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THE

CRISIS

NUMBER XVII	To be continued Weekly.
SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1775	[Price Two-pence Half-penny.

Casca’s Epistle to LORD MANSFIELD.

* Uni æqures 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† Murders 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 perfidious ||Scroges’s place,

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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 farther 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 wou’d 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 Disappointmant 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—She, my Lord, disdains to serve base Ends;

She’s “only just to Virtue and her Friends.”

On them She smiles, on CHATHAM’S Cheek she glows,

When injur’d Children are assail’d like Foes;

When Famine’s call’d to aid the coward-plan,

And North completes what Bute and You began.

Perish your Names!—your Thane in fear is fled,

With ev’ry Curse, but Scotland’s, on his Head;

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In Shade, but not (alas!) in Death enshrin’d,

Whilst you, his faithful Proxy, speak 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’ Bute absconds, yet aid your Joint-design,

Yourself, my Lord; and help to spring the Mine.

Whilst Grafton, Sandwich, Denbigh, 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 guild 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 Traytor lives;

The worst of Traytors—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.

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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 Bute and yourself 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’s applause,

Like base ‡De Burgo, fawn and wrest the Laws.

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Dispise 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 Holt’s erects 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 Sovereigns 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 prescrb’d,

By Freedom’s side he firmly took his stand,

Yet held the Ballance 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;

Ashby 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.

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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 Perfidity 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 whipp’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:

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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 dispel:

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 Prætor †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;

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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)

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Nor to the Path of Honour, Truth, or Fame,

In which our Edward’s 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 Briton’s ever hear’d,

Trusting to have his †sacred Lyes 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 toil’s to make a freeborn People Slaves.

Not so our great ‡ Deliver’r 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!

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If *Hypocrites are 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 this corrupt and bloody Reign

Shall Furnish a Record of Slaves and Slain.

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 humour’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 shou’d King’s see in infancy made blind?

Whose Manhood’s watch’d, whose Knowledge is confin’d?

To whom no page in History’s reveal’d,

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But where they find the Subject’s Cause appeal’d

To Heav’n?—this same Redress Carte’s Volumes teach;

These George may read—these Bute and Mansfield preach.

True to his trust the Thane his task begun;

He pleas’d 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 King’s 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 Satyr strikes;

To Plan the Death of him he most dislikes;

Waiting impatient for the setting Sun,

To hear good news from †Martyn 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 Crowns a Lustre lend;

This, Mansfield, this is being “Virtues 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 th’historic Page,

And, with a Tenderness his Prince will blame,

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Shrinks from rank Murder, and eternal Shame;

When Conscience and Remorse from Court is flown,

Nor dare sollicit 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 counsell’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, inspir’d by CHURCHILL’S laurell’d Shade,

I write, unknown, unpatronized, unpaid:

Proud, if my honest Muse, by chance, has cropp’d

One Flow’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 FLOWRET’S roam,

Like BRUTUS, ROUGH, I’ll plant the Dagger HOME.

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TYRANTS and TRAYTORS CASCA ne’er forgives;

Tremble SUCH Monsters whilst that CASCA lives.

The Blasts he blows their GUILTY Souls shall shock,

And drive them to PERDITION and the BLOCK.

Printed and published for the Authors, by T. W. SHAW, in Fleet-Street, opposite Anderton’s Coffee House, where Letters to the Publisher will be thankfully received.