The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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| LORD AUCKLAND'S TRIUMPH;
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
LORD AUCKLAND'S TRIUMPH;
OR, THE DEATH OF CRIM. CON. A PAIR OF PROPHETIC ODES.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED, AN ADDRESS TO HYMEN.—AN ODE ON THE PASSIONS.—ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN; OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY, A FABLE.—WITH A MOST INTERESTING POSTSCRIPT.
Thou and thine empire are undone!
Woe to the men of lawless lives,
Who wink on other people's wives!’
ARGUMENT TO ODE I.
The Bard, in the true Spirit of prophetic Poetry,
commenceth his Ode with a compliment to Wedlock
—Peter treateth the Hot-bed of Adultery
with much poetical Contempt—He prophesieth
the Fall of Crim. Con.; her Acquaintance with
the Rakes—In a sublime Strain of Insult, Peter
questioneth Crim. Con., and proclaimeth a total
Annihilation of her Rams' Horns. Peter singeth
of the wonders done by Rams' Horns at Jericho
—he giveth some History of Lord Auckland's
Family, and biddeth them beware of Difilement
—The Poet candidly accuseth himself of having
been a Votary to Pleasure, and prettily and poetically
depicteth the manner of his courtship;
illustrating with a most apt and—original comparison
—The Poet abruptly bounceth off to attack
the Princes of these Realms for not joining
the pious Efforts of Lord Auckland, to destroy
Crim. Con.—Peter complimenteth the Bench of
Bishops for their furious Abhorrence of Crim.
Con., for their intimate Knowledge of Heaven,
and for their great Humility; but not for their
great Poverty, in which Article these holy men
have always varied from their simple Predecessors,
ARGUMENT TO ODE II.
An apologetic Song for Inconstancy, by a Son of
the Devil—This Son of a Devil pronounceth
Love and a Butterfly to be similar Beings, and
encourageth the Idea—this Demon wisheth to
take the licentious French Nation for a Model,
who wish to change a Wife as often as a Shirt
—this Imp continueth to fascinate the Mind by
beautiful Poetry in Favour of the unlicensed
Passion Love—Peter reprobateth such Notions,
and prettily telleth, in Verse, a Story well known
in Prose, of a King of France, who had experienced
a Satiety on the Beauties of his Queen—
Peter triumpheth in the future Happiness of
the British Empire on the death of Crim. Con.
—Peter exhibiteth a natural Picture of Age,
exulting, amidst his Imbecilities, in the Idea of
possessing blooming virgins, smiling at the same
Time at the Horrors of Horns—Peter again,
with his wonted Candour, reverseth the Medal,
and suggesteth an Inconveniency that may arise
from the State of Crim. Con. in the character
of a rotten Rake—Peter here is truly moral, as
well as poetical. Another Rake is brought on
the Stage, who glorieth in the Advantages to be
ODE I.
The echo of the turtle dove;
Then who would turn that song to sounds of woe?
Bright are the skies, and calm the scene
Where Hymen holds his halcyon reign;
Then who would bid the howling tempests blow?
What but a ruffian would the spot invade,
To dash the beam of bliss with hellish shade?
But what's the produce?—Heaven's a wanton weed.
No buds of promise ope their bloom,
And load the zephyr with perfume!
Crim. Con. who by a touch and smile
Dar'st lure a lady from a spouse's arms;
Make her desert her babes, her kin,
To listen to the voice of sin,
That praiseth of Variety the charms;
Thy lawless reign at length is o'er,
And rams'-horns frighten man no more.
Thy dove-like billing, fluttering, cooing:
At thee, thy vile companions, ev'ry rake
Shall start with horror, curse thy name,
Fly from thy song of death with shame,
Avoid thee like the fascinating snake
That wily won the world's first madam,
And put that fatal trick on Adam.
To clap upon a husband's brow?
Auckland has broken them to pieces:
And thou shalt soon be put to death;
Unpitied, yield thy forfeit breath,
Except by wicked, wanton Misses,
And wanton youths of our wild nation,
Of prudence less possess'd than passion.
A very notable old town;
Yes, rams' horns laid the lovely city low:
Thus rams' horns also to the earth
Bring down the men of lofty birth,
And force them with humility to bow.
Look at Lord *** whom high birth adorns,
How pitiful he squints amidst his horns!
Auckland, ah! rather in the vale of years,
Thinks gentlemen should have the proper fears,
And try to ward the antlers from the head.
Of present and past times the joke;
Who, till the steed was stol'n, forbore
What fools! to shut the stable door!
And as our sex will never cease to woo,
Their charms may fire some tinder-hearted man!
A bed, a grot, a clump of trees,
Have favour'd many a lover's artful plan.
What though Lucretias? In a fatal hour,
The fam'd Lucretia fell by Tarquin's pow'r.
To some sad purlieus of Soho:
No longer there shall lofty beds of down
Expect the muffled married dame,
And blushless youth of lawless flame,
Secure from husbands and the prying town.
And joy to hear the tempest howl;
O'er Matrimony's smile to cast a cloud,
And put the modest lady in her shroud!
Such shall the muse to infamy consign,
And crush with all the thunders of her line.
Look'd on the nymph's acquaintance as a treasure;
Never pursued her once with scoff and hisses;
But caught the little hussey in my arms;
Ran o'er the pretty garden of her charms,
And pluck'd the cherries of her lips—call'd kisses.
But hugg'd her, when I met with her—and so:
For lo! a piece of velvet was my soul!
Black velvet, mind! which when the god of day
Doth visit with his all-enlivening ray,
Enjoys the radiance, and devours the whole.
Devoid of gratitude and grace;
Who, when the sun would warm and gild his head,
Flings back the blessing in his face.
But now my morals wear a sober dress.
(Indeed my tender conscience winces),
To think they try to save Crim. Con. the jade!
The bishops in a goodly row,
All wish to give a fatal blow:
Such good examples somewhat might have sway'd!
So deep in all the secrets of the skies;
So prone to teach, assist, inspire, and bless one,
From which Humility might take a lesson!
As pious but not quite so poor;
Since Fortune, to the world's surprise,
On Merit learns to ope her eyes.
Now, when a bishop for a favour sues,
Not, not in vain the plaintive turtle coos.
Ev'n I cry, ‘Shame,’ the man of rhimes!
And poets are not overstock'd with blushes.—
See! lovely Modesty is gone
From Britain, where she fix'd her throne,
And Impudence to fill her station rushes!
To set our peeping youth on fire;
Without a cap we view the fair,
The bosom heaving, heaving bare;
The hips asham'd, forsooth to wear a dicky :
It nothing leaves for Fancy's guess!
With caps and pinners, well mob'd polls;
With warming dickies, high stiff stays,
To guard the neck from grasp and gaze,
How diff'rent from our modern fair,
Whose ev'ry beauty takes the air!
Nor winds around that chilling blow:
And swing their muslin gossamer about;
Showing what Modesty should veil;
Things very proper to conceal,
For legs and knees, and so, should ne'er peep out.
King Harry, too, a very shocking sample
Of wedlock's constant, chaste, and lovely state:
And many other kings besides, indeed,
Too prone on wild variety to feed,
Have broken Matrimony's tender pate:
Do something in this wicked way,
But not so did a King of France,
Whose story seemeth quite romance.
The present Bishop of London (Dr. Porteus) I must, indeed, adduce as an exception. Wishing to turn his back on his r*y*l patroness, on a vacancy in the see of Durham, he strained every nerve to obtain the precious prize, worth nearly twenty thousand pounds a-year; the bishopric of London, worth only poor four thousands per annum, scarcely sufficient to supply the extensive circle of his charities! Good man! he was disappointed; not only disappointed too; his prayer was considered as a piece of meanness and ingratitude.—If this be not a fact, I beg his lordship's pardon.
A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY.
At Battledore and Shuttlecock.
A TRUE STORY.
With a fair lady of his court,
Was pleas'd at battledore to play,—
A very fashionable sport.
Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame,
King Louis by an odd mischance did knock
The shuttlecock,
Thrice happy rogue, upon the down of doves,
To nestle with the pretty little loves!
With an arch smile.—But what did he?
What? what to charming Modesty belongs!
Obedient to her soft command,
He rais'd it—but not with his hand!
No, marv'ling reader, but the chimney tongs.
How clever!
When shall we hear agen of such a thing?
Lord! never.
Now were our princes to be pray'd
To such an act by some fair maid,
I'll bet my life not one would mind it:
But handy, without more ado,
The youths would search the bosom through,
Although it took a day to find it!
ODE II.
‘Chloe, thou art the sweetest of sweet things:
I hate dull constancy—'tis such a bore:
It ruins Love—'tis such a piece of lumber,
Kind Venus, let it not my back encumber,
Come, Chloe, come—thy beauties I adore:
O come, and let me give thee a green gown.
From hill to vale, and stops at every flow'r;
Sucks all the honey with its little snout,
So pleas'd the rich ambrosia to devour;
Then on wild wing, away it flies again,
The sultan of the variegated plain.
For Constancy's a very dull romance—
Fit only for a poor old grunting dame;
And blind old Darby, full of ail and groan,
Forc'd to be led about by limping Joan,
Of girls the titter, and of boys the game.
All energy—his life, eternal spring;
Roams the wide world as wanton as the wind,
And scorns the fetters that would bind his wing;
Then, Chloe, learn to prize the varied kiss,
And prove of sweet inconstancy the bliss.’
Of one King Louis—of his lady tir'd;
Who dragg'd with pain the marriage clog along,
And lo, a lady of his court desir'd.
Had a colt's tooth, and lov'd another dame.
Inform'd him of the danger of his soul,
And pointed strongly to the day of doom,
And heav'n-ward his two eyes began to roll—
Much as to say, ‘O king if this way given,
Your majesty will never get to heav'n.’
‘Go to the Devil,’ the king in secret cry'd.
His heaps of quoted Scripture—sage deductions,
Order'd him partridge constantly for dinner:
No dish beside—'twas partridge ev'ry day,
From this at length the bishop turn'd away,
Grew sick, and groan'd like a repentant sinner.
Partridge and priest in short could not agree:
He now felt constancy a mawkish thing.
A proselyte with long long face he came,
Desir'd to know the pretty lady's name,
Turn'd pimp himself, and brought her to the king.
And glory crowns the Queen of Isles!
With blooming virgins of eighteen,
Panting, and coughing up an amorous sigh:
Yes, wheezing, wrinkled age shall woo,
And paw and drivel, kiss and coo,
And shake his crutches, and in triumph cry:
Fearless I wake, and fearless go to bed.
And lull my senses with a charming note:
I dare that damned rakehell a red coat
To pull a single feather from its wing.’
‘Though past my prime, my vigour lost,
And full of holes my aching bones;
Though gone my teeth, my cheeks all pale,
And foul my breath that taints the gale,
And night a witness of my groans;
Shall bring her beauty to my arms;
While happy (from dishonour safe)
My head at rams and bulls shall laugh.’
How sweet the scheme the knave proposes!
What justice too in his desires!
A carrion on a bed of roses!
‘Yes, I will mount the highest places;
The beds of virgin innocence shall shake;
I'll kiss the daughters of the Graces.
Mine empire o'er the world of kisses.
I'll graze in ev'ry neighbour's ground;
In vain my injur'd spouse shall wake and weep:
Well hamper'd by Lord Auckland's chain,
She dares not of her wrongs complain;
Her sighs must whisper, and her anger sleep.’
When wives were lent, and bought and sold,
Cato was often known to send
To this, and that, and t'other friend,
To lend his wife a little while.
What then? why lend a pretty daughter.
With as much cordiality and ease,
As though the sage had begg'd for a potatoe,
A pot of mustard, or a slice of cheese!
All gentlemen of moral lives,
Met just like horse-dealers, or Jews on 'Change,
To buy, and swop, and borrow wives.
Now from digression to return,—
Crim. Con. must die, and thousands mourn.
Attempt to milk a subject's cow:
No more John T---ds shall attack a duchess;
Who, chaste as Dian, scream'd for help,
And, struggling with the wicked whelp,
Escap'd all spotless from his savage clutches.
Nor Mister Hodges aid his tender dear,
To plant the horn upon his willing skull:
Lady Cadogans, with inviting charms,
Lure no more pamper'd parsons to her arms,
Help'd by that pretty pimp, Miss Farley Bull.
Victims of fascinating eyes,
Old prudish maids with jealous fits,
Drive virtuous wives out of their wits,
And set our envying, envying youth on fire.
When Bradshaw came to woo the noble dame;
No powder'd, towzled couch their hours to bless,
No coachman to proclaim their acts of shame:
And last of all, no catering Mister Hogg ,
To suit salacious tastes with prurient prog.
Roaring away, ‘Crim. Con. Crim. Con.!’
While Abigails from houses, with a caper,
Rush, giggling, forth, to buy the paper:
To show their ladies, happy, none will doubt it,
To wink and sneer, and prattle all about it.
Nor loftier B---r with sweet grace,
Hide in his handkerchief his face,
When evidence has been too near the thing
When did they kiss?—in garish day,
Or by the candle's conscious trembling light?
Were they in bed beneath the sheet,
Snug in embrace—both tête-à-tête?
And what were things that might appear in sight?
Such shall no more be heard in court,
Making for idle ears a sport.
With honour debts of honour pay;
And slily to some Cyprian fane repair—
Invoke of Love the saucy pow'r,
To Cupid sacrifice an hour,
And lo! return with so much ease and air,
So out of breath in quest of Mistress Snip!
No sighs to soften, and no pulse to riot;
And Chastity, in danger now no more,
Shall sleep without a lock upon her door.
A proverb older than the flood.
Cries pert Miss Fornication, with a wink;
‘Aye, kill my sister—do—and soon
I'll play young ladies such a tune,
Aye, spinster reputation soon shall sink:
I'll open necks and sharpen eyes;
I'll make their gowns and petticoats of gauze;
I'll do the business of the maids!
I'll make more routes and masquerades;
I'll sharpen Mister Satan's claws.
That cheeks shall never blush again.
Where lad with lass so sweetly grapples
Soon as the tell-tale candles are put out:
Yes, yes, the love-feasts shall increase,
And Modesty, that mincing piece,
Shall say, “Good bye t'ye,” to the groaning rout.
And for a parson choose a H---s ;
I'll ope new turnpikes to salvation,
Or I'm not christen'd Fornication.’
I think the hussey means to keep her word;
Which some may deem the songs of gods;
But hark! a second solemn voice I hear—
A second awful voice that cries,
‘Bard, bard, thine oracles are lies;
Crim. Con. has nought from Auckland's rage to fear,
That lord from morn to night, and night to morn,
Shall trembling view the visionary horn.’
The author is mistaken here. Her grace was at the time of his lordship's amorous attack, in her weeds.—The editor.
ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN;
OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY. A FABLE.
Too well I know your hearts unwilling
To hide beneath the veil a charm—
Too pleas'd a sparkling eye to roll,
And with a neck to thrill the soul
Of ev'ry swain with Love's alarm.
Its snow may melt into a tear.
Where little Cupids nectar sip,
Are very pretty lures, I own:
But, ah! if Prudence be not nigh,
Those lips, where all the Cupids lie,
May give a passage to a groan.
Flinging around her rich perfume,
Her form to public notice pushing,
Amidst the summer's golden glow,
Peep'd on a Strawberry below,
Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.
‘What's beauty that no mortal knows?
What is a charm, if never seen?
You really are a pretty creature:
Then wherefore hide each blooming feature?
Come up, and show your modest mien.’
I never did possess a pride
That wish'd to dash the public eye:
Indeed I own that I'm afraid—
I think there's safety in the shade;
Ambition causes many a sigh.’
‘See how I wanton in the wind:
I feel no danger's dread alarms:
And then observe the god of day,
How amorous with his golden ray,
To pay his visits to my charms!’
She started from her fav'rite theme—
A clown had on her fix'd his pat.
In vain she screech'd—Hob did but smile;
Rubb'd with her leaves his nose awhile,
Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.
ODE TO HYMEN.
That folks live not in unison, alas!
That all thy votaries are not always blest?
Thy pretty fane is enter'd all so billing,
So am'rous, so obliging, smiling, willing;
When lo! Love's passion sinks at once to rest!
And stupid, knowing not the reason why!
Now to the temperate, lo, his course he bends;
Now to the frigid limpeth with a groan,
And now the sweetest of all passions ends!
Born in a hut, and seldom from their downs!
Soon as the honey-moon began to shine;
‘Now, Deary (I suppose the pair in bed)
Now put thy pretty little totes to mine.’
Adieu the lover!
Instead of ‘Put thy pretty totes to mine,’
He turn'd his back, and grunted like a swine,
‘Why dost not heave away thy d*mn'd greea hocks?’
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
Whose objects never should approach their borders!
‘O lead us not into temptation!’
Is a choice pray'r, and which I much admire—
So many things are dangerous to desire!
So ripe for soul-assassination!
How fascinating each wild sense they greet!
How much we long to smell to the fair flow'r!
How long the blushing peach to pluck it,
And suck it—
To use an epicurish phrase, devour!
It does not signify to talk about it:
Yet seemed Solomon, first of wise kings,
And eke his father David, much to doubt it.
For wheresoe'er they met a pretty lass,
Snap was the word—they could not let her pass.
To press the virgin's cheek and dimpled chin,
And press her pouting lip, that dew-clad cherry!
And peep upon her neck of Alpine snow,
And pressing, panting, to her bosom grow,
Rich banquet—very—I repeat it—very!
So much of grace to me is giv'n!
Tumultuous rise—destroy their dangerous dance;
The curb of reason to your aid advance,
And souse them with her buckets of cold water.
But then they must not gallop wild to door—
Close keep them, just like hounds that long for hare;
Or muzzle them, indeed, like ferrets;
And thus suppress their wanton spirits,
That lawless wish to be as free as air.
Thank Heav'n, this wickedness can't always last)
When if a petticoat but caught my eye—
A petticoat surrounding some fair maid,
Lord bless us! how my heart's brisk fountain play'd!
Grace was abjur'd, and Prudence forc'd to fly.
And, hound-like, scamper'd in full cry to catch her.
But if not well confin'd, they play the devil.
How in its lustre, gentle, steady, tame,
So mild, such trembling modesty, so quiet!—
But let him touch your curtains, or your bed,
Who on such stuff delighteth to be fed,
Lo, in a brace of minutes, what a riot!
He pulls (for nought th' unbridled rogue reveres)
Like Samson, an old house about his ears!
NIL ADMIRARI;
OR, A SMILE AT A BISHOP: Occasioned by A Hyperbolical Eulogy on Miss Hannah More, By Dr. Porteus, In his late Charge to the Clergy.
—HOR.
Lo, Novelty shall lead the world astray,
And cast ev'n bishops wide of Wisdom's bias;
A mouse has prov'd the lion of the day;
Witness that miserable imp M*th*as.
THE ARGUMENT.
Peter prettily and poetically proclaimeth the pernicious Effects of Flattery—he solemnly addresseth Doctor Porteus, as of the celebrated School of Warburton; loading the Doctor with appropriate and complimentary Epithets— Though Peter acknowledgeth the Bishop's overmatch for the Devil and Sin, he denieth his Powers over Taste—shrewdly hinteth that a wise Father may have a foolish Son—proveth the Bishop's Want of critical Acumen, by his hyperbolical Praises of Miss Hannah More, a Rhime-and-Prose Gentlewoman, born at Bristol —Peter, having narrowly searched Miss Hannah, and tried Miss Hannah by his own Touchstone, discovereth the metallic Nature of Miss Hannah's Genius—Peter solemnly protesteth that he cannot wade twice through Miss Hannah's Works, deeming them, as Dr. Johnson would have expressed himself, Pages of puerile Vanity and intellectual Imbecility.
Ah, much too sweet for man, vain man, I fear!
Her oil of fool, too fluent, glides along,
And winding, drops with death, into his ear.
Meek, modest, generous, diffident, and humble,
'Tis said that sometimes sages play the fool;
But when they stumble, with a vengeance stumble:
Rare flint and steel, illumining the dark;
Though, like an egg, so full of faith, and grace,
Like thy great Prototype of Pryor Park;
Old Nick, and eke his dirty mother Sin,
With every sort of weapon one can name,
Ev'n from the thundering cannon to a pin;
That Sin's and Satan's hides with glory baste,
A dwarf art thou, in fields of verse and prose—
A very pigmy in the realms of taste.
The critic's laurel must thy temples shade;
A man may be descended from Apollo,
And yet a novice in the critic trade.
Yet sprung from Phœbus, but without his art:
Less fit to guide the chariot of the sun,
Than that more humble vehicle, a cart.
A mighty genius, in thy charge display'd!
Know, I have search'd the damsel o'er and o'er,
And only find Miss Hannah, a good maid.
And see no shining mark of gold appear;
No, nor one beam of silver; some small brass,
And lead and glittering mundic, in thine ear.
Or thou hadst judg'd her pow'r a scanty rill;
Which, if thou wilt believe the word of Peter,
Crawls at the bottom of th' Aonian hill.
So simply mawkish, so sublimely sad!
I own Miss Hannah's life is very good,
But then her verse and prose are very bad.
No fountain hers of bright imagination:
So little doth a genuine muse inspire,
That genius will not own her a relation.
No bonfire she—no sun's meridian blaze:—
A rush-light 'midst th' illuminating few:
A farthing rush-light, with its winking rays.
Whom thus thine adulation can befool:
Alas! a poor ephemeron is she!
A humming native of a Bristol pool.
ARGUMENT.
Peter sorely complaineth of Miss Hannah's cracked Instrument—announceth Women superior to Miss Hannah.—Miss Hannah laugheth in her Sleeve at the Bishop's Praise.—Peter thinketh that Mount Parnassus would have shed no Tears had Miss Hannah never written—he blameth the Bishop for making a Show of Miss Hannah.— Peter exhibiteth his Candour, in condemning rather the Flattery of the Bishop, than Miss Hannah's literary Imbecility.—Peter rippeth up the Blue-stocking Club, for their foolish Exhibition of Miss Hannah—he acknowledgeth the Power of Novelty, particularly with respect to a Pamphlet of one of the smaller Rats of the Queen's Closet, called Mathias—he giveth the little Animal a good Drubbing.—Peter hinteth at some of Miss Hannah's clerical Friends in the Reviews—sensibly animadverteth on the varnish-eating Power of Father Time.
So out of tune, it murders all the Nine:
She really playeth not with taste or fire:
No, Doctor Porteus, no, thou great divine!
Miss Hannah's equals, or my judgment fail:
Nay, numbers, I aver it! of whose gown
Miss Hannah is not fit to hold the tail.
Laughs in her sleeve at all thy pompous praise:
In silence wrapp'd, perceives the ass's ears,
And sits complacent while her Stentor brays.
Had Silence put a gag on Hannah's tongue—
No crape had mourn'd, upon the Muses' hill,
Nor Phœbus blubber'd for the loss of song.
Plac'd her on high, and cried, ‘Behold a wonder!’
No soul had scrutiniz'd the woman's worth;
Safe from the world her weakness and thy blunder.
A lofty pillar, but supporting what?
Why, on its head, supporting high in air
A mole, a grasshopper, a mouse, a rat.
Oblivion ready, with her shroud and spade,
To sink her with a prose and rhiming throng
In sacred silence, and eternal shade.
Ah! wherefore?—God Almighty only knows!
To gibbet her amid the blaze of day,
A piteous carcass for the critic crows,
But, ah! how many praise without pretence?
Bawl for a work with wide-extended jaws;
Of words a deluge, and a drop of sense!
I censure not Miss Hannah for sad rhimes:
God sees my heart! I only censure those
Whose flatteries damn the judgment of the times.
All righteous, cramm'd to mouth with heav'nly manna,
Ambitious of a wit among their names,
Into their magic-lantern clapp'd Miss Hannah:
The bishop's wond'ring orbs enjoy'd the sight—
‘A giantess of genius!’ Porteus cries,
Forgetting it a literary mite.
And turn ev'n bishops off from Wisdom's bias;
A mouse shall start the lion of the day—
Witness that miserable imp Mathias .
Sly, 'mid the windings of his murky hole,
Pour'd on the shrinking world his pois'nous load,
And on the sighs of Merit fed his soul.
Soon stopp'd the torrent of his wounding lust:
Justice stepp'd forth to give the fiend his fate,
And crush'd him 'midst the reptiles of the dust.
Though Hannah's verse be lame, insipid stuff;
Some sable critic, in some kind review,
Shall give the little paper-kite a puff.
To separate the living from the dead;
Clears the dark clouds of Prejudice away,
And roasts the varnish off, by Flatt'ry spread.
Smear'd o'er Miss Hannah must by Time be roasted;
The nymph in all her nakedness will blush,
And courtly Porteus, for a flatterer posted.
This poor little wretch, whose pamphlet misnomered Pursuits of Literature, but whose true appellation should have been Pursuits of Rancour, dared not acknowledge his own work.—The enormity of its falshood and impudence was quite a novelty, and in spite of its contemptible imbecility, gained the attention of the public.—This, Mathias mistook for fame: still he denied any connexion with the pamphlet—every paltry subterfuge was made use of, to escape detection. At length a few literary hounds seriously pursued him, hunted him fairly to his hole, and put the vermin to death.
ARGUMENT.
Peter fancieth that he hath put the Bishop in a Passion—he giveth his Opinion of a Book called Strictures upon Female Education, with Miss Hannah's name annexed—he subtracteth greatly from the Merit of Miss Hannah in those Volumes.—Peter Describeth Miss Hannah's Mode of manœuvring, by two apt and beautiful Comparisons, Hemp and Leather—he likeneth Miss Hannah unto a Hen, who hatcheth the Eggs of another Bird—he confesseth her exemplary Piety and Snow-like appearance, but severely reprimandeth her Uncharitableness towards the frail ones of her own Sex.—Peter praiseth his own celestial Disposition in favour of fallen Beauty—he addresseth the barbarous Part of the Female Creation: asserting that Love and an old Lady are not incompatible— he giveth the Judges a Stroke for their amorous Faces on Trials of Rape and Crim. Con. —Peter windeth up sublimely and charitably.
And thus exclaiming—‘What! Miss Hannah More
No genius! what is then her Education,
So prais'd and echoed o'er and o'er?’
Are decent things—perhaps Miss Hannah's plan:
But, trust me, they are all some parson's pictures:
These, Hannah never drew, nor colour'd, man!
Begs some young Levite spin it:—nothing loth,
He adds large quantities of flax, kind lad,
And with the mixture fabricates a cloth.
Horse-skin—and, slily, to some Crispin goes:
Crispin adds calf-skin—puts them both together,
And makes a tolerable pair of shoes.
Who sits on pheasant's egg, to kindness prone;
Hatches the birds, a pretty brood; but then,
Weak vanity, she call the chicks her own.
Her life a field of Alpine snow so white!
And what our good opinion must inspire,
With bishops she could talk from morn to night.
On each young victim of her tempting bloom!
Instead of sarcasm dropp'd a pitying tear,
And with a beam of comfort cheer'd her gloom!
I cannot curse the nymph of yielding charms:
Instead of casting the poor girl away,
Lord! I would rather clasp her in my arms!
Catch the pure drop that leaves her liquid eye:
And gently chiding the unlicens'd bliss,
Reclaim the beauteous mourner with a sigh.
Lo nature weaves it close in ev'ry cranny!
Ev'n from old women rarely it departs,
The subject sweet of many a shaking granny.
I've seen upon Crim. Con. with passion gape;
With wanton questions wag the watering beard,
Point the hot eye, and chuckle at a rape.
The opening buds of gentle May and June;
Blest to spread darkness, like the cloud of night,
That hangs a dirty malkin on the moon!
And furious charge the feeble maid of dame,
A nymph, who, cautious of the torch of Love,
Has never sing'd her honour at its flame.
ARGUMENT.
Peter declareth that he liketh literary Emulation amongst the Sex, but contendeth for fair Play —that is to say, People should publish their own Works—Peter knoweth Miss Hannah's havage, knoweth all her Points, and pronounceth her unqualified for a first-rate Racer, whatever her powers among the Ponies—Peter elucidateth the Frauds in Literature by a Smock-Race—Peter turneth to the Bishop, and asketh a shrewd Question—He solemnly calleth on the Bishop's Attention, and sayeth oracular Things!—Peter supplicateth the Bishop to think charitably of his rhiming Intentions—he dreadeth the fatal Effects of his Flattery of Miss Hannah; making her hold up her Nose in Contempt of the under-World, knowing none but Quality—Peter asserteth such Flattery to be a Sin, as it stirreth up Pride, which every body knows ruined the Devil—Peter citeth a proverb taken from Hell— he again beggeth the Bishop to think well of his Intentions—proclaimeth his Love for Bishops, perhaps equal to that of the unbeneficed Clergy —Peter draweth a Parallel between Bishops of old, and Bishops of the present Day—a terrible Portrait of the old School!—a most engaging one of the new—Peter piously concludeth with a Prayer for Bishops.
Yes, let there be a spur to emulation:
But let fair Justice sit upon her throne,
And keep a little decent regulation.
But Nature, to Miss Hannah's heels unkind,
The hopes of honour and of glory thwarts!
Left is Miss Hannah's far, yes, far behind.
Miss Hannah's joints are very stiff indeed:
Her form is rather fitted for the dray,
Than on Newmarket turf to show a speed.
The prize a shift—a Holland shift, I ween:
Ten damsels, nearly all in naked grace,
Rush'd for the precious prize along the green.
And face had been permitted to contend,
Had carried all before her), luckless fair!
Was to her sister racers forc'd to bend.
Whose love for Sylvia to her cause inclin'd him,
In spite, ye gods, of ev'ry racing rule,
Whipp'd up the damsel on the beast behind him.
Who mark'd the cheat with disappointed eyes;
Soon brought her in, unblushing at his aid,
And for his fav'rite boldly claim'd the prize.
Did no kind swain his hand to Hannah yield—
No bishop's hand to help a heavy rear,
And bear the nymph triumphant o'er the field?
A man stark blind should never races run;
A head of wax should never court the sun.
Repress the vainly rhiming, prosing rage,
That makes us sinful damn the nerveless line,
Un-Job-like curse the pen'ry of the page.
'Tis Pity, Pity bids me verse compose,
Thy flattery's fumes must turn the virgin's brain,
So fierce its incense burns beneath her nose.
Harmless thy flatt'ry then had spent its breath;
Just whisper'd to the world, and died away,
Like thy own sermons, and dead lines on Death.
Borne by the necromantic art of praise!
The nymph from vulgar eyes her glory shrouds,
To mix with high-ton'd quality her rays.
In all thy gaudy flow'rs superbly drest,
Must raise a smile on graver mouths than mine;
Such seeming mock'ry—such a solemn jest!
Each child of title lisps Miss Hannah's name;
A bishop's plaudit sanctifies a Joan:—
What better passport to the house of Fame?
For thou hast conjur'd up the woman's vanity—
Bestow'd false consequence on heads of pins,
And giv'n (O blush!) a substance to inanity.
To Pride, that pitfall of old Satan, win her!
Porteus there is a proverb thou shouldst read,
‘When flatt'rers meet, the Devil goes to dinner.’
I mean to harrow up thy humble mind,
And stay that voice in London known so long;
For balm and softness an Etesian wind.
Sweet is the race, and so Miss Hannah says:
Where'er I wander, lo! I make it known!
How different from the tribes of distant days!
His gaping gullet flam'd the track of Hell:
Loud as the Libyan lion's was his roar,
His frowns like lightning, blasting where they fell.
And saw, with doating eye, her power display'd;
Enjoy'd the flying brains at ev'ry blow,
And bless'd the knives and hooks with which she flay'd.
Men, women, children, for the slightest things;
Burnt, strangled, glorying in the horrid deed;
Nay, starv'd and flogg'd God's great vicegerents, kings!
The teeth of bishops are a gentle set;
Content, if nought is near, to pick a bone;
So little pamper'd with delicious meat.
How flow the honey'd streams of salutation,
Ev'n in the middle of our London streets:
Rich lessons of good-will to all the nation!
No sounds of anger from his lips escape;
Save on a curate's importuning sigh,
Save on the penury of ragged crape.
To blaze like beacons to the darken'd nations;
To roast old Satan, knock down Gammer Sin,
And for a pack of rascals hang the passions.
And now, for Justice' sake, let me petition:
Should Fortune chance to give thy charge a name,
Omit Miss Hannah's in the next edition.
EXPOSTULATION;
OR, AN ADDRESS TO MISS HANNAH MORE.
Whom thus thine adulation would befool:
Alas! a poor ephemeron is she;
A humming native of a British pool.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Miss HANNAH MORE having, with unmerited severity, nay, illiberality, attacked the poor poets en masse, alias in a lump, in the following terms, viz. ‘The poets again, who, to do them justice, are always ready to lend a helping hand when any mischief is to be done;’ I have, unlike Miss Hannah, preserved a Christian spirit on the occasion, a spirit whiich she every-where so fervently recommends, and meekly made my complaint in poetical expostulation, hoping that she will, with the usual assistance of her good friends the clergy, vouchsafe me an answer, in some measure to justify the slander, or expunge it in the next edition of what are called her Strictures on Female Education .
ARGUMENT.
The Poet begs to be informed of the Cause of Miss Hannah's Wrath—he praiseth the Mildness of the Poets—he putteth sly and shrewd Questions to Miss Hannah—Peter complaineth of Miss Hannah's general Sarcasm on himself and brother Bards—Peter puffeth himself—boasteth of the royal Attention to his Works—also of one of the Princesses, all the Favourites of Peter, whom Peter admireth and laudeth—also of Miss Tryon, late Maid of Honour, and the present Maids of Honour—likewise of the immortal Kotsciusko —Peter, with his accustomed Liberality, exhibiteth the Reverse of the Medal, describing the unfavourable Opinion entertained of him by the Blue-Stocking Club—he giveth the Anathema of a little old Man in Petticoats, called Urganda, an important Membress of the Society, and much attended to in the Debates— Dame Urganda calleth upon Miss Hannah to be the little David of the Club, and slay Goliah Peter—Peter cannot account for Miss Hannah's Attack on the Poets—He maketh Miss Hannah a grand Offer of composing a glorious Panegyric on her splendid Genius, the very Instant Miss Hannah informs him where it is to be found.
Why boils thus o'er the caldron of thine ire?
A dove-like offspring are the sons of song,
A cherub race the children of the lyre.
Poets were ever deem'd a sacred band,
Abounding with much virtue, meekness, grace;
Indeed a peaceful treasure to the land,
The robin redbreasts of the human race.
Oh! has no bard to Hannah pour'd an air;
With Hannah's beauty bid no stanza glow:
Her cheeks' warm roses, and her flaxen hair,
The lip of purple, and the neck of snow.
Oh! hast thou past through life without a rhime?
No sweet acrostic on thy liquid name?
No rebus, no conundrum's happy chime,
Proclaiming graces, and a hopeless flame?
Tell me, did no fond lover ever write
A decent distich on his fav'rite maid?
Not to his dear Lucretia once endite?
For sonneteering is the lover's trade.
Somewhat has wounded thee, 'tis very plain!
Revenge, I fear, lies rankling in thy heart;
Then say thy cause of anger and disdain—
Why on poor Poets hast thou been so tart?
And me a poet, majesty will own:
Nay, nay, my glory why should I conceal?
My works, morocco-gilt, are near the throne.
The charming princesses who court the Nine,
Whom Taste delighted proudly leads along—
These, with a smile, have read my early line,
And with their names shall grace my latest song.
Miss Tyron, maid of honour to the queen,
In rich Morocco bid my works be bound:
Beneath the pillows of the rest, I ween,
The works of Peter Pindar may be found.
Me Kotsciusco deems a bard divine!
My works illum'd his dungeon of affright:
'Twas there the hero read my lyric line,
Yea, read my lucubrations with delight.
To sooth the horrors of our gloomy weather;
To him in Leicester-Fields with joy I went,
For bards and heroes pair like doves together.
Yet let me say, be done fair Justice too,
Some damn in toto my poor thoughts and style;
The toothless gums of half the grave Bas-bleu,
Watering, and wondering, how the world can smile.
Urganda, with more beard than female grace,
If old Urganda has not learnt to shave,
Makes, at my name, most horrible grimace,
Screaming, ‘I'd buy a rope to hang the knave.’
‘My dearest, sweetest, panegyrist, More,
Pray, pray oblige me with your flippant pen;
Lord; you have so much wit—yes, such a store!
Pray, Hannah, cut us up this worst of men.
Whene'er I hear his name, I'm in a stew;
He's worse than Johnson, ten times, let me say,
Who gave himself such airs on the Bas-bleu.
‘O Lord! O Lord! what is Parnassus now?
A dismal, barren, melancholy waste;
Brambles, and weeds, and briars on the brow;
No fruit—no fruit to gratify the taste.
‘In short, this once great celebrated hill
Exhibits only children at the nipple;
A hospital, indeed, that idiots fill,
And every sort of lame and hopping cripple.
‘On you, our little David, mind, we call,
To knock this vile Goliah on the head;
Down with him!—like a bullock let him fall;
Down with him!—Lord! I long to see him dead!
‘Then, then, the horrid monster grins no more;
Then at our club the owl no longer hoots:
Thus shall our club the glorious deed adore.’—
Thus spoke the little proud old puss in boots!
But now to thee, fair Hannah to return,
For much I long thy fury's cause to know;
Nought have I done to bid thine anger burn;
My ink can never blot the vest of snow.
Lo! to do justice—with a liberal spirit,
I'm now on tip-toe, to begin my lays!
Hint to the poet but thy various merit,
I'll make Parnassus thunder with thy praise.
DUPLICITY;[_]
How unlike the bishops of old are our modern men
of lawn! Formerly they were all pride, hyprocrisy,
insolence, and rapacity; but behold! the present
race are mild, affable, charitable, and generous;
and though so eminently exalted above their
half-starved curates, appear to have been bred
(gentle doves) in the bosom of humility.
How unlike the bishops of old are our modern men of lawn! Formerly they were all pride, hyprocrisy, insolence, and rapacity; but behold! the present race are mild, affable, charitable, and generous; and though so eminently exalted above their half-starved curates, appear to have been bred (gentle doves) in the bosom of humility.
OR, THE BISHOP OF OLD.
(Ours are a sweeter set of saints, I trow)
Was by his sovereign sent to rule abroad:
Immediately upon the news
Of his arrival, came some Jews
To compliment the mitred man of God.
‘D'ye think I'll see that vile apostate nation?
Run, Pierrot—drive them off—run faster, faster;
Tell them they crucified my Heavenly Master.’
Devoutly whispering in the bishops's ear—
These Jews bring presents! Lord! at least a sack.’
‘Ah! ah!’ replied the bishop—less austere—
These people could know nothing of the sin—
Poor creatures! well, well, Pierrot, let 'em in.’
SIMPLICITY;
OR, THE CURATE.
One or the other every moment mutters:
This wants an eastern, that a western wind;
A third, petition for a southern, utters.
How can Heav'n suit all palates?—I don't know.
Indeed by all his flock belov'd,
Was one dry summer begg'd to pray for rain:
The parson most devoutly pray'd—
The pow'rs of pray'r were soon display'd;
Immediately a torrent drench'd the plain.
Had of his meadow not yet sav'd the hay:
Thus was his hay to health quite past restoring.
It happen'd too that Robin was from home;
But when he heard the story, in a foam
He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.
A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing!
What! pray for rain before I sav'd my hay!
I that for ever help you all I can;
Ask you to dine with me and Mrs. Jay,
Whenever we have something on the spit,
Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;
Whose bones you are so fond of picking;
And often too a cag of brandy!
You that were welcome to a treat,
To smoke and chat, and drink and eat;
Making my house so very handy!
Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick.
What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies,
With my fine field of hay before your eyes!
A numscull, that I wer'n't of this aware!—
Curse me but I had stopp'd your pretty pray'r!’
I never thought upon your field of grass.
Was not the field just underneath your nose?
This is a very pretty losing job!’—
‘Sir,’ quoth the curate, ‘know that Harry Cobb
Your brother warden join'd, to have the pray'r.’
‘Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only sport:
What doth Cobb own that any rain can hurt?’
Roar'd furious Jay as broad as he could stare.
A few old houses only, and a barn,
As that's the case, zounds, what are show'rs to him?’
Not Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim.
Why force it down in buckets on the hay?
No! I'd have stopp'd the weather for a week.’
I acted solely for the best;
I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed.
Your anger for this once restrain,
I'll never bring a drop again
Till you and all the parish are agreed.’
ODE TO THE BLUE STOCKING-CLUB.
ARGUMENT.
Peter addresseth the old literary Ladies with much poetical Solemnity—beggeth their Pardon for taking Liberties with Miss Hannah More, one of the Columns of the Blue-Stocking-Club —he hinteth to them that Miss Hannah's last Book is not Miss Hannah's.—Peter illustrateth Miss Hannah's Manœuvres by a sublime Comparison of an old Mouser and her Daughter. —Peter indulgeth himself in another apt Comparison of a Fish-theft, thinking Miss Hannah may, in a sly Way, have borrowed her last publication; and adviseth the Restoration to the Proprietor.
Who fond of being deem'd illustrious names,
Proudly o'er Mount Parnassus cast your shoes;
In grave Divan, who most sublimely sit,
Pronouncing judgment upon works of Wit,
Indeed on all the labours of the mouse!
Who charms you seldom with his metre.
Has met with many a wanton drub
From that sly Proteus clepp'd Ridicule:
Whose talent is to sneer and laugh,
To call important matters raff,
And lower Wisdom sometimes to a fool.
Because I've treated in such fashion
Miss Hannah, whom you idolize and foster:
I do assure you, solemn dames,
Miss Hannah with no merit flames,
No! she's a little bit of an impostor.
Now, she's Miss Moon—and borroweth all her light.
Deliver a dead bird, or mouse, or rat,
To her young kitten, Miss Grimalkin?
Miss catches it with raptur'd claws,
Locks it at once within her jaws,
Round with cock'd tail, and round triumphant walking;
So carefully her treasure holding, watching,
And proudly purring, ‘This is all my catching.’
Too strongly she resembles it, I fear!
As I have somewhere said before,
Starts like the country lasses for the shift;
And just like Sylvia left behind,
By rivals, much against her mind,
Who stole before them by a lucky lift.
On some kind priest's—perchance a bishop's pad!
Miss Hannah's work, so much beprais'd,
By flattery's puff so highly rais'd;
I say Miss Hannah's pretty Education-book,
Of fishing parties starts a story,
Where one shall steal another's trout or dory,
And slily pull it in on his own hook.
I beg you, for your reputation's sake,
To sift this pretty larceny of the pen!
And as ye probably may find it out,
Confront Miss Hannah—kick up some small rout—
And make her give the man his fish again.
ODE TO SOME ROBIN REDBREASTS, IN A COUNTRY CATHEDRAL.
Your ditties sooth, delight, inspire;
That wake the echoes from their deep repose;
Soft echoes dying through the dome
(As though from spirits of the tomb),
Soon as your voices sink in plaintive close!
And let it never die away.
In gratitude so simply giv'n!
Celestials smile upon your songs of praise:
For to the chaste angelic ear
The grateful voice is ever near,
But loath'd the sounds that Affectation brays;
And yet how many a voice, and pipe, and chord,
Brays to the praise and glory of the Lord!
A jail broke loose!—a pack of hounds!
No, 'tis a bishop, dean, and bawling boys!
What uproar wild! The wolves of Thrace
Howl'd to the moon with sweeter grace;
Ev'n Libya's lions make not half the noise.
A kingdom for a pair of patent ears!
Din that disturbs, affrights, astounds;
How merciful is Heav'n, to bear the bother,
And not knock one thick skull against the other!
As oft they ope the volume of their throat,
Their gullets gape not of their own accord:—
'Tis money, money only, prompts the note.
Heav'n's cherubs blush, and burning seraphs stare,
To think that bribes must purchase praise and pray'r.
Now all the ear-distracting train
Has left the dome, the cherub peace restor'd.—
How different your delighting throats!
How different all your liquid notes!
How different too your merits with the Lord!
For how can Heav'n with venal sounds be taken,
Tainted with ale and gin, and eggs and bacon?
Resume, resume the choral song,
And make atonement for the horrid cry.
Lo! in her shroud, near yonder tomb,
A gentle spectre breaks the gloom!
She listens!—lo! she listens with a sigh!
Ah! bid your airs divinely flow,
And, soothing, steal a tear from woe.
They wrap the hollow-sounding aisle,
And steal each column from the eye:
What solemn solitude around!
Here Nature's true sublime is found,
Hence Thought should travel to the sky!
At early dawn I quit my cell,
And haste a pilgrim, to these shrines again:
Simplicity will join my way,
And listen to your mingled lay,
And, list'ning, learn a lesson from your strain.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |