The crisis. Number XVII.

THE CRISIS. NUMBER XVII. CASCA's Epiſtle to Lord Mansfield. Uni aequres Virtuti atque ejus amicis To Virtue only juſt and Virtue's Friends. CAN you, my Lord, who ſerve deſpotic ends, Can you be "juſt to virtue and her friends?" To wanton murderers when did ſhe afford Protection yet, or alter a record? Say, does your callous ſoul receive no ſhock, When, conſcious, in the hall, you view the clock? Or can you fill profidious Scroges's place, Without a preſſage of your own diſgrace? Yes—Yes, to England's ſhame you're out of reach, And laugh at him who threatens to impeach. If Burke ſhould riſe, the farce no further goes; To one juſt aye, North brings ten impious no's. In youth, before diſſembling was your trade, To James libations on your knees you made: Not loyalty, but fear has ſheath'd your ſting; No Murray can be faithful to his King. From the black North in famiſh'd clans you ſwarm, And thawing, feel how Albion's ſun can warm; Your clime you change, your ſentiments retain; In Scotchmen treaſon is an innate ſtain; Like itch and ſcurvy in their blood it reigns; He who would cure it muſt exhauſt their veins. Once againſt rebels, 'twas your place to plead, Your mouth condemn'd, your ſoul approv'd the deed. Whilſt round your heart ſad diſappointment hung, Diſſimulation oil'd your treach'rous tongue. A Murray then (your brother too) was found In arms, in ſecret truſt, in duty bound, And principle (like yours) to aid a claim, Which you affected with a bluſh to name; A bluſh ill-acted;—to thy ghoſtly pale, (Index of guilt) ſoft nature lends no veil. No—we my lord diſdains to ſerve ends; She's "only juſt to virtue and her friends." On them ſhe ſmiles, on Chatham's cheek ſhe glows, When injur's children are aſſail'd like foes; When famine's call'd to aid the coward plan, And North compleats what Bute and you began. Periſh your names! your Thane in fear is fled, With ev'ry curſe but Scotland's on his head: In ſhade, but not (alas!) in death enſhrin'd, Whilſt you, his faithful proxy ſpeaks his mind; And (to weak George from ſoothing flatt'ry dear) Pour your Laird's poiſon in the royal ear. Why do your treach'rous actions ſhun the light? Why do back-ſtairs feel Mansfield's ſteps at night? To George your councils and yourſelf convey, Fraught with infection, in the face of day. Let not the royal cloſet's whiſper ſcreen, Your glorious works; but let your light be ſeen. Conduct, avow, enforce your patriot plans, Nor truſt their merits to ſubaltern clans. Tho' Bure abſconds, yet aid your joint deſign, Yourſelf, my Lord; and help to ſpring the mine. Whilſt Grafton, Sandwich, Denbig, North ſtand forth, And to aſtoniſh'd ears proclaim their worth; Whilſt, with rank nonſenſe, Suffolk, Pomfret, dare, Without a bluſh, to make Plebeians ſtare; Why, when your ſov'reign's pleas'd by law to kill, Step not you forth to gild the deſp'rate pill? 'Tis decent, ſure, ſo penſion'd, plac'd and brib'd, To recommend the doſe you have preſcrib'd, But fear, my lord, mean, abject fear, ſtill gives A check—in you a lurking traitor lives; The worſt of traitors—you have ſenſe to ſee Fair Freedom's charms, yet blaſt the ſoul that's free. Early and late, inceſſant in your pains, For brave America you forge vile chains. Yet meanly, in your houſe or court take root, When you ſhould ſpeak as deputy to Bute. He ſtill lies hid; perhaps at Clapham lurks, Whilſt you and Apſley carry on the works. To grant a nation's claim each houſe is loth, But you have repreſentatives in both. Strangely abſurd!—yet this we know and ſee; This truth ſubdu'd your modeſt member Leigh. The man had ſenſe, and felt his own diſgrace, How well an Aſton wou'd ſupply his place! So repreſented, with ſuch leaders too, (North—George—obſequious to your Lordſhip's Cue.) This war againſt ourſelves will ſoon be won, Odious America be ſoon undone. Remonſtrances are vain, Bute won't relax, But ſternly bids North lay another tax. The tax of death, by bayonet and ball; But famine is the hardeſt tax of all. From Scotland, could that thought derive its ſource? Where is ſharp famine felt with greater force? In all the horrors there the fiend's array'd; There her ſhrunk hand for ever chills the blade. There with lank ſides, the meagre cattle moan; Their keeper aſks for bread and gets a ſtone. From this diſtreſs yourſelf and Bute ſoon fled, Yet pour it's plagues upon a nation's head. By vileſt means, my Lord, you ſeek vile ends; Thus are you "juſt to virtue and her friends." In all your ſtrokes a maſter's hand appears: Stand forth, claim all your praiſe, and baniſh fears. If conſcience dictates every ill you do, Frankly expoſe the knave you hide, to view. Plebeians ſcorn—to gain your King'-applauſe, Like baſe De Burgo, fawn and reſt the laws. Deſpiſe what faithful hiſtory ſhall ſay; Full in your Zenith now, enjoy your day; Tho' in times annals your foul name ſhou'd ruſt, Whilſt Fame to Hoit's erects a laſting buſt. He had no Smythe; no bias he had ſhown, But dragg'd aſſaſſins from behind the throne. Guardian of England's laws he gave 'em ſway, And held them forth for ſovereign's to obey. Againſt the people's rights he took no part, But judg'd, and counſell'd with an honeſt heart. Prerogative (unpenſion'd and unbrib'd) He kept within the bounds that law preſcrib'd, By freedom's ſide he firmly took his ſtand, Yet held the balance with an equal hand. Of that fair plant he cheriſh'd ev'ry ſhoot, And, with a parent's fondneſs nurs'd the root. His name, whilſt law endures, ſhall live in praiſe; Aſby and White, no Mansfield can eraſe. But you, my Lord, to infamy ſtill true, Indulge your King's caprice in all you do. If citizens their humble plaints expreſs, You bid him ſpurn the May'r, and his addreſs. With pleaſantry your ſov'reign's heat aſſwage, And arm him for the horned cattle's rage. Inſtruct him how to ſpeak, to ſneer and frown, To try if tricks will bear a city down: To be aſtoniſh'd that one voice ſhou'd ſue To turn a tyrant from his bloody-view. Death is the word—let looſe the dogs of prey; Burgoyne's the man, my lord; encreaſe his pay. Your heart's well known; your voice attention draws Ariſe and vindicate your maſter's cauſe. In art ſupreme, in perfidy not weak, Show baſhful Lordlings what it is to ſpeak. Let not ſuch fools as Suffolk, when they riſe, Without a word of Engliſh, ſnatch the prize. Shall Peers, whoſe infamy is ſcarce half-blown, Vaunt Mansfield's ſchemes, as if they were his own; In language, which no grammar e'er equipp'd, Language, for which a ſchool-boy wou'd be whip'd? No.—Be yourſelf, my Lord, and unconfin'd, Aſſert your right of ruining mankind. Break forth in all your Ciceronian blaze, And let your front no more than heart amaze. Equal in private and in public ſhine, And dare to be another Cataline. Shou'd galling Junius make a new attack, (Whoſe laſhes ſtill are flagrant on your back,) The libeller by ſome ſtate blood-hound trace, And let him feel the terrors of your place. Grafton in friendſhip ſome ſure ſnare will lay, As friend, and ſpy, he'll join him and betray. If precedent injuſtice can anoint, John Wilkes's caſe; will be a caſe in point. Then, make the ſenate ring; like Pomfret rave; And ſcorn by penſion'd proxies to enſlave. "Pomfret!—there's weight in what ſuch heads adviſe; "Madmen in council are to me a prize. "Since Smith is dead, Pomfret may be endured: "We looſe a vote, ſhou'd the poor man be cur'd. "Beſides, he ſpeaks—in ſentiments unites, "He ſometimes raves and ſtares, but never bites." "Granted, my Lord"—but yet (unknown to yield, As your troops are) why don't you take the field In perſon? Clear ſuſpicions, doubts diſpell: No Lord contrives, abetts, or ſpeaks ſo well. Does virtuous Camden talk your ſpirit down, Or Chatham awe you with a Roman frown? When patriot Rockingham, or Richmond riſe, Does Freedom's ray annoy your dazzled eyes? Does Shelburne's boldneſs ſhake your daſtard ſoul? Or Temple's perſeverance want controul? Can you, with forces ſo well paid, and fed, Deſpond, unleſs your thane is at your head? Can you, his ſtaunch lieutenant colonel, fail In ſenate, as in council, to prevail? Or is your courage check'd in it's career, Becauſe you've loſt five thouſand pounds a year? Long in commiſſion you had kept the ſeals; Three Judges moving on your Lordſhip's wheels: Their mouths pronounc'd, but your's preſcrib'd the law; Thus have we kings and judges too, of ſtraw. If ten ſuch learn'd triumvirates as that, With all their law will ſcarce make half a Pratt; Who can behold (and not with rage be ſtirr'd) A Praetor ſliver'd from the weakeſt third? This thought of yours my lord, your pow'r enſures, The weaker the man is, the more he's yours. In council, court, and parliament we ſee Your faithful ſhadow moves as you decree; Witneſs the cauſe of Thickneſs againſt Leigh. This project ſhows your Machiavelian ſkill, You're ſpeaker thus (and more than ſpeaker) ſtill. Profoundly politic in all you do, Thus are you chancellor and ſpeaker too. Yet, when you can foreſee an hard fought day, Like Falſtaff, from your poſt you ſneak away. The riſque your rag-o-muffin bands may ſhare: You (like your thane) make ſelf your deareſt care. Boldly you counſel underneath the roſe; But fly the conflict when the armies cloſe. A war of reaſon gives your lordſhip pain: Virtue alone ſuch conflicts can ſuſtain. Too free, too pure, to ſerve oppreſſion's end, She can't miſtake a Mansfield for a friend. Some few hard fronts can ſtand the ſhock of ſteel, But none the thunder of the public weal. Ev'n Jove himſelf, great Jove, can't bear reproach. Nor paſs without a pannic in his coach, When to North's ſmuggled parliament he rides, The God betraying what the Stoic hides. Fain would he ſmile—ſhrill hoots his muſcles check, Then how he wiſhes England had one neck! At ev'ry hiſs he feels a conſcious ſtart, And groans re-echo'd pierce his tyrant-heart; A heart, in infancy too ſoon enſur'd: To ſlight thoſe ills his people have endur'd; Harden'd by female inſolence and pride; To Bute entruſted as it's only guide, A guide to what? not to the people's love, (The ſafeſt ground on which a King can move) Nor to the path of honour, truth, or fame, In which our Edwards won a glorious name; Not, with diſcernment, to enforce the laws, Or yield to ſubjects in a righteous cauſe; To aid the juſt, to ſooth the giddy throng, And wiſely to diſtinguiſh right from wrong; To temper juſtice with an even hand, And drive corruption from a ſinking land; But train'd (alas!) to act the meaneſt part, To ſpeak a language foreign to his heart. To promiſe more than Britons ever heard, Truſting to have his ſacred lies rever'd; To ſet his honour and his ſoul to ſale, As water falſe, as courtly ſunſhine frail; In theory well ſchool'd; in practice taught To be the ſad reverſe of what he ought. Honour and faith in falſhood's ſtream he laves, And toils to make a freeborn people ſlaves. Not ſo our great Deliverer ſought renown, He knew from whom, and why he had the crown. But now, the globe and ſcepter's held for ſhow, Bute, ſays that craft is all a king ſhould know; Quotes bright examples from each Stuart's reign; To ſuch a ſcholar not one hint's in vain. A juſt petition's anſwer'd with a ſneer; And to ſecure his point he drops a tear. Unhappy York! too fickle to reſiſt! Alas! thy death encreas'd the tyrants liſt! Not to be won by all that ſenſe could try, You fell by water from the weakeſt eye! If hypocrites and murd'rers, who ſhall dare To excuſe that guilt, which bare-fac'd thanks declare When harmleſs lives were loſt, and Rome was burn'd, Nero, in form his grateful thanks return'd, Happy to have a cool, obedient Scot Perform his bloody orders to a jot; Happy to find two more ſo bravely warm'd, So hot for blood, to ſtab one youth unarm'd. O! when in Britiſh annals ſhall this blot, Of ſanguinary power be forgot! Never whilſt brave America can feel The ſenſe of wrongs, or the redreſs of ſteel: Never whilſt liberty and right divine, Mark the vile Stuart from the Brunſwick line Behold! what Bute's long-labour'd culture brings, A King of patches! and a ſhame to Kings! A baby! who is honour'd till he thinks That water ſacred, which a monarch drinks. Taught that the height of piety's to kneel, He ſays his pray'rs, and bids the vulgar feel. Let meaner ſouls relent, forgive, forget; Such weakneſs ne'er diſgrac'd a Stuart yet. No—let the ſlave that thwarts us be undone, Long live the mother in the tyrant ſon! Thus lectures Bute,—and this advice embrac'd; All ſenſe of virtue in the bud's effac'd, How ſhould kings ſee in infancy made blind? Whoſe manhood's watch'd, whoſe knowledge is confin'd? To whom no page in hiſtory's revealed, But were they find the ſubject's cauſe appeal'd To heav'n?—this tame redreſs Carte's volumes teach Theſe George may read—theſe Bute and Mansfield preach. True to his truſt, the Thane his taſk begun, He pleaſed the mother, and he dup'd the ſon. Taught him to fly above the legal ſphere, And by ſad Charles's ſtar his courſe to ſteer; To bear no counſel, no ſage hint, no guide, But think all ſubjects born for kings to ride; By famine brave reſiſtance to entomb, And (with Macbeth) to "leap the life to come," To wait no tide, attend no riſing gale, But raſhly ſpread prerogative's full ſail; To heed no ſubject in his bold careers, But paſſive penſioners and rotten peers. To ſpare no life, if poignant fatyr ſtrikes; To plan the death of him he moſt diſlikes; Waiting impatient for the ſetting ſun, To hear good news from Martin and from Dun. To give in jeſt a coronation pledge, Nor think an oath more ſacred than a wedge. Alas! that off'ring ſhou'd ſuggeſt a thought, That charity by former kings was wrought; That, from the royal cradle to the grave, The trueſt piety's to guard and ſave. Such acts as theſe to crown a luſtre lend; This, Mansfield, this is being "Virtue's friend." But, when deſtruction is a king's command, And death gains paſſports from the royal hand; When carnage is the word—when gen'rous Gage, Dreads that his name ſhou'd blot the hiſtoric page, And, with a tenderneſs his Prince will blame, Shrink from rank murder and eternal ſhame; When conſcience and remorſe from court is flown, Nor dare ſolicit a deſpotic throne; All muſt be ſlaves till ſpirit ſhall return, To fire thoſe boſoms where it us'd to burn; 'Till we conſider names far leſs than things, Nor care from what ſound ſtem we take our Kings, Till ſcepter'd pride is taught to bleſs the hand That calls her to protect a gen'rous land; Is taught that Britiſh monarchs owe their ſtate, To thoſe who can depoſe them or create; Provok'd, inſult'd, ſpurn'd, can ſpare, or try; Or throw with ſcorn their royal creature by. Bute! Mansfield! theſe are doctrines which appear, Horrid and harſh to your diſtemper'd ear; But there will come a time when you ſhall rue That e'er you counſel'd with a heart untrue: When from thoſe counſels deadly fueds ſhall riſe To force a tear unfeign'd from George's eyes. Truth ev'n on Kings in that ſad hour attends: Charles found, at laſt, his people were his friends; To notions, falſe as friends, he bid adieu; Theſe had deceiv'd; the block ſpoke plain but true. Ne'er may a Brunſwick taſte ſuch bitter fruit, But leave the axe to Mansfield, North, and Bute. Theſe lines inſpired by Churchill's laurel'd ſhade, I write, unknown, unpatronized, unpaid: Proud of my honeſt muſe, by chance has cropp'd One ſlow'r from that fair wreath which Churchill dropp'd. Let Johnſon toil for hire, with falſehoods pleaſe; (North's fiat feeds, and dubbs him with degrees.) His be the ſhame, the gen'rous tranſport mine, To goad a villain's heart at ev'ry line. Diſdaining pidlers, who for flowrets roam, Like Brutus rough, I'll plant the dagger home. Tyrants and traitors Caſca ne'er forgives: Tremble fuch monſters whilſt that Caſca lives. The blaſt he blows their guilty ſouls ſhall ſhock, And drive them to perdition and the block.