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 |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| NIL ADMIRARI;
|
|
|
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |