Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 422, December 1850

They've heaped the wood in order good,
And hid the powder well.
And Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,
Remarked with cheerful glee —
"The moon is bright – they'll fly by night!
Now, sirs, let's turn the key."

The wind without blew cold and stout,
As though it smelt of snow —
But was't the breeze that made the knees
Of Tresham tremble so?
With ready hand, at Guy's command,
He rolled the powder in;
But what's the cause that Tresham's jaws
Are chattering to the chin?
Nor wine nor beer his heart can cheer,
As in his chamber lone
He walks the plank with heavy clank,
And vents the frequent groan.
"Alack!" quoth he, "that this should be —
Alack, and well-a-day!
I had the hope to bring the Pope,
But in a different way.

"I'd risk a rope to bring the Pope
By gradual means and slow;
But Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,
Won't let me manage so.
That furious man has hatched a plan
That must undo us all;
He'd blow the Peers unto the spheres,
And throne the Cardinal!

"It's time I took from other book
Than his a saving leaf;
I'll do it – yes! I'll e'en confess,
Like many a conscious thief.
And on the whole, upon my soul,
As Garnet used to teach,
When human schemes are vain as dreams,
'Tis always best to peach!

"My mind's made up!" He drained the cup,
Then straightway sate him down,
Divulged the whole, whitewashed his soul,
And saved the British crown: —
Disclosed the walks of Guido Fawkes,
And swore, with pious aim,
That from the first he thought him cursed,
And still opined the same.

Poor Guido died, and Tresham eyed
His dangling corpse on high;
Yet no one durst reflect at first
On him who played the spy.
Did any want a Protestant,
As stiff as a rattan,
To rail at home 'gainst priests at Rome —
Why, Tresham was their man!

'Twas nothing though he'd kissed the Toe
Abroad in various ways,
Or managed rather that his wife's father
Should bear the blame and praise.
Yet somehow men, who knew him when
He wooed the Man of Sin,
Would slightly sneer, and whisper near,
Who rolled the powder in?

MORAL

If you, dear youth, are bent on truth
In these degenerate days,
And if you dare one hour to spare
For aught but "Roman Lays;"
If, shunning rhymes, you read the Times,
And search its columns through,
You'll find perhaps that Tresham's lapse
Is matched by something new.

Our champion John, with armour on,
Is ready now to stand
(For so we hope) against the Pope,
At least on English land.
'Gainst foreign rule and Roman bull
He'll fight, and surely win.
But – tarry yet – and don't forget
Who rolled the powder in!

A LECTURE ON JOURNALISM

BY AN OLD STAGER

And so, Dick my boy, you are now on the staff of "our Special Commissioners;" and you are going to favour the public with the results of your investigations on the subjects of native industry, free trade, wages, competition, and so forth? Well, it does good to the heart of an aged veteran of the press like myself, to see the sphere of our labours, as we used to call it, so capitally enlarged. It shows me that people are rapidly getting rid of a good many idiotical prejudices which stood in the way of social progress; and that they don't care from what quarter their information comes, so that it is properly spiced and made palatable to their taste. Upon my soul, Dick, and without any humbug, I almost envy you your present position. Two years ago when you came up to London, and were entered in the junior reporting department, you knew as much about political economy as you do of algebra, and would as soon have handled a red-hot poker as a volume of parliamentary returns. And now they tell me that you are the smartest hand going at statistics, and think no more of tossing off an article on the Currency at a quarter of an hour's notice, than my cook does of elaborating a pancake! Why, sir, you are a far greater man than a peer of the realm, or a member of the House of Commons. You are a whole committee in your own person, for you are going to take evidence, just wherever you please, and to report upon it too, without the remotest chance of contradiction. Help yourself, Dick, and pass the decanter. Here is your very good health, and prosperity to the Fourth Estate!

You intend to do your duty manfully and impartially? Of course, Dick, you do. Nobody who has the pleasure of your acquaintance can doubt it. Your virility is beyond all dispute, and how can you be otherwise than impartial when you are writing up your own side? You are not much of a lawyer, perhaps, but common sense will suggest the first plain rules for leading evidence. Your employers want to show that everybody is prospering under the cheerful influences of free trade. They don't, of course, care twopence halfpenny whether their dogma is right or wrong: they are committed to it, and that is enough. They give you a certain allowance per week – I hope, by the way, it is a handsome one – to prosecute your inquiries, and they intend that the results shall be such as to justify their general assertion. And no doubt they will justify it, Dick; for I say, and I care not who knows it, that a cleverer, sharper, more acute and knowing dog than yourself never dipped goose-quill into a standish. You need not blush at the compliment. Was it not you who wrote that leader last week, recommending the agriculturists to regulate their operations on the same principle which is followed in the factories, and to look to short and speedy returns as the best means of making money? Ha, ha, ha! Dick – that certainly was a masterpiece! How the poor devils of chaw-bacons must have stared when they heard you gravely recommending them to raise three or four consecutive crops in the year, to turn the seasons topsy-turvy, and to sow in August that they might reap in January! No wonder that they are angry, for the best of the joke is, that a number of people believed you. The Cockneys have got it into their heads that wheat can be grown by machinery, and I, for one, shan't be in any hurry to disabuse them. If I were you, I would give them another leader or two in the same strain, insisting of course that the agriculturists are a pack of infernal asses, who don't understand the first principles of their own trade, and that Mechi, the razor-man, is their only creditable apostle.

Never mind though it may be necessary for you soon to eat in your own words. Between you and me, Dick – but don't let it go any farther – I have been of opinion for some time back that Free-trade is a total delusion. It may be bolstered up for a little longer, but it can't by possibility last our time. There was too much lying and pulling and quackery and braggadocio at the outset. I told Cobden so, at the time when he was descanting upon the blessings of the cheap loaf, but he would have his own way, and in his very next speech proposed to lay Manchester alongside of the Mississippi! I said the same thing to M'Gregor, but he would not be deterred from promising his hearers an additional two millions per week. And a pretty kettle of fish he has made of it! I am told that he dares not venture to show his face in the Gorbals. You see, Dick, all that nonsense is telling confoundedly against us just now. Wheat is down to zero, in so far as the profits of cultivation are concerned. The farmers are wellnigh ruined – that is plain beyond the power of contradiction, and in the course of another year they will be utterly and effectually spouted. The artisans are beginning to find out that cheap foreign bread means less labour and lowered wages, and they complain that they are driven to the wall by the free importation of foreign goods. If that notion once seizes hold of their minds – and it is doing so rapidly – it won't be long before they begin a tremendous agitation on the other side. Yes, Dick; the Protectionists were right after all, and in the long run they will carry their point with the general consent of the country. In the mean time, however, thanks to Sir Robert Peel, we have got into office, and we shall be consummate idiots if we don't make hay while the sun shines. You are doing capital service, Dick, by throwing dust in people's eyes. Keep it up as long as you can. Sneer at facts when you can't answer them; distort evidence boldly; laugh down the idea of retrogression; assume the existence of unexampled prosperity, in spite of every testimony to the contrary; assert even in the face of hostile elections and powerful gatherings, that the cause of Protection is dead and coffined – and the odds are that you may still induce a good many people to believe you. Stout averments, Dick, are capital things, and the broader you can make them the better. I would advise you, though, to be chary of statistics. They are dangerous weapons in the hands of the inexperienced, and you may chance to break your own head, whilst attempting to tomahawk your antagonist. But if you must use them, apply to me or Heavywet. We have a prime stock on hand, carefully prepared for service, and I think we could still put you up to a dodge or two. By the way, who wrote that song upon Heavywet? You know the one I mean, beginning with some such words as —

"All in my den, I cooper up the figure-list,