The Intellectual Decline of a Liberal Unionist

by James Kenneth Stephen

Mr. ——— has long been known as an accomplished and courteous gentleman. He is a barrister, not unknown in the Royal Courts; he has a facile pen, always at the service of his friends, and at that of the editors of daily papers and monthly magazines; he has long earned a reasonable income, and has been a welcome guest at numerous dinner-tables; he is a model husband, and an indulgent father. Until the year 1885 all went well with him; but the Home Rule question upset him. Hitherto a mild and harmless Liberal, with no relish for the methods of some of his leaders, and not apt to go out of his way to look for political excitement, he suddenly developed into a Liberal Unionist of the deepest dye. The consequences were terrible. His briefs fell from him like scales, his popularity diminished, he neglected his private affairs, he became an anxious and harassed man. His contributions were declined with thanks. All of them, whether in prose or verse, dealt with a single theme, and dealt with it in a tone of bitterness and woe. We have a personal regard for poor ———, and, out of the sheaf of verses which he sent to The Reflector office, we tearfully select the following more or less degraded specimens. It is not as poems, but as specimens of intellectual decay, that they are printed:

1.—A GRAND OLD PIPE.

I have ceased to believe in the Leader
Whom I loved in the days of my youth;
Is he, or am I, the seceder?
It was hard to determine the truth.
But my enmity is not impassioned,
I'll forget and forgive if I can;
And I'm smoking a pipe which is fashioned
Like the face of the Grand Old Man.

It was made in the days when his collars
Were still of the usual size,
And before the recipients of dollars
Were known as his trusted allies;
And I love, as I lounge in the garden,
Or smoke at my chambers, to gaze
At the face of the master of Hawarden,
As he was in the Grand Old Days.

My pipe was my one consolation
When its antitype kindled the flame,
Which threatened the brave population
Of Ulster with ruin and shame.
I forgot that our ruler was dealing
With scamps of the Sheridan type,
While the true orange colour was stealing
O'er the face of my Grand Old Pipe.

Did his conduct grow ever absurder,
Till no remnant of reason seemed left?
Does he praise the professors of murder?
Does he preach the evangel of theft,
When he urges our eloquent neighbours
To keep other men's land in their gripe?
Grows he black in the face with his labours?
Well, so does my Grand Old Pipe.

For the sake of its excellent savour,
And the many sweet smokes of the past,
My pipe keeps its hold on my favour,
Though now it is blackening fast;
And, remembering how long he has striven,
And the merits he used to possess,
And his fall, let him now be forgiven,
Though he did make a Grand Old Mess.

2.—A TRIOLET.

Is a grand but eccentric old man
To be found in this commonplace year?
Mr. ———, deny it who can,
Is a grand but eccentric old man.
No age, since the ages began,
Was so dull as the present; but here
Is a grand but eccentric old man
To be found in this commonplace year.

The wretched man pursued his victim even to the death:

3.—AFTER GOLDSMITH.

When Age and Grandeur stoop to folly,
And find the masses can betray,
What art can reinstate the 'Brolly
Which once waved o'er us in the fray?
The only way to reawaken
The simple faith of days gone by,
To save the venerable Bacon
And win forgiveness, is to die.

Nay, he pursued him beyond that bourne from which no traveller returns:

4.—A PREMATURE EPITAPH.

We thought we should weep when the roll of the dead
Was swelled by the name of our glorious chief;
But his treason exhausted the tears we could shed,
And we heard of his death with a sigh of relief.

And to think that there is mere, much more, where this came from! Unhappy man!