Mr. Canning’s Humour
It has been sagaciously remarked in a paper in the National Review, No. 18, that “if Mr. Canning had not been a busy politician, he would probably have attained eminence as a writer. There must be extraordinary vitality in jokes and parodies, which after sixty or seventy years are almost as amusing as if their objects had not long since become obsolete.” We propose to string together a few of these pleasantries, collected from the above and other authentic sources.
It is related that Mr. Canning’s aunt on the anniversary of her birthday made presents to each of her relations: to Mr. Canning she once gave a piece of fustian, which produced from him the following stanzas, found in MS., a line wanting:—
“Whilst all on this auspicious day,
Well pleas’d their gratulations pay,
And sweetly smile, and softly say
A thousand pretty speeches;
My Muse her grateful tribute wings,
Nor scorn the lay her duty brings,
Tho’ humble be the theme she sings—
A pair of shooting breeches.
“Soon shall the tailor’s subtle art
Have fashion’d them in every part,
And made them snug, and neat, and smart,
With twenty thousand stitches;
Then mark the moral of my song,
Oh! may our lives but prove as strong,
And wear as well, and last as long,
As these, my shooting breeches.
“And when to ease the load of strife
Of public and of private life,
My fate shall bless me with a wife,
I seek not rank or riches;
But worth like thine, serene and gay,
And form’d like thine, to give away
Not wear herself the breeches.”
Among Canning’s playful rhymes will be remembered, in The Microcosm, Nos. 1, 11, and 12, those commencing,—
“The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts,” &c.
The continuation, which is less known, apparently contains some political allusions:—
“Ye Queen of Spades
Herself degrades
By dancing on the green;
Ye Knave stood by
In extacy,
Enamoured of ye Queen.
Ye King so brave
Says to the Knave,
‘I disapprove this dance;
You make more work
Than Mister Burke
Does with ye Queen of France.’”
The following is written as a variation:
“Ye Queen of Spades
She beat ye maids
For their immodesty;
Ye Knave of Spades
He kissed those maids,
Which made the Queen to cry.
Ye King then curst
That Knave who durst
Make Royalty shed tears;
‘Vile Knave,’ says he,
‘’Tis my decree
That you lose both your ears.’
“Ye Diamond Queen
Was one day seen
So drunk she could not stand;
Ye Diamond Knave
He blushed, and gave
Ye Queen a reprimand.
Ye King, distrest
That his dearest
Should do so vile a thing,
Says, ‘By my wig
She’s like ye pig
Of David, ye good king.’
“Ye Queen of Clubs
Made syllabubs;
Ye Knave came like Big Ben,
He snatched the cup
And drank it up—
His toast was, ‘Rights of men.’
With hands and eyes
That marked surprise
Ye King laments his fate:
‘Alas!’ says he,
‘I plainly see
Ye Knave’s a Democrate.’”
Mr. Canning used habitually to designate the selfish and officious Duke of Buckingham as the “Ph.D.,” an abbreviation which was understood to mean “the fat Duke.” That bulky potentate had cautioned him on the eve of his expected voyage to India, against the frigate in which he was to sail, on the ground that she was too low in the water. “I am much obliged to you,” he replies to Lord Morley, “for your report of the Duke of Buckingham’s caution respecting the Jupiter. Could you have the experiments made without the Duke of Buckingham on board? as that might make a difference.”
In a letter to Lord Granville, at a time when Prince Metternich was expected in Paris, he says, “You ask me what you shall say to Metternich. In the first place, you shall hear what I think of him; that he is the greatest r—— and l—— on the Continent, perhaps in the civilized world!”
Almost all the brilliant exceptions to the average trash of the Anti-Jacobin appear to belong to Canning; though, if the authority of the most recent editor may be trusted, the best stanza of the best poem was added to the original manuscript by Pitt.
“Sun, moon, and thou, vile world, adieu!
Which kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, I no more shall see the U-
niversity of Gottingen.”
Canning’s Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder is well remembered as witty ridicule of the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich; the Sapphic lines of Southey affording a tempting subject for ludicrous parody:—
“Friend of Humanity.
“Needy Knife-grinder? whither art thou going?
Rough is your road—your wheel is out of order.
Bleak blows the blast—your hat has got a hole in’t!
So have your breeches!
“Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissors to grind O!’
“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire, or parson of the parish,
Or the attorney?
“Was it the squire, for killing of his game, or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?
“(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told
Your pitiful story.
“Knife-grinder.
“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir.
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
“Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish
Stocks for a vagrant.
“I should be glad to drink your honour’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.
“Friend of Humanity.
“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d——d first—
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—
Sordid, unfeeling reprobate; degraded,
Spiritless outcast!
[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]
Again, the atrocious exaltation of the contemporary poet in the murder of Jean Bon St. André is still delightfully contagious:—
“’Twould have moved a Christian’s bowels
To hear the doubts he stated;
But the Moors they did as they were bid,
And strangled him while he prated.”
The exquisite polish of the Loves of the Triangles is enjoyed, while Darwin’s grave absurdities are only remembered in Miss Edgeworth’s admiring quotations, or by Lord Brougham’s fidelity to the literary prepossessions of his youth. It is remarkable that an author who in literature can only be considered as an amateur, should have possessed that rare accomplishment of style which is the first condition of durable reputation. The humour of Canning’s more ephemeral lampoons, as they exist in oral tradition, seems to have been not less admirable. When Mr. Whitbread said, or was supposed to say, in the House of Commons, that a certain day was memorable to him as the anniversary both of the establishment of his brewery and of the death of his father, the metrical version of his speech placed his sentiments in a more permanent form:—
“This day I will hail with a smile and a sigh,
For his beer with an e, and his bier with an i.”
Some of the diplomatic documents which have been published tend to justify the common opinion that Mr. Canning was liable to be misled by his facility of composition and his love of epigram. On one occasion, he wrote to Lord Granville, that he had forgotten to answer “the impudent request of the Pope,” for protection to his subjects against the Algerine corsairs. He replies, with more point than relevancy, “Why does not the Pope prohibit the African Slave Trade? It is carried on wholly by Roman Catholic powers, and by those among them who acknowledge most subserviently the power and authority of the court of Rome.... Tell my friend Macchi, that so long as any power whom the Pope can control, and does not, sends a slave-ship to Southern Africa, I have not the audacity to propose to Northern Africans to abstain from cruising for Roman domestics—indeed, I think them justified in doing so.” In a private conversation or a friendly letter, the fallacy of the tu quoque would have been forgotten in the appropriateness of the repartee; but in a question of serious business, the argument was absurd, and a diplomatic communication ought never to be insulting. There might be little practical danger in affronting the Pope; but Mr. Canning himself would have admitted, on reflection, that his witticism could by no possibility conduce to the suppression of the Slave Trade.
Here is a more playful instance of humorous correspondence. When Mr. Canning was forming his ministry, he offered Lord Lyndhurst the Chancellorship, though he had recently attacked the new Premier in a speech which was said to be borrowed from a hostile pamphlet, written by Dr. Philpotts, Bishop of Exeter. Canning offered Lord Lyndhurst the seals in a letter expressive of his goodwill, “pace Philpotti;” and the answer of acceptance was signed, “Yours ever, except for twenty-four hours.”
Mr. Canning had a faithful college servant, who became much attached to him. Francis, for such was his name, was always distinguished by his blunt honesty and his familiarity with his master. During his master’s early political career, Francis continued to live with him. Mr. Canning, whose love of fun was innate, used sometimes to play off his servant’s bluntness upon his right honourable friends. One of these, whose honours did not sit very easily upon him, had forgotten Francis, though often indebted to his kind offices at Oxford. Francis complained to Mr. Canning that Mr. W. did not speak to him. “Pooh!” said Mr. Canning, “it is all your fault; you should speak first: he thinks you proud. He dines here to-day—go up to him in the drawing-room, and congratulate him upon the post he has just got.” Francis was obedient. Surrounded by a splendid ministerial circle, Francis advanced to the distinguished statesman, with “How d’ye do, Mr. W. I hope you’re very well—I wish you joy of your luck, and hope your place will turn out a good thing.” The roar of course was universal. The same Francis afterwards obtained a comfortable berth in the Customs, through his kind master’s interest. He was a stanch Tory. During Queen Caroline’s trial, he met Mr. Canning in the street. “Well Francis, how are you?” said the statesman, who had just resigned his office, holding out his hand. “It is not well, Mr. Canning,” replied Francis, refusing the pledge of friendship—“It is not well, Mr. Canning, that you should say anything in favour of that ——.” “But, Francis, political differences should not separate old friends—give me your hand.” The sturdy politician at length consented to honour the ex-minister with a shake of forgiveness. It is said that Mr. Canning did not forget him when he returned to power.
Canning and Lord Eldon were, in many respects, “wide as the Poles asunder,” although they were in the same administration. Mr. Stapleton, in his George Canning and his Times, publishes a curious letter written in 1826 to Lord Eldon, who exhibited his unconcealed dislike to his brilliant and liberal colleague by steadily refusing to place any part of his vast patronage at his disposal. Complying with the importunity of Mr. Martin, of Galway, Mr. Canning formally transmitted a letter of application, reminding the Chancellor at the same time that in twenty-five years he had made four requests for appointments; “with one of which your lordship had the goodness to comply.” The letter was placed in the private secretary (Mr. Stapleton’s) hands, with directions to copy it and forward it immediately; but knowing the state of parties in the cabinet, and seeing that the letter had been written under the influence of irritation, Mr. Stapleton undertook the responsibility of keeping it back. A few hours afterwards, Mr. Stapleton said to Mr. Canning, “I have not sent your letter to old Eldon.” “Not sent it,” he angrily inquired; “and pray why not?” Mr. Stapleton replied, “Because I am sure that you ought to read it over again before you send it.” “What do you mean?” Mr. Canning sharply replied. “Go and get it.” Mr. Stapleton did as he was bid; Mr. Canning read it over, and then a smile of good-humour came over his countenance. “Well,” he said, “you are a good boy. You are quite right; don’t send it. I will write another.”
When his obstinate old enemy stood beside him at the Duke of York’s funeral, in St. George’s Chapel, Mr. Canning became uneasy at seeing the old man standing on the cold, bare pavement. Perhaps he was more uneasy because he knew he was unfriendly; so to prevent the cold damp of the stones from striking though his shoes, he made him lay down his cocked hat, and stand upon it; and when at last he got weary of so much standing, he put him in a niche of carved wood-work, where he was just able to stand upon wood. Unfortunately, although the tough old Chancellor was saved by his constitution and his hat, Mr. Canning’s health received, through the exposure to cold, a shock from which he never recovered. A few days afterwards he paid a last visit to Lord Liverpool, at Bath, and on the plea of entertaining Mr. Stapleton, as a young man, with the stories of their early years, they went on amusing each other by recounting all sorts of fun and adventure, which were evidently quite as entertaining to the old as to the young. The picture of the two time-worn ministers laughing over the scenes of their youth must have been a treat.
Sydney Smith ludicrously compared Canning in office to a fly in amber:—“Nobody cares about the fly; the only question is—How the devil did it get there? Nor do I attack him,” continues Sydney, “from the love of glory, but from the love of utility, as a burgomaster hunts a rat in a Dutch dyke, for fear it should flood a province. When he is jocular, he is strong; when he is serious, he is like Samson in a wig. Call him a legislator, a reasoner, and the conductor of the affairs of a great nation, and it seems to me as absurd as if a butterfly were to teach bees to make honey. That he is an extraordinary writer of small poetry, and a diner-out of the highest metre, I do most readily admit. After George Selwyn, and perhaps Tickell, there has been no such man for the last half-century.” Lord Brougham, however, asserts that Mr. Canning was not, by choice a diner-out.
Canning said of Grattan’s eloquence that, for the last two years, his public exhibitions were a complete failure, and that you saw all the mechanism of his oratory without its life. It was like lifting the flap of a barrel-organ, and seeing the wheels; you saw the skeleton of his sentences without the flesh on them; and were induced to think that what you had considered flashes, were merely primings kept ready for the occasion.
Lord Byron, in his Age of Bronze, thus characterises Canning:—
“Something may remain, perchance, to chime
With reason; and, what’s stranger still, with rhyme.
Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit,
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit,
And never, even in that dull house could tame
To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame.
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee—Tories do no more.
Nay, not so much; they hate thee, man, because
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes!”