The Press. — London, England, 1855-09-22 00:00:00

SEPT. 22, 1855. THE WHIG PARTY. This is the party by whose side " A Russell fell, a Sj dney died." How sad it is, Barrillon told The fact, that even they were sold ! This is the party whose pure votes Could rob St. John and pension Oates ; Could Burke's last hours with spite oppress. And sneer at Wellington's success. Its policy has been the same Since first it played the desperate game To fling the gage of discord down Between the People and the Crown ; The King a toy, the mob a tool, Both made subservient to Whig rule. As in the deep, a deeper pit Is found for sinking natures fit, And men expert in tumbling low Will never any bottom know (This truth Lord John can plainly show), The Whigs have made, through thirst of place, Their latest acts their worst disgrace. Some moons ago, not liking tricks With Continental politics, They hustled from their chosen ranks One known for " bottle-holding" pranks. But as we find that hungry brutes Their vomit to devour it suits, This rav'ning crew now load with shame Their little leader's once proud name, And hail with slaver and with shout The man they late conspired to scout. Full well they know he only rose By beating them, and not their foes. They bow their backs—it is their fate To have a leader whom they hate, Whose wriggling ways and crooked plan They follow out as best they can. But from this party not alone Is legislative talent flown. Gone, too, are all its witty sons With Moore's lampoons and " Sherry's " puns; And in their place poor Vernon strains With much ado his costive brains To get up rival jokes as good As are let off by playful Wood. There's Lewis, with his fluent tongue, Which, when it once has fairly rung, Can clear the House almost as well As can the waited dinner-bell. There's Granville, who, by talking late, Wields a new weapon in debate, His hearers puts in troubled doze, Then rides a nightmare on his foes. There's bashful Argyll, who can teach The bench of Bishops how to preach, And never crams to make a show Of telling what he does not know. There's brisk Panmure, whose Phoenix life From buried sloth springs up to strife, And just discovers that his soul Is fittest for the Marshal's role. There's Clarendon, who halts between His timid doubt and greedy spleen. And there is one who tries to ape The statesman's skill with wax and tape, With pert reply all minds to bore With office tricks and blue-book lore ; With speeches, like his long-drawn face, The flattest, dullest commonplace. Proud of his wants, he proves with pains He's void of feeling as of brains, And careless shoots a venom'd dart To pierce a parent's wounded heart. In all that's shabby, all that's base, There's one who gains the lowest place ; And, Peel ! of all this Whiggish crew, That lowest place is won by you. THE LINE NOT TO BE CROSSED. Est modus in rebus—sunt civil denique tines. Than is $ his impassable even to hsroes.—Viets Manifesto of tha Csar. Quoth the Czar to Gortechakoff, " Never heed the running off, There's a line, you see, no hero can pass." Quoth Gnrtschakoff, " Why, yes ! The Czar's quite right—l guess It's the line of British bayonets, alas !" E. A. Om Premier in his ancient days is being buttered by the Times. Some people, remembering the attacks in December '5l and '63, startled by this phenomenon, have inquired the cause. All that we can say is, " Lo(we) and be(h)old 1" THE DUKE OF ARGYLL AND THE GLASGOW DINNER. Where (by poetic licence) we may say The sun illuminates the western bay, And Inverary frowns upon the shore, There lives the scion of M'Callum More. Unlike the sun, he never deigns to shine ; Cold as his clime is yellow•haiied Argyll. The Western Highlands nursed the rising Whig, And now exulting Science claims the prig. Be it of stars, or Capricorn or Cancer, There is not a question that the Duke won't answer ; Brewster and Lyell, Murchison combine To buy the Duke at his own price, not mine. When every member prates of his pet ology The listeners learn the science of pathology ; But of all dullness which this body preaches Give me the Duke of Argyll's learned speeches. But yet methinks were themes that night might rouse Even that learned body's dull carouse ; For on that night the electric wire bore The news of victory to our Highland shore, And ere the Malakoff was clear of smoke On each exulting ear the cannon broke. Then even Commerce lingered on her way, And the pale lips told more than words can say ; Then the proud father felt the glow of fame, While faltering beauty trembled at each name. Surely at such a soul-inspiring hour An Argyll's spirit felt the kindred power, When every glass and heart alike were full To hear that one great word " Sebastopool !" At such an hour methinks a Whig might feel, Although that Whig were a Lord Privy Seal. Ah no, alas ! when an Argyll doth rise He feels no glow, no kindred sympathies. And thus they part, dimmed heart, duller eye. This the result of our great victory : The best result says the M'Callum More— 'Twill keep the Whigs in office one year more. THE PRESS. LITERARY NOTICE. LORD Joint RUSSELL continues his agreeable literary exercises. Tired with politics, rejected, indeed, as a political orange already oversucked, his only method of again circulating himself out will be in the candy of Letters. With the confiding fondness of his early youth, however, he remains faithful to the Whig poets. The extract we give this week is again an adoption of the words of Moore : EVELEEN'S BOWER. Oh weep for the hour When unto Indian Power Mr. Vernon Smith with all his dullness came ; The Moonshees hid their sight, And the Pundits all took flight, To weep their country's ruin and old England's shame. Soon their livelihood to earn These Pagans will return, And Smith seek the obscurity from whence ho came: But even Hull and Clay, Molesworth, Bernal, and Grey, Think we'd better have as President some ancient dame. The red tape lay On the broad railway That runs down to Wilts hire some sixty miles or more, And many public prints Give unmistaken hints That this worst of nominations lies at Lansdowne's door. Lord Clarendon's afraid, And even Wood's dismay'd, As they find that Public Purity is nothing but a myth ; And the House in gneral prove, With snore and wink and shove, That stupidity's synonymous with Vernon Smith. Q• CLASSICAL AND APPROPRIATE. (FROM THE M, " COURT CIRCULAR.") THZ splendid project of the Right Honourable Commissioner of Woods and Forests for securing his place by cutting a carriage road through the enclosure of St. James's Park, will be suitably com memorated by a statue (in cast-iron) of the Right Honourable Baronet. It will be placed on the bridge which is to span the orna mental water, with its face to the Pelee., and will bear the inure" tion, " Divide et Impera."