Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bohemian born, but by laborious art
To perfect polish smooth'd in every part,
And form'd to shine with frigid grace, acquired
From that hard lucid style that's most admired,
A Water-Bottle of the last design
Glitter'd among the flowers and dishes fine
That brightly blush'd and proudly beam'd upon
The festive board of some Amphitrion.

2.

New to the place, he gazed in pure delight
All round the snowy Saxon damask, bright
With golden garniture, and florid piles,
And porcelain shepherds peeping with pert smiles
From Arcadies of Sevres. Flatter'd pride
Beam'd out of all his features, as he sigh'd

“O Form! Form! thou art everything! Nor yet
(Beam-bathed and glory-girt) can I regret
That long, laborious, painful preparation
Which form'd me fit for this exalted station.
Yes, Form is everything. Severe and hard
Its acquisition: but what rare reward
Awaits the acquirer! Common flint was I,
Who, thanks to Form, now glitter radiantly
As any gem. O triumph! not in vain
(Per aspera ad astra!) was the pain
That polish'd, point by point, and line by line,
This well-consider'd perfect form of mine!”

3.

But, whilst he mused self-laudatory thus,
Ye gods! what sudden object scandalous
And sinister confronts his casual glance?
A valet pour'd the sparkling wine of France:
And in the bottle, gross, ungainly, black,
From which it foam'd he recognised alack,
A long-forgotten cousin. Sore distrest
For fear this low connection should be guess'd,
The delicate Decanter sigh'd aghast,
“How hath that blackguard turn'd up here at last?
Whence comes he? Talk of Form, indeed! O fie,
The clumsy sloven! what vulgarity!
He hath not even wash'd his face, I'll swear,
Nor brush'd his coat. 'Tis cobwebb'd. What an air
Of back-slum unacknowledgeable life!”

4.

If one had struck him with a carving-knife,
No greater shock could have been dealt thereby
To that fine sense of strict propriety
Which made our poor friend, even when in a passion,
The mould of Form and water-glass of Fashion.
Still greater wax'd the wonder of it all,
When neither host nor guests one word let fall
Of passing reprobation or disgust,
As more such shabby upstarts forward thrust
Their necks, and spouted. To a pitch it grew
When, after each had pour'd libations new,
In ladies' eyes a deeper starlight danced,
More briskly round the rippling converse glanced,
Or sparkled off in spray of laughter light,
The wise grown witty, and the dull grown bright.
And, when at last the spritely feast was done,
And from the board its merry guests all gone,
(The portly Banker-Prince; the last Prose-Poet,
New to the world though he profess'd to know it;
The Wit, who had out-dined a generation
Of other wits, who dined for reputation;
The famous Traveller, fresh from Timbuctoo;
The last survivor left of Waterloo;
The year's five Beauties, each in rival trim)
Not one of all of them had noticed him,
Tho' keen observers were they, all and each.

5.

Left to himself (as on a desert beach
A limpet by an ebb'd-out tide) among
The silent sideboard's stationary throng
Of glassy things, he spied an old Carafe;
Crackt, and so out of service; but still safe
From the sad fate of commoner crackt glass,
Since sole survivor of a set that was
Beauteous and precious in its time, tho' now
No more the fashion. And, relating how
His feelings had been shockt, “Dear Madam, deign,”
Said he, “this contradiction to explain.”

6.

“Alas!” the Old Beauty answer'd with a sigh,
“Young friend, none better can do that than I.
O pleasant petits soupers of the past!
Wild, wicked, witty evenings, gone so fast!
How unremember'd are their mirth and grace!
'Twas there the rogue was in his natural place,
Whose presence disconcerted you to-night.
'Twas there he reign'd, the soul of all delight
All laughter. Ah, and those fair dames were sly!
We pour'd them out our pure propriety
In vain. For form's sake, they vouchsafed three sips,
Returning ever with their pretty lips
To his pert fountain. Ay, and then, O child,
What fun, what frolic, what adventures wild,

What scandals I have seen, and I could tell!
And all this rascal's doing. Well, child, well,
Give him his due. I said, and still I say,
The rogue's a rogue, but in a sort of a way
There's something good in him.” The old Carafe,
Looking like a diaphanous giraffe,
(The nec plus ultra of all disproportion
'Twixt neck and body—a sedate distortion)
Said this with such an air as ladies old
Assume when they break off a tale half told,
But leave the purport of it plain enough,
Clinching their last word with a pinch of snuff.

7.

“But,” said the novice, growing thoughtful, “why,
Dear madam, is it, then, that you and I,
Whose form is perfect, lack the charm which still
With such sweet influence doth inform and fill
What flows from him who hath no form at all?”
“Hey!” said the old one, “Man is what I call
The greatest paradox in all creation,
And I can give no other explanation.
One thing he thinks, and does another thing:
Makes money, saves it, and, when saved, doth fling
His money out o' window: ne'er hath found
His best friends out till they lay underground:
Only consults his health when it is gone:
And if he values virtue, I, for one,
Believe he does so simply for the sake
Of vice, which virtue doth by contrast make

More to his taste. For all his folly flows
From that one drop of wisdom Heaven bestows
In mockery on him for no use at all.
He boasts his elevation in his fall;
And still, the lower that he lies, the more
He deems his natural place was high before.
Height measures he by depth, seeks peace in strife,
And calls all this the Poetry of Life.”

8.

“But,” cried the young one, “what has that to do
With our low cousin? and how, even so,
Does he contrive to make such a sensation?”
“Child, 'tis a sort of natural inspiration
Which men, who persecute by turns and pet it,
Ignore first, then o'er-rate, and then forget it.
'Tis not worth getting, if it could be got.
As, just investigate the woeful lot
Of those to whom 'tis given, and you'll find.
One bright spark wandering on a midnight wind!
Our friend's a being, call him what you will,
Of genius; who has simply turn'd out ill,
As genius generally does. Do you
So envy him? That's more than you would do,
Knew you but how, till just an hour before
His recent triumph, which so soon was o'er,
The poor wretch fared. A dingy outcast he,
Who unobserved, till chance his lot set free,
Lay dark in silence, solitude, and cold.
Such was his past. His future? Oh, soon told!

How fares he now? Thro' yonder window peep,
You'll see him lying on a loathsome heap
Of stable ordures in the base back yard.
And if his fall, which must have hurt him hard,
Hath not yet shatter'd him, some scavenger,
Raking among the unsavoury refuse there
In search of fallen and forgotten things,
Where blue flies buzz and the rank nettle springs,
Will haply filch him from his filthy lair.
What next? In some grim garret, Heaven knows where,
Methinks I see our miserable friend
Serving to hold the bit of candle-end
By whose sick, smoky, feeble flame he'll see
Some other genius, badly off as he,
Pouring on paper the portentous proem
Of some sublime unpurchaseable poem.
Another kind of wine-flask, full of froth
Most evanescent! And the fate of both
Is, trust me, miserably much the same.
A life's discomfort for a moment's fame!
Our lot is better. Not much use are we;
But folks, at least respect us—as you see.”

9.

The young Decanter mused; nor made reply.
Save by an inward meditative sigh;
Which we translate, as well as we are able,
By the famed query which preludes this fable.