Whig and Tory. my view of the subject is correct, and that you will be induced to change that language, which, I must confess, gives me pain. You and your friends, the votaries of the incomparable Maga, all agree in calling yourselves Tories! I positively deny that you have any right or claim to this obnoxious appellation. What is a Tory? Consult history;-examine their tenets-scrutinize their doctrines. Do they agree with you in any one point except in an opposition to the Whigs; and when I say the Whigs, I consider your abhorrence of that clamorous corps, as confined to the modern Whigs, whom Burke has well demonstrated to be utterly unlike their ancient predecessors. They bear the same name, indeed, but they have no more resemblance to each other than there is between Alexander the Great, and Alexander the smith; the character of the Whigs of copperthe nineteenth century, is no more that of the patriots who effected the glorious Revolution of 1688, than Lords Somers, Godolphin, and their compeers, were copies of the sour covenanters of the North, from whom the term was originally borrowed, and thrown in the face of the friends of freedom by their slavish adversaries. As a retort courteous, the Liberals of those days (they will pardon me for using a word which is at this moment in bad odour) bestowed on their opponents the nick-name of Tory, which belonged to a savage horde of Irish banditti, the genuine prototype of those wretches who, in the present time, harass that unhappy country by their nocturnal murthers and conflagrations. This, good Mr North, is not a title to be proud of, though persons of respectability have been willing to be thus characterised, in opposition to the Whigs, without too nicely canvassing the origin and etymology of the name. But what was the political creed of the Tory faction at the era of 1688? Their distinguishing tenets consisted in a firm belief in the divine right of kings, a horror of opposition to regal authority, however tyrannically used, all which was to be submitted to with passive obedience; and resistance to the most arbitrary authority was strongly deprecated. These notions might be pardonable in men who had so recently suffered the overbearing despotism of unfeeling and cruel ReVOL. XIV. 667 publicans-of all tyranny the worst. Whilst such were their politics, in religion, although they did not entirely abandon the Reformed doctrines, or posed to look on the Church of Rome Church of England, they were supwith a partial eye, as its discipline was more favourable to subdue the feelings of freedom in the minds of its votaries, who were trained to a necessary degree of flexibility by the over-ruling influence of the priesthood. They could even overlook the intolerant bigotry of James, for the sake of obtifying quiescence of his absolute sway. taining, what was to them, the gra volution, were the very reverse of all The Whigs of the epoch of the Rethis:-Liberty was the great object of their care; but they had the good sense to see that the prerogative of the They knew that this essential weight crown was necessary to establish it. chine in order;-nothing less could was requisite to keep the whole marestrain the ambition of the aristocracy, and the turbulence of an emancipated people. With the greatest wisdom, they defined the duties, as well as the rights, of the governed, and of those who govern. They saw the connection between arbitrary power and Catholicism;-they set King William on the throne, and took effectual means to secure the Protestant ascendancy. these two parties, as they heretofore Having thus taken a rapid view of existed, let us see to which class Esquires North, Tickler, and Co. properly belong. Do we see, in their writings, a desire to invest the Sovereign with absolute power? Whilst they venerate and love our amiable Monarch, and whilst they record con amore all the homage of affectionate duty paid ring his visit to their fine metropolis, to him by his northern subjects duunder the wheels of the Idol of Torywe do not see them casting themselves ism, which, like the Indian JuggerDo we see them courting and flirting naut, crushes its devoted worshippers. with the old Lady of the seven hills, and attempting to bring her into rivalship with her reformed, but (by her) reprobated Daughter? No-Mr North, your sentiments and your arguments all savour of those which I have attributed to the Whigs of forfriends, Whigs, and have you been mer days. Are you then, my good 4 P talking the language of Whiggism as Moliere's Mons. Jourdan did prose all his days without knowing it? No, you are not Whigs-the name which was -honourable in King William's time, is so no longer. The adage, no less true than trite, will well apply here, Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis. The supporters of the throne are become more enlightened; they have seen the charms of liberty, and they are convinced of the danger of unlimited power even to the hand that wields it. They have actually taken post on the very ground occupied by the patriots of 1688; and their adversaries, for the mere sake of opposing them, have left their original station, and retired to the very confines of republicanism. Here they were met by a band of still fiercer foes, the Radical Reformers. These enthusiasts, with more or less affectation of adherence to the pure principles of the constitution, have evinced a determination to overturn every stone of that venerable fabric raised by the wisdom of our ancestors. Some of these innovators may be dupes; but the great mass of them shew, with little disguise, that their grand object is the plunder which must fall to the lot of the most daring amidst the general scramble. It cannot be denied, that these miscreants are the offspring of the Whigs. The wind of their breath in the inflammatory speeches in Parliament, in tavern dinners, and Palace-yard meetings, like the fabled impregnation of the classical mares, by the afflation of Zephyrus, has engendered these monsters. This Hippomanic progeny have a strong resemblance to their origin; but, like the religious sects which approach nearest to each other without actual coincidence, their repulsion is increased according to the ratio of approximation. But the parent and child are far from acknowledging their mutual affinity. The Whig, like Sa tan at the infernal gate, on beholding the hideous features of Anarchy and her brood, is ready to tell these terri fic spectres, I know ye not-nor ever saw till now Sight more detestable than them and thee— But the Radicals, more savage than Milton's hellish crew, stand firm and unreconciled to those who gave them being; satisfied that their own efforts will in time enable them to satiate their " immeasurable famine," they admit not these allies. Far be it from me to imagine, that you, the loyal supporters of the constitution, are to be classed with those unfortunate Whigs, who have deserted the principles of their predecessors, and are now rejected on all sides. Let them possess and enjoy their ancient appellation-it suits them well-it declares the stock from whence they sprung. But let the word Tory be erased from the political vocabulary of the present daylet this shadow of a name vanish with the doctrines which are now extinct, and which are, I believe, scouted by every Englishman. Divest yourself, my good Christopher, without delay, of this odious appellation; let it be no more heard under the social tent on the heath, or in the Ambrosian festivities of the Divan in Auld Reekie. Names are of much power in fixing the opinions of mankind. Not a few persons may be repelled from the instruction of your pages, because they hear that Christopher North is a Tory! If a distinguishing title is necessary to a true Briton, let one be found that will make manifest your real sentiments, unmixed with the slang of party. Be assured that such an adoption would be duly appreciated; it will raise you in the estimation of your contemporaries, and your name will then go down to remote posterity with a higher degree of honour. Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt. Believe me, dear Mr North, Your steady friend and admirer, SILURIENSIS. THE GRACES, OR LITERARY SOUVENIR." LONDON, at this period of the year, has but one literature. Ponderous theology, and light poetry, solemn dramas, and romances wilder than folly feigned in any preceding season, wait for Spring, and come out with Parliament, the new pantomime, and other habitual displays of that productive time. But the gloomy month of November, and the still gloomier month that "treads upon its kibe," are cheered by a whole carnival of minute volumes, recording the "days of the month," and the "months of the year," the shape of those bonnets and jupons which have hitherto given new beauty to the British fair; memorandums of all the innumerable elegancies necessary to the manufacture of the sex; quadrilles to be danced, shapes to be assumed, and attitudes to be imbibed, by all candidates for admiration in the year to come. How ever, all things go on in melius, and this year has produced some very pretty and ingenious attempts at turning the epidemic curiosity of Christmas into channels of instruction and intellectual amusement. Among those in the natural progress of improve ment, the last is to be presumed the best; and the work, whose title stands at the head of this article, strikes us as not merely the best in point of invention and decoration, but to be, from its original composition, the subjects of its poetry, and the tendency of its spirit, as strikingly deserving of a place in the library, as on the table of the drawing-room of fashion. The Germans, of all men the wisest in their literary generation, have led the way in this species of performance, and some of the greatest names that ever figured in German literature, have indulged their taste, and enhanced their reputation, by contributing to the Yearly Literary Pocket Books, and Souvenirs. Schiller's most vivid poems first found their way to popular applause through this avenue; Goethe, the idol of his countrymen, and undoubtedly a poet of singular genius, sent out some of his most beautiful tales and scattered conceptions on what he quaintly calls, The "Papillon Wings" of the "Taschen buch." Kotzebue, a writer of more dubious fame, though at the height of the lighter drama, often floated his lesser plays into the world on those wings; and, perhaps, on the whole, there is no portion of German authorship more popular, than those yearly records of its happy thoughts, and slighter sketches of vigorous design ;-those memorials of past beauty and promises of future attraction. Their productiveness as a mere speculation is evident from their number, their eager rivalry, and their increasing excellence; and our English neglect of so interesting a mode of authorship, is among the more striking instances of the tardiness with which ingenuity sometimes crosses the seas. The majority, however, of these German Souvenirs, have the stamp of their country rather too heavily laid upon them for our taste. Wisdom out of season, and prolixity that disdains an aid, solemn catalogues of names important to none but their possessors, and unwieldy labour of a reluctant and cloudy imagination, make the majority the weightiest performances that ever augmented the weight of a winter, between the Rhine and the Danube. But, unquestionably, all the good may be accessible without its counterpoise; and it might be difficult to limit the interest capable of being brought within the pages of an annual publication, expressly devoted to mingling the graceful and the useful; the attractive tale, the animated poetry, the dignity of moral thought, and the elegance of high life, and its captivating and brilliant recollections. "The Graces, or Literary Souvenir," aims at all these objects, and the mere mention of the heads of its portions, gives an idea of the variety and interest which it is the purpose of the volume to supply. Its first department is" The Months." Each month is described in poetry, and to this is appended, a Calendar of the Flower Garden, or directions for its cultivation in each month; we presume, a very acceptable species of informa • An Annual Pocket Volume. Hurst and Robinson. London. pp. 350. tion to the fair florists of our country. Its next head is a Spanish Tale of considerable length, a melancholy narrative, but one of remarkable beauty and nature. This is followed by occasional poetry, by various contributors; by new anecdotes of fashionable life, new and frequently amusing and characteristic; by poetry-and this again by an obituary of the more remarkable persons who have died during the year--Kemble, the political Bishop of Meath, Vaccination-Jenner, General Dumouriez, Lord St Vincent, Ricardo, &c. Nothing is more absurd than to suppose that we look with a fretful eye upon contemporary literature. On this point we will not condescend to argue. Our whole course has been one of cheering and congratulation, when we found anything worth being cheered, no matter what the thing was; whether the work of lukewarm Tory or of furious Whig; of those who wore down their quills in open and impotent insolence against us, or wrapped themselves in the cover of the Blue and Yellow, or within the involucra of the Speaker's gown, to indulge their malignant absurdity in safety. To us it was all the same; if we found an able article, we praised it straight forward; if we found a silly one, we never spared our opinion on the subject; and in the way that we have dealt, we will deal, as the only way in which honest literature, and honest men, can be sustained and honoured. Without further delay, we proceed to give some specimens from different parts of this Work, which, after all, will put our readers in a better condition to judge, than a dozen prefaces and dissertations. The following is from the series of "The Months." Than around thy social hearth, But, when all are wrapp'd in sleep. Every autumn leaf has fled, That has through thy portals gone! There are about fifty pages of anecdote and jeux-d'esprit, which form by no means the least interesting part of the work. They are almost entirely from the highest rank of society, and in some instances, by individuals whose wit has hitherto been but little known to the public. Talleyrand, whom we suppose to be meant under the name of the Minister, is, however, sufficiently acknowledged as one of the most fertile and subtle wits of the day; but the bon mots which we have attributed to him, are to us perfectly original. The following seems extremely piquant. "The late Fouche and T. had quarrelled. On their next meeting, M. de T.,' said Fouche, you need not triumph in your rank. Under an usurpation, the greatest scoundrel may be prime minister, if he please. How fortunate, then, for me, M. Fouche,' said T., ' that you condescended to be Minister of Police!'" An anecdote of Fox, at a time when declining life had taught him the more sober views of character, is interesting. He had now lost his old homage for our republican imperial neighbours. "In one of the latest days of Fox, the conversation turned on the comparative wisdom of the French and English character. The Frenchman,' it was observed, delights himself with the present; the Englishman makes himself anxious about the future. Is not the Frenchman the wiser' He may be the merrier,' said Fox; but did you ever hear of a savage who did not buy a mirror in preference to a telescope?" " The late Sir Philip Francis has not figured extensively as a diseur de bons mots; yet he was a powerful conversationist, practised in a remarkably keen and studied diction, and before the period when he sunk into a kind of eloquent dotage, was pungent almost beyond any man of his time. Though a declared Whig, he had felt himself ill used by the Whigs; and his sarcasms were let loose with no unfrequent bitterness against his party. The following anecdote seems to us one of the happiest instances imaginable of the whole embodied feeling of such a mind: "In a conversation on the merits of the successive ministers during the late war, it was observed, in dispraise of Pitt, that 'he suffered no man of talents in the cabinet, while some of his successors adopted a more liberal system.'' Sir,' said Sir P. Francis, in his peculiar style, ' I owed the living man no love; but I will not trample on any man in his coffin. Pitt could fear no antagonist, and therefore could want no auxiliary. Jackalls prey in packs! but who ever heard of a hunting party of lions!'" Sheridan's pleasantries are proverbial; but the following instance of his conversational sportiveness is new : "Sheridan used to say, that the life of a manager was like the life of the Ordinary of Newgate a constant superintendence of executions. The number of authors whom he was forced to extinguish, was,' he said, 6 a perpetual literary massacre, that made St Bartholomew's shrink in comparison. Play-writing, singly, accounted for the employment of that immense multitude who drain away obscure years beside the ink-stand, and haunt the streets with iron-moulded visages, and study-coloured clothes. It singly accounted for the rise of paper, which had exhausted the rags of England and Scotland, and had almost stripped off the last covering of Ireland. He had counted plays until calculation sank under the number; and every rejected play of them all seemed, like the clothes of a Spanish beggar, to turn into a living, restless, merciless, indefatigable progeny.' Some of these jeux d'esprit are said to be by an individual of the very highest rank, whose table-conversation has been greatly celebrated, but has, of course, seldom escaped from the circle in which it has been delivered. sional poetry. We give an ❝ InscripThose again are followed by occation" to a name which has not yet attained its due distinction among our "Tonitrua Belli." INSCRIPTION FOR PICTON'S CENOTAPH AT WATERLOO. "Dare Orbi quietem, seculo pacem suo. Weep not, though the hero's sleep What is life, to death like theirs? Heartless wishes,-weary years,— Follies fond and vain! Theirs a gasp of gallant breath On the wave, or on the heathMomentary pain! Not upon the sick'ning bed From their hallow'd mould;In the soldier's hour of pride,In the triumph, Picton died! The boldest of the bold. Where the famine, where the fight, Bloody day, and deadlier night, Wore host by host away; Where thy wild Sierra, Spain, Where thy pestilential plain, Were piled with proud decay |
