Volume 67 / Part 6 — THE PENITENT FREE-TRADER.

Tufnell! For the love of mercy,

Let me go for half an hour—

I’ll be back before that proser

Hath discussed the price of flour.

Don’t you hear, he’s just beginning

To investigate the rate

Of the Mecklenburg quotations,

Metage, lighterage, and freight?

Next, I know, he’ll pass to Dantzic,

With a glimpse at Rostock wheat—

I have seen the whole already

In his Economic sheet.

See! upon the backward benches

There reposes stealthy Peel—

Dreaming, doubtless, that he’s smothered

In an atmosphere of meal.

Palmerston’s recumbent yonder—

Hawes is sleeping by the door;

Even Russell’s tiny nostril

Quivers with a nascent snore.

Let me go—nay, do not hold me

So intensely by the coat;

I assure you, on my honour,

I’ll be back in time to vote.

Oh, the night-winds wander sweetly

O’er my hot and throbbing brow!

What a contrast is the moonlight

To the scene I left just now!

Let me walk a little onward

Underneath the budding trees,

Where the faint perfume is wafted

On the pinions of the breeze:

Overhead a thousand starlets

Glisten in the robe of night,

And the earth is wrapped in slumber

With a pure and calm delight.

By your leave, good Master Tufnell,

I shall stay a little here;

You have plenty noodles yonder

Who are safe enough to cheer

Wilson’s dunderhead discourses,

Or the cant of Labouchere!

What a dolt was I to credit

All these wild free-trading schemes!

Cobden’s calico predictions,

Porter’s importation dreams!

For I loathed the mean alliance,

Even when I chose to wheel

In the wake of him who led us,

Pinning foolish faith to Peel.

Was I mad, to place my honour

In this most disgusting fix?

Half the world was rather crazy

In the days of Forty-six.

O the happy times of premiums!

O the balmy touch of scrip!

Would that I had sold my bargains

Ere they had me on the hip!

Every day a new allotment

Promised shining heaps of gold;

Every day the mounting market

Swelled my hopes a hundredfold.

I remember old Sir Robert,

With his shirt-sleeves rolled on high,

Lust of speculation gleaming

In his gray and greedy eye;

Turning sods with silver shovel,

Celebrating that event

With a speech on competition

At the opening of the Trent.

I have dined with royal Hudson,

And may dine again, perhaps,

Should another exaltation

Follow on this drear collapse.

All had drunk the wine of gambling,

All had quaffed the share champagne,

Wisdom’s warnings were rejected,

Prudence preached to us in vain.

Madness, frenzy, lust of riches,

Reigned within the minds of all,

That, we thought, must answer Peter

Which had served the turn of Paul.

If, by scorning honest labour,

Men made fortunes in a trice,

What might be the luck of Britain,

Casting with Free-traders’ dice?

I am strongly of opinion—

Looking to my country’s good—

That I’ve stuck by him of Tamworth

Rather longer than I should.

As concerning next election,

I’ve received some pregnant hints,

Both from country correspondents,

And the leading public prints.

Cultivation’s at a discount,

Rents are very slowly paid:

Some aver that sly Sir Robert

Has contrived to coin his spade;

Neither is there much progression

In the wool and cotton trade.

What the deuce would men be after?

If those fellows had their will,

England would be straight converted

To a monstrous cotton-mill.

Everywhere would ghastly chimneys

Vomit forth their odious mist,

Settling, like the breath of Satan,

O’er this island of the blest;

When the only occupation

Would be spinning yarn and twist!

Spin away, my brave compatriots!

Spin as largely as you can;

Who shall dare to set a limit

To the sale of shirts for man?

Whilst the raw material’s granted,

Spin away with might and main;

Use the time that’s still vouchsafed you,

For it may not come again.

There’s a smartish kind of notion

Running in the Yankees’ head,

That they need not be indebted

To your kindness for their thread.

In the meanwhile go for cheapness,

Smite the farmers hip and thigh—

Making honest people bankrupt

Is the way to make them buy.

Starve the masses of the nation,

Drive them all into the mills;

Clear the plains and sweep the valleys,

Desolate the Highland hills.

Let the rough hard-fisted yeoman,

All too clumsy for the loom,

Migrate to the western prairies,

Where for labour still there’s room.

Let the peasant and the cottar

Quit the useless plough and spade—

Built for them are costly mansions,

Raised for them are rates in aid.

To the workhouse let them gather,

Or by theft attain the jail;

Honesty has bread and water,

Crime is fed on beef and ale.

O the glorious consummation

Of this truly Christian scheme,

Such as never saint or prophet

Witnessed in ecstatic dream!

Wasted fields and crowded cities,

Swarming streets and desert downs,

All the light of life concentred

In the focus of the towns!

Yea, exult, ye foes of England!

In the downfall of the race

That of yore, in fiery combat,

Met your fathers face to face:

For the pride of lusty manhood,

And the giant Saxon frame,

Never more shall be embattled

In the coming fields of fame;

Shrunken sinews, sallow faces,

Twisted limbs, and factory scars—

These shall mark your next opponents

In the European wars.

Not such yeomen as with Alfred

Won their freedom long ago—

Such as on the plain of Crecy

Triumphed o’er a worthy foe—

Such as drove invasion backward,

Have their homes in Britain now!

This at least our sons may utter,

Blushing for their fathers’ shame—

Brain me with a billy-roller,

If I longer play this game,

Either for the crimp of Tamworth,

Or his first lieutenant, Graham!

No, by Jove! I will not suffer

Degradation of the kind—

What care I for Johnny Russell,

With his hungry host behind?

Let them blunder on insanely,

Digging holes within the sand,

Thinking, like the stupid ostrich,

To escape the hunter’s hand.

Let them shirk the facts before them,

Comforting themselves the while,

That their Economic asses

Can the public ear beguile.

Lord! to hear the blockheads braying,

Spite of proof before their eyes—

“I assure the house,” quoth Wilson,

“Wheat must very shortly rise.

It was so-and-so at Dantzic

More than twenty years ago;

Therefore wait a little longer—

’Twill be up again, I know.”

Jolly Villiers, on the other

Hand, with exultation vows,

More than one-and-ninety millions

Have been plundered from the ploughs;

And he hopes before another

Year shall run its destined course,

To congratulate the public

That affairs are worse and worse.

I, for one, am sick and weary

Of these everlasting prigs;

Quite disgusted with the shuffling

Of the miserable Whigs;

With their impudent averments,

And their flagrant thimblerigs!

Hark, the midnight chimes! I fancy

The palaver’s nearly over:

For to-night let Johnny Russell

And his colleagues rest in clover.

But, upon the next occasion,

When there’s talk about a tax,

Whether it shall weigh on foreign

Or on native British backs,

Master Tufnell must excuse me,

If I seek another lobby

Than the one that’s now frequented

By my former chief, Sir Bobby!

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