The Amazoniad Or, Figure and Fashion: A Scuffle in High Life. With Notes Critical and Historical, Interspersed with Choice Anecdotes of Bon Ton. Second Edition, with Additions [by J. W. Croker] |
The Amazoniad | ||
CANTO V.
ARGUMENT.
SOLEMN invocation of Chance—Her supreme
power—Interlude of the Lady and the Doctor—The plot
thickens—Amazon of three tails, her prowess—She
leads her captives to visit the Dargle—The Jew and the
Justice, two other remarkable characters are introduced—Revenge
and Gormandize are gratified at
once—Feats of horsemanship—Final catastrophe approaches—The
pine apple—Eager longings of the ladies—Both
Philothemis and Dennira resolve to possess
this apple of Discord—Dennira, first lays hands
on it—Rage of Philothemis—She kills Dennira, and
Records thy wonders, and exalts thy praise.
Supreme disposer of this earthly ball,
At thy command the nations rise and fall.
Thy nod propitious human glory brings,
The sage's wisdom, and the pow'r of kings.
Thine influence first the dancing atoms drew,
And beauteous order from confusion grew.
And still, when factions rage, with mutual hate,
Thou bidst them join, and ministries create.
Thee chief the heaven-born minister ador'd,
Inspir'd by thee, he sheath'd, or drew the sword.
Inspir'd by wine and thee, in midnight gloom,
The Polar sov'reigns swore at Frederic's tomb.
They swore eternal friendship, nothing loth,
But left to thee fulfilment of their oath.
Crowns, mitres, laurels, in thy path lie strown,
Fame, pow'r, and wealth—ev'n virtues are thine own.
Gives rebel infamy, or patriot fame;
And, in a moment, hostile or benign,
Can halters, exile, or the seals assign.
Almighty Chance, thine empire all revere,
The prelate's lawn O---e and M---n wear,
The greatest sceptic must thy sway confess,
When place and pow'r a thing like N--- dress.
Sure, if my muse the future can survey,
Thou, Chance, shalt lead him on his devious way.
O'er his no-schemes thy wisdom shall preside,
His lavish prompt, or his retrenchment guide.
Confusion doubly shall his skill confound,
And Water-ford and Cork his praise resound.
And join with Y****s to mourn his ravish'd hair.
Not greater fury rag'd in Nisus' soul,
His purple lock when graceless Scylla stole.
A noise distinct the startled ear engag'd,
Pursuit and insult sounded in the rere.
Slender in form, and pallid to the view,
On legs of length a ghastly spectre flew.
A keeper meet he seem'd for Pharaoh's kine;
Or like the Prodigal, when tending swine.
A powerful dame pursued him, as he fled;
And cried for vengeance on his caitiff head.
No dame so meet for Amazonian praise,
Appear'd since Trulla, theme of Butler's lays.
In stature tall, and large of bone, she strode,
Like Tartar princess gorg'd with horses' blood,
Or gaunt as Hogress from her cruel treat,
With mangled parts of living men replete.
The phantom turning, oft his syringe plied,
In vain—the dame her puny foe defied.
A tiny tail, that dangled slim behind.
This late-born off'spring he had fed, for years,
With scented unguents, and the fat of bears.—
His Grace, in agriculture deeply read,
Had all manures employed upon this head.
From the nice beauty to the miry sow,
Each class of dung he tried to make it grow.
But vain had been the care of twenty lords,
The barren head a scanty crop affords.
Th' ungrateful soil just fifty hairs suppli'd,
With violet powder hoar, with ribband tied.
The dame observ'd—(the wish and pow'r to vex
Are the desire and patent of the sex.)
Poor stupid ignorants, untaught to bear
The mimick'd brogue, and ill-dissembled sneer,
Far from her haunts th' affrighted Irish roam,
And leave her ridicule, to prey at home.
Heav'n guard the viceroy from her wit say I!
An oath tremendous, by her beard, she swore,
This flimsy tail should wound her eyes no more.—
Now, with a demon's speed, and sheers in hand,
She chas'd the doctor thro' the martial band.
Not fatal Clotho makes a longer stretch,
To snip the thread of some expiring wretch.
And now she reach'd him with triumphant cries,
She seiz'd—she cropt—she bore away the prize.
Oh how his bowels yearn'd with grief and spite!
Not greater qualms could scammony excite.
He left the trophy to the victor lass,
And gave his griefs to the relenting grass.
Enrich'd with golden streams the grass appears,
And mourns his loss in aromatic tears.
The lady joins the merry-making rout,
And seeks new objects for the gibe and flout.
The warriors wonder at their bard's delay.
With inspiration, waits to crown me there,
Personified he stands, by nature's plan,
Display'd to give the picture of a man.
Fierce as when Python felt his arrows fly,
For him the ladies may be damn'd and die.
Might critics of the bard as highly deem,
As he stands rated, in his own esteem,
Few, few indeed, of old or modern time,
Could boast more signal honours to their rhyme.
Oh, were to him such self-applause decreed,
None other flatt'ry would the poet need,
A sneering town complacent he might view,
And read with smiles an Edinburgh Review.
How dismal were the groans! the shrieks how loud!
Not rival cocks are fill'd with greater rage,
Not quails with quails in deadlier fight engage.
Not brinded heroes thus in gutters fight;
While the shrill love-songs of their dames incite.
The standard of defiance high she rears.
A blaze of diamonds lighten'd on her breast,
The sparkling plunder of the weeping east.
The racy vintage in her colour flow'd,
A plenitude of form her keeping shew'd,
And with the hue her tinted cheek supply'd,
A wreath of rubies in her turban vied.
Her large capacities to combat call,
The gen'ral camp, the pioneers, and all.
She gaz'd around; nor was the challenge vain,
A knight sprang forward from th' embattled train.
A regal mantle o'er his shoulders spread,
His form robustious, perriwigg'd his head.
Or whines, or passions into tatters tears.
No part so highly soars, so low can fall,
But bustling vanity would shine in all.
He roars, the Bully Bottom of the stage;
Doleful in mirth, and ludicrous in rage;
Butcher of pathos, murderer of wit,
But sure the fustian and the flat to hit.
Nor yet to histrionic arts confin'd,
An author's name allures his lofty mind.
In Phœbus' and Minerva's wrath he writes.—
Gods!—He alone should act what he indites.—
Yet, if the muses leave the bard forlorn!
Theatric dames console him for their scorn.
Attempt to bind Lothario in their chain.
Wide o'er the green-room are his triumphs spread,
And ev'ry spouter feels a sprouting head.
Infuriate 'gainst this Amazon he flew;
Three chopping bantlings in his face she threw.
Unwonted weapons on the tragic stage,
Where bowl and dagger speak a heroine's rage.
The chieftain, by the strange assault o'erpower'd,
Bold as he was, to female prowess cow'rd,
While images of past his sense confound,
He sinks, a corse theatric, on the ground.
There where he sate with sages of the Law.
In wine and converse as the moments flow'd,
Two diff'rent sides his docile visage show'd;
Here, pond'ring mouth, and brow with thought o'erhung;
There wink'd an eye, and loll'd a waggish tongue.
Rejoic'd he saw the plumed chief o'erthrown,
And hop'd to make the conqu'ring dame his own.
Insatiate, restless, in pursuit of fame,
To shine the foremost ever was his aim.
O'er worth and virtue, talents may prevail.
Well-founded aim, the sail when party spreads,
And Vanity or Chance the current leads;
While speculation takes the helm to guide,
Where shifting islands float on ev'ry tide.—
He boasts the first an argument to hit,
Politeness, music, elegunee and wit.
But chief he boasts, with soft prevailing air,
A second Sedley, to seduce the fair.
He started—cast his wig and gown aside,
And stood a Beau Garcon, in fashion's pride,
He tun'd his fiddle, and he plied the bow
As if by music to subdue the foe.
“Bel idol mio,” cap'ring on he sung,
Fugue in his feet, Adagio from his tongue;
But peals of laughter from the hardy fair,
Compos'd his features to a graver air.
I, nor Antœus nor Alcides name,
No giant he, nor arm'd with club the dame.
But confident, and strenuous in her charms,
She clasp'd th' assailant, in no feeble arms.
Now closely prest—now dandled him on high.
Then cast him down with an insulting cry.
The haughty fair, the prostrate chief bestrode.
In attitude of Trulla, warlike lass,
When fierce she straddled o'er Sir Hudibras.
Another conquest, potent fair! remains,
Another captive must endure thy chains.
From the swart east propitious fortune brings,
The scourge and spoiler of barbaric kings.
Where British rapine bleeding millions wrung,
Prompt was his hand, and ready was his tongue.
But Fortune now, for oft she loves a joke,
Bids him the fair, in her career provoke,
Far diff'rent prowess, (let the major tell)—
Can Eastern chiefs, and tragic heroines quell,
Such net, as ancient gladiators spread,
With dextrous aim, round the Myrmillo's head,
But finer far, the dame around him cast,
The viewless meshes held the nabob fast.
Thus, Southy sings or says, a white witch won,
With subtle snares Hodeirah's fatal son.
From ancient records is not wholly clear.
Some authors think, she wore it at her side,
Like hawking bag, beneath her baldric tied.
Some, o'er her beauties, that a veil it flow'd,
And finest lace to vulgar optics show'd.
But generous fair, if any veil was thine,
It hid the blushes,—not of shame, but wine.
How guard the conquest, by her prowess gain'd?
But female wits are never at a stand;
Expedients still are ready at their hand.
The silken garters from her legs untied,
Commodious fetters for the slaves supplied,
And, what must sure her victory endear,
Her captives all rejoic'd her bonds to wear.
Alike the bar, the army and the stage,
Possess her beauties and her heart engage.
The triple husband, or the triple friend,
To please her all, to win her none contend.
Thus harmoniz'd in sentrmental ease,
They talk'd philosophy, and practis'd glees.
No vain regard of common fame controuls
This noble union of superior souls.
The moral painting of the German stage!
She march'd them off, in sociable parade,
Where mountains swell, and waves the Dargle's shade;
Where virtuous Hardy mourns in his retreat,
The blasted friendships of the little great.
If worth and honour might thine aim secure,
In manners gentle, as in morals pure.
If plighted promises might party bind,
Or past deserts engage a statesman's mind,
Did not preferment still at outrage aim,
Of decent feelings, and of common fame.
Thy just pretensions should not ask in vain,
What T---r, T---y, and M---y obtain.
To greet Papinian, bustled through the croud.
Active he vaulted,—wonders ne'er shall cease,
From lottery-office to preserve the peace.
Taught by experience to discover flaws,
They best enforce, who have infring'd the laws.
Why thus advanc'd, historians have not said,
But sure, some prudent aim Papinian sway'd.
With halting pace intrepid D**** came,
(For justice in this land is often lame.)
An ancient lady, but a countess young.
Usurp precedence in the house of God.
For there sits she in magisterial chair,
Protecting aristocracy in pray'r.
Such wrath the leech of magistracy thrill'd,
To find a Jew the chair of justice fill'd.
“Promoted to the bench, from surgeons freed!
“Shall I consort with Israelites indeed.
(The Jew his hand extended, nothing loath.)
“What brings thee from the land of Palestine?
“Hence, to Napoleon and his synod join.
“Some Jews are on the bench, I must confesh,
“But Jews in principle, not Jews in flesh.”
And down his throat impell'd a slice of pork.
Sputt'ring and raving fled th' affrighted Jew,
But F---s the morsel from his gullet drew.
To ------ the half-chew'd slice was thrown,
He call'd it perquisite and gulped it down.
With modest impudence the head it rear'd,
Most meet the stirrups of a prince to hold,
Or wear a Viceroy's livery seam'd with gold.
His goodly outside, with fallacious show,
Confirm'd the saying, “trust not to a brow.”
The pandar he of ev'ry public wrong,
Fraud in his heart, and falshood on his tongue.
Well-sounding phrases had he conn'd by rote;
The name of Virtue stuck not in his throat.
On jobbing oft the changes would he ring;
Foe to the word, but friendly to the thing.
He seem'd a serving-man of low degree.
He bore an empty pouch, which well he stor'd,
With crumbs and offals, from the public board.
Patriot a moment, and a place-man long,
With supple conscience, and an oily tongue,
Much of finance he talk'd, of order much;
And blam'd the rapine, which he hop'd to touch.
Thus grac'd, thus gifted, thro' the crowd he pli'd,
And bow'd, and begg'd for scraps, on ev'ry side.—
But not unmark'd, an Elfin warrior past
Shrill shrieking, as the spirit in the blast,
As pale as Mammon, when his head he rears,
From iron chest, where he has slept for years,
Him to confront, with scarcely human glance,
A spider weaving cobwebs of finance,
In darkness gender'd, flimsey as his form,
Things, all unfit to bear the warlike storm.
Oh what a face, and shape! and what a mein!
In him was Romeo's 'pothecary seen.
Empiric ne'er, from Galen down to Y---s,
Surpast this Quack, in charletanic feats.
To cure this vap'rish Island of her ills.
He boasted secrets, and with salves profest
To cure obstructions in a Nation's chest.
Onward he posted, with reforming rage,
The jills to measure, and the quarts to guage;
While Penury was station'd at his tail,
To weigh the loaves and fishes in her scale.
He chas'd the smooth Collector from the board,
And seiz'd his pouch, with all its treasur'd hoard.
“Hence, to the midnight mask, and mazy dance;
“More meet for coteries than for finance!
“Yet, (some retreat thine active service needs,)
“I make thee washwoman of Invalids.
“Go,—scrub and bleach; an office thine, by right.
“To white-wash was thy task full many a night.
“When Castle-hacks were foul from office mean,
“Thy servile tongue would lick the varlets clean.
“Go,—flounder in the suds, nor dare to budge;
“I would not wish to lose an useful drudge.”
He shrugg'd obedience,—made a graceful leg;
Able to delve;—nor yet asham'd to beg.—
With fangs of fury at Dennira flew,
“Recall, (she said,) and mourn th' ill-omen'd hour
“You drove me fasting from K*l****l*m's bow'r.
“And now, if force to this poor hand is giv'n,
“You fasting from your breakfast shall be driv'n”
With ham conjoin'd, her appetite to whet:
The lady from her grasp the viands tore,
And thro' the lawn the prize in triumph bore.
Encounter'd As*l with impetuous force.
Deeds had been wrought, of which the town had rung:
But N***y's nimble wit and flippant tongue,
“Come, Lady fair, suppose we ride a race.”
So said—so done, with all his art and strength;
The lady won the match by half a length.
Of matchless fragrance, and unrivall'd size.
No fruit like this within the tropic grows;
A verdant tuft upon the summit rose.
A crown imperial, that, without dispute,
Seem'd to announce the bearer king of fruit.
Sagacious gourmands cast their longing eyes,
And female bosoms throbb'd to win the prize.
Thy mouth, O C****, o'erflow'd with double streams.
Thy lady's eye-balls shot enamour'd beams.
Dennira felt reviving thrist of sway,
And swore an oath, she'd bear the palm away.
Rash oath! tho' half relenting fate inclin'd,
Half lost in “Levant and in ponent wind.”
Death hovers round thee, of the doom beware.
That handle tortoise-shell, the blade of gold!
But who shall guide a woman in the right,
When passion woos the prospect of delight.
By wild desire the fev'rish soul is tost,
Nor heeds the future, in the present lost.
Th' embroider'd mantle, and the precious arms.
Betray'd the warlike maid to mortal harms.
And thus Dennira, beautiful and brave,
The fatal apple lures thee to thy grave.—
Oh! mortals, thoughtless in this mundane gloom,
How short a step from breakfast to the tomb!—
Not mother Eve was in more longing mood,
When that old serpent at her elbow stood.
She stretch'd her hand—she seiz'd the fragrant prize.
The fierce Philothemis to vengeance flies.
She screams—she tears—the tufted crown she gains,
Dennira's grasp the solid fruit retains.
Her rage no more Philothemis supprest.
Deep, deep she plung'd the weapon in her breast
And perfect love her ample bosom fills.
Fair As--- caught the friend she lov'd so well,
From her fair hand the fatal apple fell.
“Oh! gen'ral I am slain.”—She faintly cries.
Her swimming eyes are seal'd—she sinks—she dies.
Farewell, Dennira, beautiful in death!
Might powers of minstrelsy recal thy breath.
To win thy charms th' enamour'd bard would go
To seek old Corney in the shades below.
But ah! the pow'rs of lofty song are fled.
It charms no more the living, or the dead.
Exulting seis'd, and hasten'd from the fray.
Not long the treasure her dominion own'd.—
Th' indignant gen'ral caught her from the ground.—
Say, has thou seen a rustic tall and big,
Beneath his arm convey a squalling pig.
Nor vain the terrors of approaching harm.
Was it thy fortune, strolling through the park,
A wat'ry spread, where cygnets sail, to mark?—
Hither he bore her, with a vengeful aim,
Deep, deep to plunge—but Heav'n preserv'd the dame.—
“Oh! consort dear, I cannot bid thee live!
“Yet to thy shade a sacrifice I give.”
See Pallas in the duchess' form appear,
To stop the gen'ral in his fierce career.—
“Nor thrae the tiny woman in the pond—
“Sma' creedit manfu' sogers maun obtain,
“Whane winsome feminine, and bairns lig slain,
“Anither dearie sall your scaith console,
“For marrow tint, nae langer ban or pine,
“The bygone handfu' droun in stoups o' wine.”
She sought her legions, with a nimble bound.
A shout of triumph echoed from her host,
But much their joy was damp'd—the fruit was lost.
Old L---s observed, and as a friend to peace,
Desir'd to make the cause of contest cease.
But whither she convey'd, or how conceal'd,
Not fully to the muse has Jove reveal'd.
But most believe, that o'er the seas it fled,
To grace a royal board, at Frogmore spread.
Oh! fair discretion, tried in scenes of strife,
Thou guardian pilot in the storms of life!
Honours and wealth await whom thou hast taught,
For self alone to feel and hide his thought.
Mid warring factions he his course may guide,
With none committed, yet, with all allied.
His flight from battle far Papinian steer'd,—
From care of self his conduct never veer'd.
To him unclouded as a polar star,
It bade him shun th' uncertain chance of war.
And knights and heroines to her prowess yield.
F********d and M---n by her fury fell,
The vet'ran B--- sought the shades of hell.
A chief, in cockpits skill'd his nest to fledge.
With bet sagacious, and ingenious hedge.
His mem'ry long shall weeping Ulster keep,
If pain and sorrow give impressions deep.
Where peace of dwellings sunk in midnight fires,
To light the graves of bleeding sons and sires.
For to the lists advanc'd a novel foe.
With mein alluring, and a Cyprian air,
And ugliness, that told she once was fair,
A faded dame approach'd in martial pride,
And fierce Philothemis to death defied.
Sorro wing she came—remindful of the days,
When F**e was viceroy, and when vice was praise.
In grateful change of play, and love's delight.
Decorum vanish'd—modesty was fled,
Despairing Hymen hung his beauteous head.
Triumphant folly gave an honour'd name,
And Fashion term'd what vulgar crouds call'd shame.
Her house the temple of dame Venus seem'd,
The torch of Anteros for ever gleam'd.
Abroad so atrabilious and severe,
The magistrate appear'd a pander there.
Such midnight scenes the conscious dames unfold,
As Romans acted, and Arpinum told,
He seem'd purveyor to his lib'ral spouse,
And call'd the croud to revel and carouse.—
She view'd, but undelighted view'd the feast,
And grief and envy rankled in her breast.
The furies took possession of her soul,
And thought presents the dagger and the bowl.
She meets the lady of th' Hibernian mace.
“Oh scenes, (she cried) of sport and revelry,
“For ever fled—or fled, at least, from me!
“And art thou thus extinguish'd in thy prime,
“Friend and companion of my happier time?
“Consign'd for ever to the Stygian gloom,
“And shall the murderess triumph o'er thy tomb?—
“Poor short-liv'd triumph! she is doom'd to bleed.
“For blood must expiate such a bloody deed.
“That sacrifice will sooth my grief profound,
“The blood of foes is balsam to the wound.”
The nearest weapon, that the place supplied.
The curls she seizes, that luxuriant flow;
The taper neck she severs at a blow.—
Then holds aloft the trophy of her force—
The weeping fairies bore away the corse.
A bust they gave it, painted white and red,
It drives about the streets without a head.
But pitying Jove dispatch'd the blessed Night;
That universal messenger of peace,
Who bids the matrimonial quarrel cease;
Hoods with extinguisher the flames of war,
And stops the brawling of the noisy bar.
From the near barrack sounds the curfew drum.
From far the bugle's shrilly note was born,
Mail-coaches answer'd with the hoarser horn.
With drowsy pace, patroles were sent abroad,
And footpads took their stations on the road.
The careful watchman hasten'd home to sleep,
While am'rous cats their noisy vigils keep.
The rooks and pigeons now to hell repair,
To mother Midnight posts the venal fair.
And coiners labour with unclosing eye,
Our circulating medium to supply.
The Castle Spectre faded from the glance,
The bonny duchess led the mazy dance.
And crumbs collected underneath the board,
Cheese parings to preserve and candle ends.
And officers of hanaper repair
With baskets to collect the broken fare.
Py farthing rushlight they perform the deed,
Their works nor torch nor ostentation need.
The living and the dead promiscuous laid.
In various attitudes the ground they strew'd,
Some drench'd in wine, and some with blood imbru'd.
Some curst the hostile gods, in frantic tones,
Some snor'd responsive to the dying groans.
Some clasp'd in death those objects lov'd in life,
A purse, a pie, a mistress; or a wife.
Some, ev'n in death, prolong'd the dire debate,
And gnaw'd, like Ugolin, the foeman's pate.
No pain to teeth, for many of the dead
Had hearts, I ween, much harder than their head.
The living from the carnage stole away,
Pledged to renew the fight another day.
The drivers roar—conflicting chariots crash,
Along the roads infuriate horsemen dash.
With waggons for the wounded and the slain.
Now, reader, now a prodigy behold,
More wond'rous things Boiardo never told.
The tale from Mountey comes, and must be true.
Hast thou beheld, how from their mortal trance,
The troops of Bayes by signal rise and dance?
So rose the dead, at Discord's powerful call,
And danc'd, to close the night—a merry brawl.
Not more grotesque, in attitude or mein,
The forms of death in Holbein's tablets seen.
By divers routes they posted thro' the gloom,
Recruits on furlough absent from the tomb.
Though not in hearses borne, nor wrapt in sheets,
Both dead and rotten they pollute the streets.
Their forms may fill a bench, or hold a place,
But trust them not—they are a Vampire race.
Of brains—of heart—of sense—of feeling reft,
The human shape remains, and speech is left.
Among the living, tho' they claim to dwell,
Say what they will, their spirits are in hell.
Peace to devise, that warfare shall renew.
The Scotch philosopher shall own her skill,
And metaphysics all the treaty fill.
Or, haply, hopes of peace may fade away,
Like all the ideal subjects of my lay.
But, now, perforce, the tedious song I close,
The bard is hoarse—his hearers need repose.
Farewell, good reader, when sweet dreams and rest,
Recruit thy spirits, thou shalt hear the rest.
And, trust my promise, the succeeding rhyme,
With wond'rous things shall pay thy loss of time.
For thirst of poetry my soul inflames,
And sages, courteous knights, and beauteous dames
Entreat the muse to raise them o'er the throng,
Borne on the pinions of heroic song.
Nor need I in the wilds of fiction range,
For forms grotesque, and transformations strange.
Not Circe's isle assembled such a crew,
As Erin offers to th' astonish'd view.
Important stalk, or flit before our eyes.
Nor shall their merits want their due reward,
If heav'n with length of days indulge the bard.
But I am summon'd to the festive rites,
The duchess calls—the midnight mask invites.
Inter honoratos medio de vertice canos,
Crinis inherebat magni fiducia regni.
Ovid. Metam. lib. 8. li. 8.
Let it not be supposed that the poet here means to allude to Miss F. although that very facetious and satyrical young lady assumed the appropriate dress and character, at a late fancy ball, which (proh pudor) was very thinly attended. The bard has too much reverence even for a broomstick from the Castle stables.
Hogress.—A ferocious being described in the Arabian tales, who fed upon young men; and what added to her cruelty, gobbled up their members a live.
This passage is supposed to allude to an incident which took place in a certain great house, not a mile from the course of the Poddle, where the rape of the lock was travestied.
The author does not mean to insinuate, by the term of Picture, that the ingenious Gentleman who has deservedly obtained the appellation of the Belvedere Apollo, is a mere picture—a thing only to be looked at. He may resemble his namesake at all points—and Apollo was not only a male beauty, but a csnjurer.
Some superficial critics will be apt to exclaim “here is a Hysteron proteron—can these ladies be damned before they are dead?” Yes, my good sir, that is the very thing, They are to be tantalized, and suffer the torments of the damned, and at last to pine away, and die of hopeless love.
Bully Bottom. Nay, reader, I mean not any Judge or Cbairman—Bully Bottom was manager or deputy manager of a company of Atbenian clowns, and, as you may read in Sbakespeare, ambitiously aimed at shining in every character, and would, if he could, have engrossed them all to himself. He would have played Pyramus and Tbisbe both, and even Lion, Wall, and Moonsbine. I saw our Bully Bottom, play part of one character naturally. It was in the part of Moneses, where the poor Christian is to be strangled. The part of the mutes was assigned to two soldiers, and it being their first appearance, they fell to work with the bowstring in good carnest.
Sings or says. It is hard to determine which, for Tbalaba the Destroyer is written in a new manner, in a sort of periods or stanzas of measured prose, or irregular blank verse.
Such a partie quarree! The lady—the sage of the law —the dramatic hero—the caro sposo—all loved and loving. Amandas he—Amanda she! O rare instance of the liberal philosophy, and enlarged notions of our modern times! but there is something odd here. I cannot, for my life, guess why this philosophical party should visit the neighbourhood of the Dargle.
Mr. Hardy had adhered to the present ministry, while it was an opposition, and devoted his time, and his respectable talents, to their service, in the most honourable manner; and they were bound by positive promises to provide for him when they should come into power; but what then? There were fifty good reasons against his promotion. First, his friends—I will not call them, but his college of professions. were bound in honour to promcte him, so the doing it, they thought, would excite no surprise, nor extort no gratitude. Again—He was a gentleman.—Moreover, he was a man incapable of meanness.—Add to this, he was a man of pure morals and unblemished reputation. Lastly, the appointment of Mr. Hardy to some distinguished office would not have excited any outcry, any indignation, or disgraceful eclat.
The reader must understand, that in a certain collegiate church, not far from Winetavern-street, care was taken by our sapient antestors, to maintain the aforesaid aristocracy of prayer; for there is there a seat called the peeresses' seat, appropriated for the wives and daughters of our truly devout and virtuous nobility. The lady, so deservedly commemorated by the poet, who is now herself of the privileged cast, and was the daughter of an eminent wine-merchant, takes her station on a throne, assigned exclusively to herself, and keeps her eyes, like as Grimalkin does on the mouse's hole, on this sanctum sanctorum of nobility. Woe to the unwary female, who intrudes there, without a patent of nobility in her pocket. Shame awaits her. The vergeress is dispatched to dislodge her, without mercy, or remission.
How the learned justice was emancipated, or removed from the college of surgeons, is a story, fittest to be told by himself, and will be told by him, in the course of his being produced on the table—not for dissection (he is not dead yet,) but for examination. Feeling the great importance and obligation of an oath, he was willing to apply that test to his brother justice, whom he suspected of Fudaism. Foiled in his hope there, he was willing to resort to another and more certain criterion—a bit of fat.
He has convened a grand sanhedrim of the circumcised, with an intention of making all their Rabbins justices of the peace.
The editor confesses himself at a loss as to the person here meant. He finds no data, on which he may found conjecture. The word perquisite is taken, in a large sense, the thing itself is taken in a larger manner, by various classes of the community. Clerks in office.—Guagers, excisemen and other gentlemen of the Cuftom-bouse—menial servants—whoever ********* may be, or to whatsoever description of active citizens he may belong, it is plairt that he must be some person of no very nice palate, of greedy appetite, strong stomach, and powerful digestion. The editor would be inclined to suppose him an Israelite indeed, were it not that be manifests no kind of antipathy to the swinish multitude.
Fronti nulla fides. This character, by a holiday speech and a smooth exterior, recommended himself to the parliamentary opposition. He afterwards turned and vamped his coat, and made a figure at court.
The fair Dennira was sometimes fond of showing her arbitrary power. There is a distinction, between an invitation to Cards, and one to Spend the evening: the one is exclusive, the other inclusive of Supper. It so happened, that old lady R******b had received an invitation to Cards at K*l****l*m, and, not having a carriage of her own, accepted of a seat from a lady who was invited to spend the evening. The night became wet; Lady R. was unable to get away, until the carriage of her companion arrived: in the interim, she ventured to place herself at a supper table; but was reprimanded by Dennira.
From the expressions—vital stream—perfect love, let not the malicious reader suppose, that the wounded Dennira bled aqua vitæ or parfait amour. No, no—the meaning is, that her heart was formed for love, that it flowed through her veins with the vital blood.
As Spenser contrives to introduce Gloriana occasionally, and shews her. as the principal figure in his poem, though she does not constantly appear; so has our author, with great propriety, contrived to make the beautiful duchess occupy the place of honour in his poem, by setting her in the most favourable point of view, and making her appear, as the benevolent patroness of peace and good humour.
Quere. What Hell? Whether metaphorical or literal? There is actually in Dublin a place of nightly resort, called Hell, with which the person here alluded to may not be unscquainted.
The birth place of the satyrical slave, Fuvenal, as Sbakespeare calls him. He describes the vicious excesses of the Roman ladies, with an honest indignation, but a colouring muck too warm.
Reader, I beseech thee, let not this expression excite any improper or irreverent idea—in one sense, the Amazon might be so called.
Observe here, I pray thee, reader, what a fine picture is given of a good and faithful steward, ever vigilant— ever saving of the public scraps and crumbs (whatever he may be of the large joints of meat, or the purse.) He is always attentive—always at his post, to detect and punish petty pilfevers (whatever may become of the big wholesale robbers.) He no sooner hears, that the dogs of office were prowling, to look for crumbs, than out he turns to protect the cheese parings and candle ends. While he was thus laudably employed, bowever, it unluckily happened, that the pet cats, the baboon, the lap dogs, and some other favourite animals not into the larder, and devoured, without interruption, a delicate loin of veal, a dozen of capons, a haunch of venison, and a baron of beef.
Hanaper. The Hanaper, Anglice Hamper, was a large basket, which, in the ancient times of laudable simplicity, sometimes contained the king's papers and records, and sometimes his provisions; and sometimes conveyed writings to his courts of justice—sometimes conveyed away the soiled dishes and plates from the royal table. The custody of this utensil was often entrusted to one of the king's fools.
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