’d with blood and dust.

                                                          VI.

This by the way; ’tis not mine to record

   What angels shrink from: even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr’d,

   So surfeited with the infernal revel;

Though he himself had sharpen’d every sword, 

   It almost quench’d his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan’s sole good work deserves insertion— 

’Tis, that he has both generals(18) in reversion.)

                                                          VII.

Let’s skip a few short years of hollow peace,

   Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,

And heaven none—they form the tyrant’s lease

   With nothing but new names subscribed upon ’t;

’Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,

   “With seven heads and ten horns,”(19) and all in front,

Like Saint John’s foretold beast; but ours are born

Less formidable in the head than horn.

                                                           B

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                                                          VIII.

In the first year of freedom’s second dawn(20)

   Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 

   Left him nor mental nor external sun:

A better farmer(21) ne’er brush’d dew from lawn,

   A worse king never left a realm undone!(22)

He died—but left his subjects still behind,

One half as mad—and t’other no less blind.

                                                          IX.

He died!—his death made no great stir on earth; 

   His burial made some pomp; there was profusion

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

   Of aught but tears—save those shed by collusion; 

For these things may be bought at their true worth: 

   Of elegy there was the due infusion—

Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

                                                           X.

Form’d a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all

   The fools who flock’d to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse? The funeral

   Made the attraction, and the black the woe.

There throbb’d not there a thought which pierced the pall;

   And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem’d the mockery of hell to fold

The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

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                                                          XI.

So mix his body with the dust! It might

   Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight

   Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight

   What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million’s base unmummied clay— 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

                                                           XII.

He’s dead—and upper earth with him has done: 

   He’s buried; save the undertaker’s bill,

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone

   For him, unless he left a German will;(23)

But where’s the proctor who will ask his son? 

   In whom his qualities are reigning still, 

Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.(24)

                                                           XIII.

“God save the king!” It is a large economy 

   In God to save the like; but if he will

Be saving, all the better; for not one am I

   Of those who think damnation better still:

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I

   In this small hope of bettering future ill

By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,

The eternity of hell’s hot jurisdiction.

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                                                         XIV.

I know this is unpopular; I know

   ’Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn’d

For hoping no one else may e’er be so;

   I know my catechism; I know we are cramm’d 

With the best doctrines till we quite o’erflow;

   I know that all save England’s church have shamm’d, 

And that the other twice two hundred churches

And synagogues have made a damn’d bad purchase.

                                                          XV.

God help us all! God help me too! I am,

   God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to damn

   Than is to bring to land a late-hook’d fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;

   Not that I’m fit for such a noble dish 

As one day will be that immortal fry

Of almost every body born to die.

                                                         XVI.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,

   And nodded o’er his keys; when lo! there came 

A wond’rous noise he had not heard of late—

   A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;

In short, a roar of things extremely great,

   Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim;

But he, with first a start and then a wink,

Said, “There’s another star gone out, I think!”

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                                                         XVII.

But ere he could return to his repose,

   A cherub flapp’d his right wing o’er his eyes—

At which Saint Peter yawn’d, and rubb’d his nose: 

   “Saint porter,” said the Angel, “prithee rise!” 

Waving a goodly wing, which glow’d, as glows

   An earthly peacock’s tail, with heavenly dyes;

To which the Saint replied, “Well, what’s the matter? 

“Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?”

                                                         XVIII.

“No,” quoth the Cherub; “George the Third is dead.”

   “And who is George the Third?” replied the Apostle; 

“What George? what Third?” “The King of England,” said 

   The Angel. “Well! he wont(25) find kings to jostle

“Him on his way; but does he wear his head?(26)

   “Because the last we saw here had a tussle,

“And ne’er would have got into heaven’s good graces, 

“Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

                                                         XIX.

“He was, if I remember, king of France;

   “That head of his, which could not keep a crown 

“On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance

   “A claim to those of martyrs—like my own:

“If I had had my sword, as I had once

   “When I cut ears off,(27) I had cut him down;

“But having but my keys, and not my brand,

“I only knock’d his head from out his hand.

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                                                         XX.

“And then he set up such a headless howl,

   “That all the saints came out, and took him in; 

“And there he sits by St Paul, cheek by jowl; 

   “That fellow Paul—the parvenù!(28) The skin

“Of Saint Bartholomew,(29) which makes his cowl

   “In heaven, and upon earth redeem’d his sin

“So as to make a martyr, never sped

“Better than did this weak and wooden head.

                                                         XXI.

“But had it come up here upon its shoulders,

   “There would have been a different tale to tell: 

“The fellow feeling in the saints beholders 

   “Seems to have acted on them like a spell,

“And so this very foolish head heaven solders 

   “Back on its trunk: it may be very well,

“And seems the custom here to overthrow

“Whatever has been wisely done below.”

                                                         XXII.

The Angel answer’d, “Peter! do not pout; 

   “The king who comes has head and all entire, 

“And never knew much what it was about—

   “He did as doth the puppet—by its wire,

“And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 

   “My business and your own is not to inquire 

“Into such matters, but to mind our cue—

“Which is to act as we are bid to do.”

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                                                         XXIII.

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 

   Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,

Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

   Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 

Or Thames, or Tweed) and midst them an old man

   With an old soul, and both extremely blind,

Halted before the gate, and in his shroud

Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.

                                                         XXIV.

But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

   A Spirit of a different aspect waved

His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

   Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 

His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost;

   Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved

Eternal wrath on his immortal face,

And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

                                                         XXV.

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 

   Ne’er to be enter’d more by him or sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate,

   As made Saint Peter wish himself within;

He potter’d with his keys at a great rate, 

   And sweated through his apostolic skin:(30)

Of course his perspiration was but ichor,(31)

Or some such other spiritual liquor.

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                                                         XXVI.

The very cherubs huddled altogether,

   Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather,

   And form’d a circle like Orion’s belt

Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither 

   His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes(32) (for by many stories,

And true, we learn the angels all are Tories.)

                                                         XXVII.

As things were in this posture, the gate flew

   Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges

Flung over space an universal hue

   Of many-coloured flame, until its tinges

Reach’d even our speck of earth, and made a new 

   Aurora borealis spread its fringes

O’er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound, 

By Captain Parry’s crews, in “Melville’s Sound.”(33)

                                                         XXVIII.

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 

   A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 

   Victorious from some world-o’erthrowing fight: 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 

   With earthly likenesses, for here the night

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote,(34) or Bob Southey raving.

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                                                         XXIX.

’Twas the archangel Michael: all men know 

   The make of angels and archangels, since 

There’s scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 

   From the fiends’ leader to the angels’ prince.

There also are some altar-pieces, though

   I really can’t say that they much evince 

One’s inner notions of immortal spirits;

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.

                                                         XXX.

Michael flew forth in glory and in good; 

   A goodly work of him from whom all glory 

And good arise; the portal past—he stood; 

   Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary, 

(I say young, begging to be understood

   By looks, not years; and should be very sorry 

To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 

But merely that they seem’d a little sweeter.)

                                                         XXXI.

The cherubs and the saints bow’d down before 

   That arch-angelic Hierarch, the first

Of Essences angelical, who wore

   The aspect of a god; but this ne’er nurst

Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core

   No thought, save for his Maker’s service, durst 

Intrude, however glorified and high;

He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.

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                                                         XXXII.

He and the sombre silent Spirit met—

   They knew each other both for good and ill;

Such was their power, that neither could forget

   His former friend and future foe; but still

There was a high, immortal, proud regret

   In either’s eye, as if ’twere less their will

Than destiny to make the eternal years

Their date of war, and their “Champ Clos”(35) the spheres.

                                                         XXXIII.

But here they were in neutral space: we know 

   From Job,(36) that Sathan hath the power to pay

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;

   And that “the Sons of God,”(37) like those of clay,

Must keep him company; and we might show, 

   From the same book, in how polite a way

The dialogue is held between the Powers

Of Good and Evil—but ’twould take up hours.

                                                         XXXIV.

And this is not a theologic tract,

   To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic

If Job be allegory or a fact,(38)

   But a true narrative; and thus I pick

From out the whole but such and such an act 

   As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

’Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision.

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                                                         XXXV.

The spirits were in neutral space, before

   The gate of heaven; like eastern thresholds(39) is

The place where Death’s grand cause is argued o’er,

   And souls despatched to that world or to this;

And therefore Michael and the other wore

   A civil aspect: though they did not kiss,

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There passed a mutual glance of great politeness.

                                                         XXXVI.

The Archangel bowed, not like a modern beau, 

   But with a graceful Oriental bend,

Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

   The heart in good men is supposed to tend.(40)

He turned as to an equal, not too low,

   But kindly; Sathan met his ancient friend 

With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 

Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.

                                                         XXXVII.

He merely bent his diabolic brow

   An instant; and then raising it, he stood

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show

   Cause why King George by no means could or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from woe

   Eternal, more than other kings endued

With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 

Who long have “paved hell with their good intentions.”(41)

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[Page 16]

                                                         XXXVIII.

Michael began: “What wouldst thou with this man, 

   “Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill

“Hath he wrought since his mortal race began,

   “That thou can’st claim him? Speak! and do thy will, 

“If it be just: if in this earthly span

   “He hath been greatly failing to fulfil

“His duties as a king and mortal, say,

“And he is thine; if not, let him have way.”

                                                         XXXIX.

“Michael!” replied the Prince of Air,(42) “even here,

   “Before the gate of him thou servest, must

“I claim my subject; and will make appear 

   “That as he was my worshipper in dust,

“So shall he be in spirit, although dear

   “To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust

“Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne

“He reign’d o’er millions to serve me alone.

                                                         XL.

“Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was, 

   “Once, more thy master’s: but I triumph not 

“In this poor planet’s conquest, nor, alas!

   “Need he thou servest envy me my lot:

“With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 

   “In worship round him, he may have forgot 

“Yon weak creation of such paltry things;

“I think few worth damnation save their kings,

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[Page 17]

                                                         XLI.

“And these but as a kind of quit-rent,(43) to

   “Assert my right as lord; and even had

“I such an inclination, ’twere (as you

   “Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad, 

“That hell has nothing better left to do

   “Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad 

“And evil by their own internal curse,

“Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse.

                                                         XLII.

“Look to the earth, I said, and say again:

   “When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm, 

“Began in youth’s first bloom and flush to reign,

   “The world and he both wore a different form,

“And much of earth and all the watery plain

   “Of ocean call’d him king: through many a storm 

“His isles had floated on the abyss of Time;

“For the rough virtues chose them for their clime.

                                                         LXIII.(44)

“He came to his sceptre, young; he leaves it, old: 

   “Look to the state in which he found his realm, 

“And left it; and his annals too behold,

   “How to a minion first he gave the helm;(45)

“How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold,

   “The beggar’s vice, which can but overwhelm 

“The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance 

“Thine eye along America and France!

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[Page 18]

                                                         XLIV.

“’Tis true, he was a tool from first to last;

   “(I have the workmen safe);(46) but as a tool

“So let him be consumed! From out the past

   “Of ages, since mankind have known the rule

“Of monarchs—from the bloody rolls amass’d

   “Of sin and slaughter—from the Cæsar’s school,

“Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign

“More drench’d with gore, more cumber’d with the slain!

                                                         LXV.(47)

“He ever warr’d with freedom and the free:

   “Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 

“So that they utter’d the word ‘Liberty!’

   “Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose

“History was ever stain’d as his will be

   “With national and individual woes?

“I grant his household abstinence; I grant

“His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want;

                                                         XLVI.

“I know he was a constant consort; own 

   “He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

“All this is much, and most upon a throne;

   “As temperance, if at Apicius’ board,(48)

“Is more than at an anchorite’s supper(49) shown.

   “I grant him all the kindest can accord; 

“And this was well for him, but not for those

“Millions who found him what oppression chose.

---

[Page 19]

                                                         XLVII.

“The new world shook him off; the old yet groans 

   “Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

“Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones 

   “To all his vices, without what begot 

“Compassion for him—his tame virtues; drones 

   “Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

“A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

“Upon the throne of Earth; but let them quake!

                                                         XLVIII.

“Five millions of the primitive, who hold

   “The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

“A part of that vast all they held of old,—

   “Freedom to worship—not alone your Lord, 

“Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold 

   “Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr’d

“The foe to Catholic participation

“In all the licence of a Christian nation.(50)

                                                         XLIX.

“True! he allow’d them to pray God; but as

   “A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

“Which would have placed them upon the same base 

   “With those who did not hold the saints in awe.”

But here Saint Peter started from his place,

   And cried, “You may the prisoner withdraw:

“Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelf,(51)

“While I am guard, may I be damn’d myself!

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[Page 20]

                                                         L.

“Sooner will I with Cerberus(52) exchange

   “My office (and his is no sinecure)

“Than see this royal Bedlam(53) bigot range

   “The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!” 

“Saint!” replied Sathan, “you do dwell to avenge(54)

   “The wrongs he made your satellites endure;

“And if to this exchange you should be given,

“I’ll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven.”

                                                         LI.

Here Michael interposed: “Good saint! and devil! 

   “Pray not so fast; you both out-run discretion. 

“Saint Peter! you were want(55) to be more civil:

   “Sathan! excuse this warmth of his expression,

“And condescension to the vulgar’s level:

   “Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 

“Have you got more to say?”—“No!”— “If you please, 

“I’ll trouble you to call your witnesses.”

                                                         LII.

Then Sathan turn’d and wav’d his swarthy hand, 

   Which stirr’d with its electric qualities

Clouds farther off than we can understand, 

   Although we find him sometimes in our skies; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land

   In all the planets, and hell’s batteries

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Sathan’s most sublime inventions.

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[Page 21]

                                                         LIII.

This was a signal unto such damn’d souls 

   As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls

   Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls

   Of hell assigned; but where their inclination

Or business carries them in search of game,

They may range freely—being damn’d the same.

                                                         LIV.

They are proud of this—as very well they may, 

   It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins;(56) or like to an “entré”

   Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry:

I borrow my comparisons from clay,

   Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses;

We know their posts are nobler far than these.

                                                         LV.

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell,— 

   About ten million times the distance reckon’d

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell

   How much time it takes up, even to a second,

For every ray that travels to dispel

   The fogs of London; through which, dimly beacon’d, 

The weathercocks are gilt, some thrice a year,

If that the summer is not too severe:—

                                                         C

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[Page 22]

                                                         LVI.

I say that I can tell—’twas half a minute;

   I know the solar beams take up more time

Ere, pack’d up for their journey, they begin it;

   But then their telegraph(57) is less sublime,

And if they ran a race, they would not win it

   Gainst Sathan’s couriers bound for their own clime.

The sun takes up some years for every ray 

To reach its goal—the devil not half a day.

                                                         LVII.

Upon the verge of space, about the size

   Of half-a-crown,(58) a little speck appear’d,

(I’ve seen a something like it in the skies

   In the Ægean, ere a squall;) it near’d,

And, growing bigger, took another guise;

   Like an aërial ship it tack’d, and steer’d

Or was steer’d (I am doubtful of the grammar

Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer;—

                                                         LVIII.

But take your choice;) and then it grew a cloud,

   And so it was—a cloud of witnesses.(59)

But such a cloud! No land ere saw a crowd

   Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these; 

They shadow’d with their myriads space; their loud 

   And varied cries were like those of wild-geese, 

(If nations may be liken’d to a goose)

And realized the phrase of “hell broke loose.”

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[Page 23]

                                                         LVIX.(60)

Here crash’d a sturdy oath of stout John Bull,(61)

   Who damn’d away his eyes as heretofore:

There Paddy(62) brogued “by Jasus!”—“What’s your wull?”(63)

   The temperate Scot exclaim’d: the French ghost swore 

In certain terms I sha’nt translate in full,

   As the first coachman will; and midst the war(64)

The voice of Jonathan(65) was heard to express,

“Our President is going to war, I guess.”(66)

                                                         XL.(67)

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane; 

   In short, an universal shoal of shades

From Otaheite’s Isle(68) to Salisbury Plain,

   Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 

Ready to swear against the good king’s reign, 

   Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades:(69)

All summon’d by this grand “subpœna,”(70) to

Try if kings mayn’t be damn’d, like me or you.

                                                         LXI.

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 

   As angels can; next, like Italian twilight,

He turned all colours—as a peacock’s tail,

   Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale,

   Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue.

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[Page 24]

                                                         LXII.

Then he address’d himself to Sathan: “Why—

   “My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 

“Our different parties make us fight so shy,

   “I ne’er mistake you for a personal foe;

“Our difference is political, and I

   “Trust that, whatever may occur below,

“You know my great respect for you; and this

“Makes me regret whate’er you do amiss—

                                                         LXIII.

“Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse

   “My call for witnesses? I did not mean

“That you should half of earth and hell produce;

   “’Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 

“True testimonies are enough: we lose

   “Our time, nay, our eternity, between

“The accusation and defence: if we

“Hear both, ’twill stretch our immortality.”

                                                         LXIV.

Sathan replied, “To me the matter is

   “Indifferent, in a personal point of view:

“I can have fifty better souls than this

   “With far less trouble than we have gone through 

“Already; and I merely argued his

   “Late Majesty of Britain’s case with you

“Upon a point of form: you may dispose

“Of him; I’ve kings enough below, God knows!”

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[Page 25]

                                                         LXV.

Thus spoke the Demon (late call’d “multifaced”

   By multo-scribbling Southey.) “Then we’ll call 

“One or two persons of the myriads placed

   “Around our congress, and dispense with all

“The rest,” quoth Michael: “Who may be so graced 

   “As to speak first? there’s choice enough—who shall 

“It be?” Then Sathan answered, “There are many; 

“But you may choose Jack Wilkes(71) as well as any.”

                                                         LXVI.

A merry, cock-eyed, curious looking Sprite, 

   Upon the instant started from the throng,

Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite;

   For all the fashions of the flesh stick long

By people in the next world; where unite

   All the costumes since Adam’s, right or wrong, 

From Eve’s fig-leaf down to the petticoat,

Almost as scanty, of days less remote.

                                                         LXVII.

The Spirit look’d around upon the crowds

   Assembled, and exclaim’d, “My friends of all

“The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds; 

   “So let’s to business: why this general call?

“If those are freeholders(72) I see in shrouds,

   “And ’tis for an election that they bawl,

“Behold a candidate with unturn’d-coat!

“Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?”

---

[Page 26]

                                                         LXVIII.

“Sir,” replied Michael, “you mistake: these things 

   “Are of a former life, and what we do

“Above is more august; to judge of kings

   “Is the tribunal met; so now you know.”

“Then I presume those gentlemen with wings,”

   Said Wilkes, “are cherubs; and that soul below 

“Looks much like George the Third; but to my mind 

“A good deal older—Bless me! is he blind?”

                                                         LXIX.

“He is what you behold him, and his doom

   “Depends upon his deeds,” the Angel said.

“If you have ought to arraign in him, the tomb 

   “Gives licence to the humblest beggar’s head 

“To lift itself against the loftiest.”—“Some,”

   Said Wilkes, “don’t wait to see them laid in lead, 

“For such a liberty—and I, for one,

“Have told them what I thought beneath the sun.”

                                                         LXX.

“Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast

   “To urge against him,” said the Archangel. “Why,” 

Replied the Spirit, “since old scores are past,

   “Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I.

“Besides, I beat him hollow at the last,

   “With all his Lords and Commons: in the sky

“I don’t like ripping up old stories, since

“His conduct was but natural in a prince.

---

[Page 27]

                                                         LXXI.

“Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress

   “A poor unlucky devil without a shilling;

“But then I blame the man himself much less

   “Than Bute and Grafton,(73) and shall be unwilling

“To see him punish’d here for their excess,

   “Since they were both damn’d long ago, and still in

“Their place below; for me, I have forgiven,

“And vote his ‘habeas corpus’(74) into heaven.”

                                                         LXXII.

“Wilkes,” said the Devil, “I understand all this; 

   “You turn’d to half a courtier ere you died,

“And seem to think it would not be amiss

   “To grow a whole one on the other side

“Of Charon’s ferry(75); you forget that his

   “Reign is concluded; whatsoe’er betide,

“He won’t be sovereign more: you’ve lost your labour, 

“For at the best he will but be your neighbour.

                                                         LXXIII.

“However, I knew what to think of it,

   “When I beheld you in your jesting way

“Flitting and whispering round about the spit 

   “Where Belial,(76) upon duty for the day,

“With Fox’s lard was basting Wiliam Pitt,(77)

   “His pupil; I knew what to think, I say:

“That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills;

“I’ll have him gagg’d—’twas one of his own bills.

---

[Page 28]

                                                         LXXIV.

“Call Junius!”(78) From the crowd a Shadow stalk’d,

   And at the name there was a general squeeze,

So that the very ghosts no longer walk’d

   In comfort, at their own aërial ease,

But were all ramm’d, and jamm’d (but to be balk’d, 

   As we shall see) and jostled hands and knees, 

Like wind compress’d and pent within a bladder, 

Or like a human cholic, which is sadder.

                                                         LXXV.

The Shadow came! a tall, thin, gray-hair’d figure, 

   That look’d as it had been a shade on earth; 

Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour,

   But nought to mark its breeding or its birth:

Now it wax’d little, then again grew bigger, 

   With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed every instant—to what, none could say.

                                                         LXXVI.

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 

   Could they distinguish whose the features were; 

The Devil himself seem’d puzzled even to guess; 

   They varied like a dream—now here, now there; 

And several people swore from out the press,

   They knew him perfectly; and one could swear

He was his father; upon which another

Was sure he was his mother’s cousin’s brother:

---

[Page 29]

                                                         LXXVII.

Another, that he was a duke, or knight,

   An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,

A nabob,(79) a man-midwife; but the wight

   Mysterious changed his countenance at least

As oft as they their minds: though in full sight 

   He stood, the puzzle only was increased; 

The man was a phantasmagoria(80) in

Himself—he was so volatile and thin!

                                                         LXXVIII.

The moment that you had pronounced him one, 

   Presto! his face changed, and he was another; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 

   It varied, till I don’t think his own mother

(If that he had a mother) would her son

   Have known, he shifted so from one to t’other, 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task,

At this epistolary “iron mask.”(81)

                                                         LXXIX.

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem—

   “Three gentlemen at once,” (as sagely says

Good Mrs. Malaprop;)(82) then you might deem

   That he was not even one; now many rays

Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam

   Hid him from sight—like fogs on London days: 

Now Burke,(83) now Tooke,(84) he grew to people’s fancies,

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.(85)

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[Page 30]

                                                         LXXX.

I’ve an hypothesis—’tis quite my own; 

   I never let it out till now, for fear 

Of doing people harm about the throne, 

   And injuring some minister or peer

On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown; 

   It is—my gentle public, lend thine ear!

’Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call, 

Was really, truly, nobody at all.

                                                         LXXXI.

I don’t see wherefore letters should not be 

   Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads; and books we see

   Are fill’d as well without the latter too:

And really till we fix on somebody

   For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger’s mouth,(86) will bother

The world to say if there be mouth or author.

                                                         LXXXII.

“And who and what art thou?” the Archangel said. 

   “For that, you may consult my title-page,” 

Replied this mighty Shadow of a Shade:

   “If I have kept my secret half an age,

“I scarce shall tell it now.”—“Canst thou upbraid,” 

   Continued Michael, “George Rex, or allege 

“Aught further?” Junius answer’d, “You had better 

   “First ask him for his answer to my letter:(87)

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[Page 31]

                                                         LXXXIII.

“My charges upon record will outlast

   “The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.” 

“Repent’st thou not,” said Michael, “of some past 

   “Exaggeration? something which may doom 

“Thyself, if false, as him if true? Thou wast

   “Too bitter—is it not so? in thy gloom

“Of passion?” “Passion!” cried the Phantom dim, 

   “I loved my country, and I hated him.(88)

                                                         LXXXIV.

“What I have written, I have written: let

   “The rest be on his head or mine!” So spoke

Old “Nominis Umbra;”(89) and while speaking yet,

   Away he melted in celestial smoke.

Then Sathan said to Michael, “Don’t forget

   “To call George Washington,(90) and John Horne Tooke,(91)

“And Franklin:”(92)—but at this time there was heard

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr’d.

                                                         LXXXV.

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid

   Of cherubim appointed to that post,

The devil Asmodeus(93) to the circle made

   His way, and look’d as if his journey cost

Some trouble. When his burden down he laid,

“What’s this?” cried Michael; “why, ’tis not a ghost?”(94)

“I know it,” quoth the incubus;(95) “but he

“Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me.

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[Page 32]

                                                         LXXXVI.

“Confound the Renegado! I have sprain’d

   “My left wing, he’s so heavy; one would think 

“Some of his works about his neck were chain’d. 

   “But to the point: while hovering o’er the brink 

“Of Skiddaw(96) (where as usual it still rain’d),

   “I saw a taper, far below me, wink,

“And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel—

“No less on History than the Holy Bible.

                                                         LXXXVII.

“The former is the devil’s scripture, and

   “The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair 

“Belongs to all of us, you understand.

   “I snatch’d him up just as you see him there, 

“And brought him off for sentence out of hand: 

   “I’ve scarcely been ten minutes in the air— 

“At least a quarter it can hardly be:

“I dare say that his wife is still at tea.”

                                                         LXXXVIII.

Here Sathan said, “I know this man of old,

   “And have expected him for some time here;

“A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,

   “Or more conceited in his petty sphere:

“But surely it was not worth while to fold

   “Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear!

“We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

“With carriage) coming of his own accord.

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                                                         LXXXIX.

“But since he’s here, let’s see what he has done.” 

   “Done!” cried Asmodeus, “he anticipates 

“The very business you are now upon,

   “And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates.

“Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,

   “When such an ass as this, like Balaam’s, prates?”(97)

“Let’s hear,” quoth Michael, “what he has to say; 

“You know we’re bound to that in every way.”

                                                         XC.

Now the Bard, glad to get an audience, which 

   By no means often was his case below,

Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

   His voice into that awful note of woe

To all unhappy hearers within reach

   Of poets when the tide of rhyme’s in flow; 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter,

Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

                                                         XCI.

But ere the spavin’d dactyls could be spurr’d

   Into recitative, in great dismay

Both cherubim and seraphim were heard

   To murmur loudly through their long array;

And Michael rose ere he could get a word

   Of all his founder’d verses under way,

And cried, “For God’s sake stop, my friend! ’twere best—

“Non Di, non homines—”(98) you know the rest.”

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                                                         XCII.

A general bustle spread throughout the throng,

   Which seem’d to hold all verse in detestation;

The angels had of course enough of song

   When upon service; and the generation

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long

   Before, to profit by a new occasion;

The Monarch, mute till then, exclaim’d, “What! what!

“Pye come again?(99) No more—no more of that!”

                                                         XCIII.

The tumult grew, an universal cough

   Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,

When Castlereagh(100) has been up long enough,

   (Before he was first minister of state,

I mean—the slaves hear now;) some cried “off, off,”

   As at a farce; till grown quite desperate,

The Bard Saint Peter pray’d to interpose

(Himself an author)(101) only for his prose.

                                                         XCIV.

The varlet was not an ill-favour’d knave;

   A good deal like a vulture in the face,

With a hook nose and a hawk’s eye, which gave 

   A smart and sharper looking sort of grace

To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

   Was by no means so ugly as his case;

But that indeed was hopeless as can be,

Quite a poetic felony “de se.”(102)

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                                                         XCV.

Then Michael blew his trump, and still’d the noise 

   With one still greater, as is yet the mode

On earth besides; except some grumbling voice, 

   Which now and then will make a slight inroad 

Upon decorous silence, few will twice

   Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow’d;

And now the Bard could plead his own bad cause, 

With all the attitudes of self-applause.

                                                         XCVI.

He said—(I only give the heads)—he said,

   He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way 

Upon all topics; ’twas, besides, his bread,

   Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay

Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread) 

   And take up rather more time than a day,

To name his works—he would but cite a few— 

Wat Tyler—Rhymes on Blenheim—Waterloo.(103)

                                                         XCVII.

He had written praises of a regicide;(104)

   He had written praises of all kings whatever; 

He had written for republics far and wide,

   And then against them bitterer than ever; 

For pantisocracy(105) he once had cried

Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever;(106)

Then grew a hearty antijacobin—

Had turn’d his coat—and would have turn’d his skin.

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                                                         XCVIII.

He had sung against all battles, and again

   In their high praise and glory; he had call’d 

Reviewing* “the ungentle craft,” and then 

   Become as base a critic as ere(107) crawl’d—

Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men

   By whom his muse and morals had been maul’d:

He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 

And more of both than any body knows.

                                                         XCIX.

He had written Wesley’s life:(108)—here, turning round

   To Sathan, “Sir, I’m ready to write yours,

“In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,

   “With notes and preface, all that most allures 

“The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground

   “For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:

“So let me have the proper documents,

“That I may add you to my other saints.”

                                                         C.

Sathan bow’d, and was silent. “Well, if you, 

   “With amiable modesty, decline

“My offer, what says Michael? There are few

   “Whose memoirs could be render’d more divine. 

“Mine is a pen of all work; not so new

   “As it was once, but I would make you shine

“Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own

“Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

                              * See “Life of H. Kirke White.”(109)

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                                                         CI.

“But talking about trumpets, here’s my Vision! 

   “Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall 

“Judge with my judgment! and by my decision

   “Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall!

“I settle all these things by intuition,

   “Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all,

“Like King Alfonso!*(110) When I thus see double,

“I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.”

                                                         CII.

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no 

   Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints,

Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so

   He read the first three lines of the contents;

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show

   Had vanish’d, with variety of scents,

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,

Like lightning, off from his “melodious twang.”†(111)

                                                         CIII.

Those grand heroics acted as a spell:

   The angels stopp’d their ears and plied their pinions;

    * King Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, said, that “had he 

been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker

some absurdities.”

    † See Aubrey’s account of the apparition which disappeared “with a 

curious perfume and a melodious twang:” or see the Antiquary, Vol. I.

                                                         D

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[Page 38]

The devils ran howling, deafen’d, down to hell;

   The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions—

(For ’tis not yet decided where they dwell,

   And I leave every man to his opinions;)

Michael took refuge in his trump—but lo!

His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

                                                         CIV.

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known

   For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,

And at the fifth line knock’d the Poet down;

   Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,

Into his lake, for there he did not drown, 

   A different web being by the Destinies

Woven for the Laureate’s final wreath, whene’er 

Reform shall happen either here or there.

                                                         CV.

He first sunk to the bottom—like his works, 

   But soon rose to the surface—like himself; 

For all corrupted things are buoy’d, like corks*,

   By their own rottenness, light as an elf,

Or wisp that flits o’er a morass: he lurks,

   It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf,

In his own den, to scrawl some “Life” or “Vision,”

As Wellborn says—“the devil turn’d precisian.”(112)

    *A drowned body lies at the body till rotten; it then floats, as most people 

know.(113)

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                                                         CVI.

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion

   Of this true dream, the telescope is gone

Which kept my optics free from all delusion,

   And show’d me what I in my turn have shown:

All I saw farther in the last confusion,

   Was, that King George slipp’d into heaven for one; 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

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