Guy's Porridge Pot A Poem, In Twenty-Four Books. The First Part [by R. E. Landor] |
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| I. |
| II. | BOOK II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Guy's Porridge Pot |  |
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT.
A SOLEMN address to the Spirits by whom I am inspired. Their office—power—dignity—and origin. Why preferable to Apollo and the Muses. Vows of perfect and perpetual devotion to them.—The story, according to Aristotle, abruptly commenced. News—of what—by whom carried—to whom brought—The Hero of the Poem—The elbow chair—The speech—Prediction—Preparations—A beautiful allusion to Homer. The Hero superior, in some respects, to Agamemnon—His predictions accomplished. Conclusion.
Macbeth.
Scene—The same till it shifts. Time—The same till it changes.
That nightly loose my stammering tongue;
That fire my brain, and fill my soul
With visions dim, with nothing whole;
That bid misshapen forms arise
And stand revealed before mine eyes;
That multiply this candle here
To girandole or chandelier!
All hail! ye powers of every sort
Whether ye boast your birth from port,
Or, bound to let the truth appear,
Blushing confess ye sprang from beer!
Thrice I invoke your sacred line
Spirits all hail! of beer and wine!
Address Apollo and the muses;
Inspired by you, I scorn to follow
Either the muses or Apollo.
And Pindus' tops, and Zephyr's wings,
With lists, which poets must remember,
Seem out of season in December;
And all the rocks and woods together
May sleep, for me, till warmer weather;
Besides I said (prim. vide Tom.)
Though called and called they never come.
Sweet red-nosed spirits of my barrel,
But neither he nor Aristotle
Parts me from you, or Baby Bottle!
That Fox is chosen secretary!
Post-office, shambles, bank, and fish-shop,
Resound prophetic of a bishop.
Happy the man who first arrives
To tell the doctor how he thrives,
What people say, how sure they are
That none stand half the chance of—
So firm a friend, so fine a writer,
His wig so suited to a mitre,
And many pretty things beside,
Feigned just as fast as he could ride.
The doctor takes his elbow chair.
To ask the cook if Jane is gone
Through garden, orchard, field, and house,
In search of daughter and of spouse.
He thus begins from elbow chair.
“ Our brother tells us that the weight
Of fearful things in church and state,
Ecclesiastical and civil—
Press sorely on, in short, demand
Some wiser head, and firmer hand;
And thus, as fit for seals and see,
The people look to Fox and me.
From East to West, from North to South,
With anxious eyes and gaping mouth,
Congratulation sallies forth—
The roads are covered with the cloth,
And fortune, as she used before,
Will bring them in while clock strikes four.
Lay down the spit, the kettle put on
For turkey, chicken, beef, and mutton;
Ralph take this key, you know the sort,
Some sherry, and my oldest port.”
Ralph takes the key with “yes my Lord”—
Low courtesying cook and Jane retire
To realms below of smoke and fire.
Forsook the radiant realms of love,
Then sought the tent, where slept the king.
And stood before Atrides' eyes
To tell—so Jove commanded—lies—
To call him lazy, bid him move,
Since all the gods shook hands above,
And swear those gods assembled will his
Success in war to vex Achilles:
Thus sent by none, divine or mortal,
This brother seeks the doctor's portal.
You must have seen, or heard, or read,
Feathers in swiftness yield to lead;
He mounts, he flies, he cuts the air,
For want of wings upon a mare,
And fills with vain and empty words
The doctor's scull like—House of Lords.
That what he whispered was not true;
Who hears the modern Somnus vows, he
Is twice as marvellous and drowsy.
Up stairs to dress in Sunday clothes:
Erect he sits beside the bed
As barber shaves his learned head—
Behold that head, like cloud-capt tower,
Adorned with monstrous cauliflower!
Still sounds the news, the ear still itches,
While shirt is air'd, and changed are breeches:
Next waistcoat smooth as e'er was worn,
The stuff is silk, the buttons horn:
With long loose skirts a well-brushed coat,
A stock stiff starched about his throat,
And polished shoes to grace his feet,—
So all is comely, all is neat.
Than Agamemnon king of men;
Who dressed and hurried from the place,
Nor washed his hands, nor washed his face.
How true is what the doctor told
“From East to West, from North to South,
With anxious eyes, and gaping mouth,
The roads are covered with the cloth,
And fortune brings them to his door
Just as he said, while clock strikes four!”
Let not my candid reader imagine that I intend to gratify his malevolence by exposing the defects alone of this extraordinary character. There are enough of those who wish to elevate themselves, by depressing their neighbours. It is however possible to laugh at the foibles of a man, without detracting from his worth: besides this man stands in the very middle of my canvass, and how could he be omitted. (If this be a bull, so much the better for Reviewer, but to return.) My uncle Toby is not the less amiable for his whims. They endear him to the reader, and he gains almost as much by eccentricity as by benevolence. But this is only the case where eccentricity and benevolence are united. The person of whom I am speaking, is not inferior to my uncle Toby in whims and simplicity, or to any man in information and νους. Learning and eloquence are the most remarkable parts of his character, but the least estimable. True, there is much in it offensive to the prudish, ridiculous to the cunning, abominable to the hypocritical: but amends are made by the candid and enlightened—by a consciousness, which arises from experience, that those men who have known him the longest, must reverence him the most. You perceive, perhaps, that the subject has made me dull and serious—perhaps you perceived the former before. Now supposing that he has dared to follow me so far, I have anticipated the critic—But to return a second time. I may tickle, but I would not sting the doctor. I gather my nettles for the asses which surround him, and not for himself or his friends.
Aristotle says that Homer was accused of impiety for making Jupiter tell lies. Macrobius says it was not a lie, but a trick, and that Jupiter was not a knave but a conjurer. Mad. Dacier saw the distinction and stole it for herself. I use some one, as she used him: I show my learning, but do not tell from whom I had it. To see this subject in all its different lights consult Dacier, Macrob.—Strabo, 1. 8.—Aul. Gell.—Arist. Topic.—Politian Præf. in Hom.—Maxim. Tyr. Diss. 17.—Plut. Schol.—Pind. in Nem.— Proclus de Tim.—Plat. Tim.—Plut.—Plac. Phil.—Arist. de Anim.—Trag. Œdip.—Hyde, Rel. Ant. Pers.—Vita Pyth. Por. —Athæn. Kirch.—Justin B. I.—Plac. Phil.—Paley Mor. Phil.— Grot.
If you know any thing about Homer, you must know that six or seven hundred commentators have considered the want of similitude in his similies as their greatest perfection. I too, in the beginning of mine, have cautiously avoided any unpoetical resemblance.
I have spoken with great admiration of the Doctor's dress, but others have declared that formerly he could raise mustard and cress upon his hat crown.
Had these same prophetic tidings been true, and I wish indeed that they had, there is one great episcopal duty in which the Doctor would have yielded to none of his brethren. He has been qualifying himself most assiduously in the exercise of hospitality for a great many years; and if, as I have hinted in another place, his own morning calls are occasionally a little later than custom prescribes, it is accordant with that universal and unerring rule which instructs us to do as we would that others should do unto us.
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