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The Court of Chancery.
A Satirical Poem.
JAMES BLEWITT, late of Lincoln's Inn.

By REGINALD

THE object of this book is to embody in immortal verse the reflections of the author on every thing connected with the Chancery. He gives his opinions with equal freedom on the nature of equity in general—the men, the manners, and the proceedings of the court- the personal qualities and private habits of judges, officers, and bar-and comments with equal harshness on the limited expenditure of Lord Eldon, the obesity of Master Stratford, and the country house of Mr. Agar. Those, therefore, who may happen to hear of the publication, are certainly justified in asking who Reginald James Blewitt, late of Lincoln's Inn, may be. We inquired accordingly, and have satisfied ourselves; though we must decline the task of satisfying our readers. We can merely permit ourselves to state, that he was once a practising solicitor; but whether he left his business or his business left him, we cannot venture to decide. He is, or lately was, residing in France, perhaps for his personal convenience, perhaps for the improvement of his property; both of which would very probably have been infringed upon had he been in England on the publication of his poem. It is a wretched attempt to versify abuse: dull prose, forced into couplets by transposing words, and tagging rhymes. "As a poet," says he, "I must throw myself upon the indulgence of the public."1 We do assure him that the public will not receive him in that character, though at the same time quite ready to believe that he has thrown into the work as much amusement as his poor abilities would furnish him with." But our readers had better judge for themselves, and we studiously select the cimens, which are the best adapted to convey a notion of his style. Names at full length we cannot copy, and it is wrong perhaps even to venture on initials.

spe

The following is Mr. B's opinion of one of the masters; a mild and gentlemanly comment, which would be quite clear and intelligible enough, if one could but make out, whether the gentleman alluded to is to be a bear or "a real ape."

Lo! waddling forth; in dignity of mien,
Corporeal Sd from his haunt is seen.
That bloated form and pompous belly scan;
In shape and wit a very alderman!

Those vulgar looks his vulgar manners stamp,
For knowledge he ne'er burns the midnight lamp
The sternest brute will sometimes kindness own,
Bend as you will, and S-- yet will frown;
Enrag'd, he fain would kill you with a look,
Ye weak of skull, beware the flying book.
Hence to the rocky woods, thou growling bear,
Hence to the woods, and deal out justice there.
Hence to the woods; but 'ere thou dost escape,
Send to supply thy loss a real ape.

The suitors scarce will of their lot complain,
If by the change some intellect they gain.
Like thee, in gestures may his rage be dealt;
Like thee, the luckless volumes he may pelt;

Each art expressive of the monkey tribe,

Well hast thou learnt their natures to imbibe !-p. 18.

The next passage is part of a brilliant and occasionally pathetic appeal to Lord Lyndhurst, who doubtless will profit by the warning.

Be Lord High Chancellor, if so you must,
But oh! resign some portion of thy trust-
Its various duties more attention claim
Than one weak head can muster for the same.

Young Peer, be wise, and if you court success,
Outdo your senior by attempting less.
His failure served great talents to produce;
But what is intellect if not of use?

Well could he coin a doubt, or problem make-
But slow to solve, and there was his mistake.
His brains were sound; but little good they did.
Like some rich jewel in dark cavern hid.
Quick was his mind each error to perceive; -

Much craft had those who could that mind deceive

A moment's thought would often shew a flaw,

Which those who look'd much deeper never saw. - p. 24, 25.

We next give an illustration of the author's mode of sketching the bar, whom he introduces with a most ingenious

turn.

Shake all the host together in a hat,

And take them singly forth, whose name is that?

H-t sallies forth-but why was he put there?
His judgeship merges all the barrister.
Long may he live that dignity to keep,

And slumber now, as once he lulled to sleep.
His name half serves my numbers to compose,
And turn dull poetry to duller prose.

Still might his long experience fit the place,

That Copley's sense without can never grace.-p. 51,

-e

Another name? 'tis thine impetuous H-
With fiery temper, and with looks of scorn.
But little read, or else of feeble brain,
That can but little at a time contain.
Prolix of speech, but course and unrefin’d,-
Thou hast no symptom of the cultur'd mind.
Thy words, like water roaring down a rock,
Astonish all, whose nerves can bear the shock;
Both rise in mists, and end at last in foam,
Thus savage nature feels with thee at home!
Far, far from me be eloquence so grand;
I like to hear, and hearing understand,
Not race thy tongue thro' all its barren track,

*

52.

But stop my ears, for fear the drum should crack.—p. 57.

Next R -e and B-th their names display;

The last sedate, the first perhaps too gay.

This in astuteness, that excels in sense,

Matur'd by thought, and labour more intense.
The one with head erect and measur'd stride,
The pink of glory, and the pearl of pride ;-
Seems as ambitious of a taller form,
Or sick of herding with each brother worm.
That dormant eye and inexpressive cheek
But little promise in the other speak,—
In fact not much has either to admire,

Tho' each may hope to set the Thames on fire.
If little R- can make the waters blaze,
Be mine the wonder, and be his the praise.

Should plodding B

obtain the start,

His head is deeper than his looks impart. -p. 63, 64.

We are bound to say that he can praise occasionally; but few, we fancy, will wish for his commendation. Here, however, it is deservedly though most clumsily bestowed.

?

From realms of darkness let us turn to light--
But where, if not to thee, ingenious K-
An able draftsman, and a speaker bold,

By prudence guided, ne'er by fear controlled,
To clients faithful, not to foes unjust,

In better hands his suit could no one trust.
By honour urg'd, thou wilt not facts conceal,
But with strong argument their force repeal.
Thus truth is ever to thy speech attached,
Nor hopeless cause by blund'ring falsehood patch'd.
With whom can doubt on safer grounds advise?
Tho' young in years, so prematurely wise. p. 67.

On that branch of the profession which he once pursued, six lines contain the substance of his thoughts, and are introduced as felicitously as usual.

But why thus hunt a subject off its legs?
I do but teach my grandam to suck eggs:
An art attornies practice far too well,—
Yoke, white, their own-a client takes the shell.
What if he grumble, theirs has been the toil,
With profit scarce to make the kettle boil.

A porter's lot would suit them better far;
No anxious cares his peaceful dream can mar;
While their reward for nightly want of ease,
Just adds a pint of ale to bread and cheese.

Conveyancers might well feel hurt, were they to suspect themselves of being neglected by an individual so discriminating as Mr. B.; and we are glad, therefore, to be able to declare, that he brings them in with particular distinction, with an image which a Spenser might have envied; and minutely analyses the most distinguished of their class.

See from the dust a novel creature spring,
The serpent's nature with an eagle's wing!
With tooth so sharp, and pow'r to soar as high
Thro' all the pathless realms of sophistry!
Conveyancer! so call'd, because his art

Can change and motion to estates impart!—p. 74.

But these have had their day; and P-
——now
Assumes the sway with dictatorial brow.

And who is he? from whence? and what his claim
To be inscrib'd upon the rolls of fame?

In Devon born, he duly serv'd his time,
That long five years' apprenticeship to crime-
Which at the desk he spent without a bribe,-
The ready copyist, and the unsullen scribe.
From Shepherd's Touchstone next he drew a source
Of knowledge useful for his future course;
Thence did he learn each deed with curious eye,
To scan by practice of anatomy:

As surgeons carefully dissect the heart,
To gain experience of each inward part.
Thus plodding on, while greater talents slept,
He and his doctrines into notice crept.
But novelty is past; and, like the worm,
That, for a time, has ta'en some brighter form,
Turns to the grub again, when life is gone;
So P -'s glory into air hath flown.
See in his chamber, where yon mirror hangs!
'Tis there he studies for his court harangues:
Harangues, whereby he seldom gains a cause,

Yet never fails to win his own applause. —p. 77, 78.

And this forsooth is the writer who begs pardon "as a poet;" who gravely tells his readers, that "his principal objects have been truth and consistency; and presumes to assert, that he has always been honest in commendation, and never severe without reason.' Consistent undoubtedly he is; there, at least, his book will not dishonour him; it is quite in keeping with itself, and we know nothing in modern literature to match it, except perhaps the Puffiad. As there are no symptoms of a second edition, we hope and trust that it has failed in one object at least, the recruiting the finances of the author; but were ten thousand copies at this moment circulating, our opinion of its merits would be the same. The dullness of calumny is in some sort redeemable by venom: libels are caught at, though wholly destitute of cleverness; and we no more admire the man who shows up our acquaintance or contemporaries, though some amongst us may be amused by the attempt, than we should admire a scavenger who was pelting the same persons with dirt, though very possibly we should stop to laugh at them.

1 Preface.