1830.] The Club-Room. .41 



But the plague which has fallen but partially on the Spanish peasant, 

 hidden in iiis valleys, and accessible only through mountains and tracts 

 of desert ; has worked its full effect on the Italian, lying open to the 

 thickest effluvia of monkish corruption, under the very grasp of Rome, 

 and incapable of escape from the eye or the extortion of popery, unless 

 he escape into the forests, take a leaf from the priest's book, and, like 

 him, live on the public. Happy country ! where the only virtues of their 

 ancestors live in the bosom of banditti ! 



Mummy. Where's Mulgrave's son now ? Writing an edition of the 

 Statutes at large? or a History of England during the Phipps' 

 dynasty ? Did he not once move an Address ? 



Flourish. Yes once, before he knew whether he was Whig or Tory. 

 To make sure of all sides of the House for he had the Mulgrave prin- 

 ciple strongly within him, green as he was he got old Burdett to 

 write the sketch of the speech ; Melbourne, then a neutral, to fill it up ; 

 and Canning to correct it. The thing was of course applauded, for every 

 man recognized a piece of himself, and admired it accordingly. Mul- 

 grave was in raptures, for he was the farthest of any from discovering 

 the secret ; and his only fear was that the hope of his house would be 

 tempted by this success, to rushing into the arms of party, before he had 

 time 



Pillage. Yes. Do you not recollect the Whig joke ? that Mulgrave 

 must have looked upon Normanby's exploit with the same sort of terror 

 and wonder that makes a hen, which has hatched a brood of ducks, flutter 

 and cackle, as she sees them take their first plunge into the parish pond. 

 Where's Normanby now ? 



Flourish. I forget the person and the place, equally ; probably 

 somewhere on the " velvet banks of Arno ;" or gazing on the " blue 

 sea ;" or inhaling the " blue breeze ;" or writing sonnets to the " blue 

 hills ;" or enamoured of the " blue moon/' 



Moon twice as big as that which deigns to smile 

 On the dull wretches of our swampy isle. 

 Moon that works sonnets in jackass's brains, 

 Sharing the reader's with the writer's pains ; 

 Moon that disdains to look on Britain's boors ; 

 But plays the go-between to rogues and . 



Pillage. Why, Flourish, you excel yourself to-night. Is the story 

 aoout the champagne true ? I think I discover the laureat of that 

 celebrated dispenser of good things at the Opera House door. 



Flourish.. No. There my muse gives way to more potent inspira- 

 tion, or rather to an assemblage of inspirations. Luttrell and Nugent 

 are presumed to be the permanent bards ; but, on extraordinary occa- 

 sions, Alvanley is whispered. In fact, all the Marquis's friends are 

 set down for contributions. 



Jonathan Wild. Then, you believe the report of Hertford's casting 

 the sunshine of his face on the concern. I wonder what they would 

 ask for a share. 



Pillage. Then you must lose no time ; for a fit of prudence has 

 seized the Marquis. The Piccadilly house has been turned into pounds 

 sterling. The Tuscan villa, that stare of the Sunday promenaders of 

 the Regent's Park, with its indescribable back-fronts, and brick um^ 

 brellas, its gilded balls, and all its gew-gaws, is going to be shut up; 



M.M. New Series. VOL. IX. No. 49. G 



