The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
229
HIGH AND LOW; OR, HOW TO WRITE HISTORY.
SUGGESTED BY AN ARTICLE IN A REVIEW FROM THE PEN OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN WHICH ACCOUNTS ARE GIVEN OF MASSANIELLO AND THE DUKE OF GUISE.
“I noticed a deserted corpse that lay in a corner, with a label attached
to the breast. It was evidently one of the humblest citizens, and the
address was ‘Rue St. Antoine.’ Honour to whom it was due! The
Hampdens who saved Paris, and probably all France, from the paternal
ordonnances of his Most Christian Majesty, were the canaille of St.
Antoine, St. Denis, and St. Martin—men whom the chivalrous Sir
Walter Scott would term the ‘brutal populace of a great town.’ His
‘high-born and high-bred’ warriors never achieved a victory more
beneficial to mankind. The freedom not only of France, but of all
the Continent, was weighed in the balance against despotism, and
prevailed by the efforts of soiled and swarthy artisans.”
—Letter from Paris, in the Spectator.
That fisherman they talk of,—Massaniello,—
Was clearly, by his birth, a sorry fellow,
One of the raffs we shrink from in the street,
Wore an old hat, and went with naked feet;
Which made him fancy, the vain dog! he knew
More truths of poverty than I or you;
Felt more for people's wrongs; and loath'd to see 'em,
For pure starvation, forc'd to sing Te Deum.
[For all reform is vanity or will;
A modest man damns freedom, and sits still.]
Was clearly, by his birth, a sorry fellow,
One of the raffs we shrink from in the street,
Wore an old hat, and went with naked feet;
Which made him fancy, the vain dog! he knew
More truths of poverty than I or you;
Felt more for people's wrongs; and loath'd to see 'em,
For pure starvation, forc'd to sing Te Deum.
[For all reform is vanity or will;
A modest man damns freedom, and sits still.]
So up this foppish Fisherman arose,
Got the poor fed, and help'd himself to cloès,
And brought such wondering gallants to the block,
That writers for a court still feel the shock.
I cannot mention him myself, I own,
Nor paint the dread plebeian on his throne,
But fear must pelt his memory with a stone.
Got the poor fed, and help'd himself to cloès,
And brought such wondering gallants to the block,
That writers for a court still feel the shock.
I cannot mention him myself, I own,
Nor paint the dread plebeian on his throne,
But fear must pelt his memory with a stone.
But mark, ye vain reformers, and beware;
Sore ills beset this new Dictator's chair:
Sore ills, and sore disputes; conspiring lords,
Fear to do wrong, daggers, and bowls, and cords;
Till vex'd, and finding what a task he had,
And losing his nights' rest, the man went mad!
The people's head went mad! So dire a thing
It is, in men, to imitate a King!
Well,—being mad, of course he laid about him,
Till friends, like foes, were glad to do without him;
They kill'd him; kick'd his body, which was funny;
And lords, from out of windows, threw them money.
So much for shoeless, hatless Massaniello,
Meaning “Tom Lamb!” “Tom Lamb!!” Think of the fellow!!!
Sore ills beset this new Dictator's chair:
Sore ills, and sore disputes; conspiring lords,
Fear to do wrong, daggers, and bowls, and cords;
Till vex'd, and finding what a task he had,
And losing his nights' rest, the man went mad!
230
It is, in men, to imitate a King!
Well,—being mad, of course he laid about him,
Till friends, like foes, were glad to do without him;
They kill'd him; kick'd his body, which was funny;
And lords, from out of windows, threw them money.
So much for shoeless, hatless Massaniello,
Meaning “Tom Lamb!” “Tom Lamb!!” Think of the fellow!!!
On t'other hand, commend me to the ease
And noble bearing of the Duke of Guise!
High-born and hot, respectable of course,
And one that sat most gracefully his horse.
So great a soul was Guise, that “When,” said he,
“God makes a person of my quality,
He stamps a something on him, 'twixt the eyes,
At which the heart within a tradesman dies.”
[Reader, if this be hard to understand,
Vide some Duke,—for instance, Cumberland.]
This Duke, so proper to direct the poor,
Not getting to be master, curst and swore,
Kick'd the French flag, blasphem'd till he was hoarse,
And utter'd things (I'm loth to say it) coarse.
Something of this might possibly be true;
'Tis awful to reflect what rage can do;
But I suspect, that much of it was merely
A mode of venting his high mind sincerely;
Pure, sprightly oaths, and gentlemanly fire;
At least, th' accuser is a “vulgar friar.”
I grant the Duke of Guise thought no great things
Of a few stabs, and petty poisonings:
'Tis curious, now-a-days, when people scout 'em,
To see how quietly he talks about 'em:
But these were peccadilloes in those times,
Freaks of high birth, expediencies, no crimes:
Not like the vices of a low-born rabble,
Outcry, and want, and Famine's idiot babble.
Besides, “his situation forc'd” our hero
To be a bit of Bloody-bones and Nero,
A thing in mobs which never can take place;
And then 'twas in the blood of all his race;
And if their son, poor fellow, was no wiser,
The reason was, “he wanted an adviser.”
And noble bearing of the Duke of Guise!
High-born and hot, respectable of course,
And one that sat most gracefully his horse.
So great a soul was Guise, that “When,” said he,
“God makes a person of my quality,
He stamps a something on him, 'twixt the eyes,
At which the heart within a tradesman dies.”
[Reader, if this be hard to understand,
Vide some Duke,—for instance, Cumberland.]
This Duke, so proper to direct the poor,
Not getting to be master, curst and swore,
Kick'd the French flag, blasphem'd till he was hoarse,
And utter'd things (I'm loth to say it) coarse.
Something of this might possibly be true;
'Tis awful to reflect what rage can do;
But I suspect, that much of it was merely
A mode of venting his high mind sincerely;
Pure, sprightly oaths, and gentlemanly fire;
At least, th' accuser is a “vulgar friar.”
I grant the Duke of Guise thought no great things
Of a few stabs, and petty poisonings:
'Tis curious, now-a-days, when people scout 'em,
To see how quietly he talks about 'em:
But these were peccadilloes in those times,
Freaks of high birth, expediencies, no crimes:
Not like the vices of a low-born rabble,
Outcry, and want, and Famine's idiot babble.
Besides, “his situation forc'd” our hero
To be a bit of Bloody-bones and Nero,
231
And then 'twas in the blood of all his race;
And if their son, poor fellow, was no wiser,
The reason was, “he wanted an adviser.”
In short, give me, for a display of force,
A high-born, hacking blade upon a horse;
Who pummels the base many, that pretend
God made their skulls to any other end;
Not a low humanist, without a sou,
Who reads disgusting lessons to the few.
A high-born, hacking blade upon a horse;
Who pummels the base many, that pretend
God made their skulls to any other end;
Not a low humanist, without a sou,
Who reads disgusting lessons to the few.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |