 | The Puffiad |  |
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THE PUFFIAD.
I. PART I.
“Et nos ergo manum ferulæ subduximus, et nos
Consilium dedimus Sullæ, privatus ut altum
Dormiret.—Stulta est clementia.”
—Juv. 1.
Consilium dedimus Sullæ, privatus ut altum
Dormiret.—Stulta est clementia.”
—Juv. 1.
ARGUMENTUM.
The Poet commenceth with a respectful announcement of his subject, and invoketh the Muse to afford him a sufficient quantum of inspiration.—Inasmuch as the times must be in a rotten state to patronize Puffery, it has been deemed proper, in the first place, to take a rapid survey of them, particularly as regards their literary character—the delightful subject of national refinement —march of learning—literature degraded by a host of dabblers— incondite twaddle daily produced—corruption of the English language—want of originality—polite lamentation over the “divine art,” &c.
Of puffs defrauding, and the puffing race,
The curse of learning, and the land's disgrace,
I sing. Accomplish'd Heliconian Miss,
Descend, and aid a task divine as this!
Diffuse sweet influence through all my brain,
Balance the periods, keep in tune the strain;
When low, upraise,—direct me when I fly!
And all but smut and modern slang supply;
Illume, refine, and regulate my song,
Perch on my page, and puff the verse along.
The curse of learning, and the land's disgrace,
I sing. Accomplish'd Heliconian Miss,
Descend, and aid a task divine as this!
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Balance the periods, keep in tune the strain;
When low, upraise,—direct me when I fly!
And all but smut and modern slang supply;
Illume, refine, and regulate my song,
Perch on my page, and puff the verse along.
And, first, I'll thank my stars I live in times
Genteelly tinctured with the best of crimes,
When Vice herself puts on a dainty mien,
Minces her air, and struts in every scene.
Our ancestors —monotonously good!
Liv'd on, poor souls! as virtuous as they could;
So plainly honest, and so bluntly pure,
They liv'd in calm simplicity secure;
Content to make their paradise at home,
They seldom frisk'd in France, or whined at Rome;
No snug elopement, or polite crim. con.,
For paper-grubs, or law, to live upon,—
No London trip, to run the crazy round
Of Vice above, and Folly under ground,—
By rich or poor was courted or required,
While duty triumph'd and plain sense inspired.
Genteelly tinctured with the best of crimes,
When Vice herself puts on a dainty mien,
Minces her air, and struts in every scene.
Our ancestors —monotonously good!
Liv'd on, poor souls! as virtuous as they could;
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They liv'd in calm simplicity secure;
Content to make their paradise at home,
They seldom frisk'd in France, or whined at Rome;
No snug elopement, or polite crim. con.,
For paper-grubs, or law, to live upon,—
No London trip, to run the crazy round
Of Vice above, and Folly under ground,—
By rich or poor was courted or required,
While duty triumph'd and plain sense inspired.
How mean and moping such Arcadian life!
No headlong spirits to produce a strife;
No stage-worn beldames to amuse the land
With wedding fuss, or love at second hand;
No dirty demirep, or paltry peer
To cram the papers with his foul career:
Good heavens! how dull the way of life they trod,—
Adorn'd their country, and adored their God!
No headlong spirits to produce a strife;
No stage-worn beldames to amuse the land
With wedding fuss, or love at second hand;
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To cram the papers with his foul career:
Good heavens! how dull the way of life they trod,—
Adorn'd their country, and adored their God!
Yes! 'tis our blessed lot to live in days
That Paine might well approve, and Cobbett praise;
Thurtells and Fauntleroys,—that fearless clan,
Who risk their necks to raise the name of man,
Unceasing rise, the gaping world astound,
Die unabash'd, and shed a halo round.
And say, without some daring, dashing soul,
Fierce in the cause, indignant of control,
With comet splendour in his course of crime—
Why, how could Fashion fool away her time?
That Paine might well approve, and Cobbett praise;
Thurtells and Fauntleroys,—that fearless clan,
Who risk their necks to raise the name of man,
Unceasing rise, the gaping world astound,
Die unabash'd, and shed a halo round.
And say, without some daring, dashing soul,
Fierce in the cause, indignant of control,
With comet splendour in his course of crime—
Why, how could Fashion fool away her time?
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Now, sweet seductions, and adult'rers frail,
For sentimental drabs to weep and wail;
And juvenilian cutthroats, paid by tears,
That wash the blood-stain from their tender years,—
All, in their turn, supply the saintly isle
With tales that strike, and stories that beguile;
While the chaste press,—immortal babe of Truth!
Selects the rankest to instruct our youth,
And plaster'd shutters so intensely sue,
That crowds turn vicious as they loll to view.
For sentimental drabs to weep and wail;
And juvenilian cutthroats, paid by tears,
That wash the blood-stain from their tender years,—
All, in their turn, supply the saintly isle
With tales that strike, and stories that beguile;
While the chaste press,—immortal babe of Truth!
Selects the rankest to instruct our youth,
And plaster'd shutters so intensely sue,
That crowds turn vicious as they loll to view.
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And here, fair Muse! applaud the rich who roam
To sun-rouged lands,—and leave their debts at home;
Who catch the Gallic smile—th' Ausonian mien,
And glossy manners of a foreign scene,
And thence returning, kindly spread around
The continental itch on British ground.
To sun-rouged lands,—and leave their debts at home;
Who catch the Gallic smile—th' Ausonian mien,
And glossy manners of a foreign scene,
And thence returning, kindly spread around
The continental itch on British ground.
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So shall religion, dress, and language,—all
That once was British, be absorb'd in Gaul;
So shall each genuine trait of English growth
Dwindle away in dastard vice and sloth;
Candour shall yield unto obsequious art,
And “John Bull” in the Gallic ape depart.
That once was British, be absorb'd in Gaul;
So shall each genuine trait of English growth
Dwindle away in dastard vice and sloth;
Candour shall yield unto obsequious art,
And “John Bull” in the Gallic ape depart.
Refinement!—Say, in country or in town,
In lord or lubber, courtier or in clown,
Above, beneath,—where is not man refined?
Behold the glorious gallop of the mind!
O joy! we've lived Augustan times to see,
Scour'd from the rust of stern antiquity;
New means, new manners, and new morals rise,—
A new creation starts before our eyes!
In lord or lubber, courtier or in clown,
Above, beneath,—where is not man refined?
Behold the glorious gallop of the mind!
O joy! we've lived Augustan times to see,
Scour'd from the rust of stern antiquity;
New means, new manners, and new morals rise,—
A new creation starts before our eyes!
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The sage and quack, the patriot and the rogue,
With fresh endowments lead the modern vogue;
Villains in show'rs descend upon the land,
The poor look wealthy, and the little grand;
Cooks for our wits,—the kitchen turn'd a court,—
Ethics in grins, philosophy in sport,—
Like an old shoe, all antient modes are cast
To rot and ruin—where we go at last.
With fresh endowments lead the modern vogue;
Villains in show'rs descend upon the land,
The poor look wealthy, and the little grand;
Cooks for our wits,—the kitchen turn'd a court,—
Ethics in grins, philosophy in sport,—
Like an old shoe, all antient modes are cast
To rot and ruin—where we go at last.
Then rise, accomplish'd country!—rise and strut—
Rouged and brocaded, like a sumptuous slut;
To all the world thy brazen aspect bend,—
Be foppish, fine, and fulsome without end.
Rouged and brocaded, like a sumptuous slut;
To all the world thy brazen aspect bend,—
Be foppish, fine, and fulsome without end.
Amid the gen'ral march, is learning left
To lag behind, unfoster'd and bereft?
Fie on the thought! where'er we turn to look,
The nation seems one universal book!
O'er N---n's trash bedridden beldames strain,
Wink their sore eyes, and sigh for youth again;
Pale miss in lavender, at sultry noon,
Pants o'er her luscious page, in wanton swoon;
While the fat cook, lit by some ardent lay,
Like a mould candle, melts and dies away!—
Why not? Must Knowledge pamper courts alone,
And plant her college round King George's throne?
Shall rank monopolize book, pen, and all
That arms the great, and terrifies the small?
Away! free as the wind let Knowledge reign,
Prance through the town, and canter o'er the plain;
Like a mad cracker, let her whisk and run,
And brighten every hole beneath the sun;
Refine the dustman, soothe the market jade,
And jumble rank, professions, arts, and trade;
From thrones to dung-heaps, let her queenship rule,
Till pert old England strut one pompous school!
To lag behind, unfoster'd and bereft?
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The nation seems one universal book!
O'er N---n's trash bedridden beldames strain,
Wink their sore eyes, and sigh for youth again;
Pale miss in lavender, at sultry noon,
Pants o'er her luscious page, in wanton swoon;
While the fat cook, lit by some ardent lay,
Like a mould candle, melts and dies away!—
Why not? Must Knowledge pamper courts alone,
And plant her college round King George's throne?
Shall rank monopolize book, pen, and all
That arms the great, and terrifies the small?
Away! free as the wind let Knowledge reign,
Prance through the town, and canter o'er the plain;
Like a mad cracker, let her whisk and run,
And brighten every hole beneath the sun;
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And jumble rank, professions, arts, and trade;
From thrones to dung-heaps, let her queenship rule,
Till pert old England strut one pompous school!
“'Sdeath!” cries our Pericles, “would you presume
To fetter Knowledge—plunge the mind in gloom?
Not I! Long may her wanton wings expand!
May learning spread, and paper all the land!
Immortal glories, red-faced Richard, shine
On heads so honest, and so huge as thine;
Proceed!—vamp, print, and puff for infant kind,
From thine exhaustless anti-Newton mind.
To fetter Knowledge—plunge the mind in gloom?
Not I! Long may her wanton wings expand!
May learning spread, and paper all the land!
Immortal glories, red-faced Richard, shine
On heads so honest, and so huge as thine;
Proceed!—vamp, print, and puff for infant kind,
From thine exhaustless anti-Newton mind.
Squat on thy warehouse throne, of pamphlets piled,
Plump as a hen, cherubic as a child,
Methinks I see thee in a pensive mood,
Balance thy purse, and then—thy country's good, —
Till the full mind, o'ercome with grateful load,
Like a swell'd bladder, strains, and bursts abroad:—
“Come on, ye studious youths! advance and buy,—
None sell so cheap—none stitch so tight as I;
For you I've left the starry track above,
Drawn by the force of patriotic love;
For you I've pillaged from the pond'rous page,
And hash'd up wisdom to befit your age:
My words are wise, the meaning well express'd—
Read, mark, and learn, and inwardly digest;
Make me your model; debts and dues prolong;
And mind, when cash is short, that credit's strong!
Plump as a hen, cherubic as a child,
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Balance thy purse, and then—thy country's good, —
Till the full mind, o'ercome with grateful load,
Like a swell'd bladder, strains, and bursts abroad:—
“Come on, ye studious youths! advance and buy,—
None sell so cheap—none stitch so tight as I;
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Drawn by the force of patriotic love;
For you I've pillaged from the pond'rous page,
And hash'd up wisdom to befit your age:
My words are wise, the meaning well express'd—
Read, mark, and learn, and inwardly digest;
Make me your model; debts and dues prolong;
And mind, when cash is short, that credit's strong!
One sorry truth, still, who will dare deny?
Though books are boundless, merit's vanish'd by;
And tasteful toil, and genius trimm'd with care,
That made our English models what they are,
Are unregarded now,—when all can write
And thrust incondite twaddle on the sight.
Though books are boundless, merit's vanish'd by;
And tasteful toil, and genius trimm'd with care,
That made our English models what they are,
Are unregarded now,—when all can write
And thrust incondite twaddle on the sight.
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Facility
—that dismal, dreadful curse!
Has mangled prose, and victimised our verse;—
Has made our lit'rature a public pool,
To catch the brain-dregs of the hack and fool;
Where all may go, and dabble as they will,
And drop the crude disasters of their quill,
Till the base mess has bred to such decay,
That Genius looks—and turns, half sick, away.
Has mangled prose, and victimised our verse;—
Has made our lit'rature a public pool,
To catch the brain-dregs of the hack and fool;
Where all may go, and dabble as they will,
And drop the crude disasters of their quill,
Till the base mess has bred to such decay,
That Genius looks—and turns, half sick, away.
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Say, ye who love to haunt that fruitful mine,
Where truth and taste in glowing union shine;
Who love the page by mellow genius fraught,
The teeming fancy, and the beauteous thought,
The wit and feeling—all that nameless grace
That marks the sterling talent from the base,—
Can ye admire th' unmeaning modern gang,
Who manufacture tomes of trash and slang,
The effervescent fume of ropy brains,
Begot by dulness, and brought forth with pains?
Where truth and taste in glowing union shine;
Who love the page by mellow genius fraught,
The teeming fancy, and the beauteous thought,
The wit and feeling—all that nameless grace
That marks the sterling talent from the base,—
Can ye admire th' unmeaning modern gang,
Who manufacture tomes of trash and slang,
The effervescent fume of ropy brains,
Begot by dulness, and brought forth with pains?
Plain English, undefiled, correctly pure,
Where native force and nervous sounds allure,
Now rarely greets us in the gauzy page,
Spun out to suit this puffing, piping age.
In Latin patch-work, and in French brocade,
Twisted and tortured, see our language fade;
A mongrel compost, called a polished style,
Mere flippant, fine-wove drivel, crude and vile—
With this the greasy press eternal teems,—
For this Rag Fair is robb'd to raise the reams!
Where native force and nervous sounds allure,
Now rarely greets us in the gauzy page,
Spun out to suit this puffing, piping age.
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Twisted and tortured, see our language fade;
A mongrel compost, called a polished style,
Mere flippant, fine-wove drivel, crude and vile—
With this the greasy press eternal teems,—
For this Rag Fair is robb'd to raise the reams!
But, sure! our modern page may proudly show
Its racy humour, and its easy flow,—
And pathos,—sprinkled o'er with dots and strokes,
And sudden bars to serve for equivoques,
While lean italics every period mark,
And plunge rank nonsense further in the dark;
When thus bedeck'd, a book may make pretence
To all the graces of excluded sense!
Its racy humour, and its easy flow,—
And pathos,—sprinkled o'er with dots and strokes,
And sudden bars to serve for equivoques,
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And plunge rank nonsense further in the dark;
When thus bedeck'd, a book may make pretence
To all the graces of excluded sense!
A book original, oh! who can find,
Amid the wordy waste of modern mind?
Though tomes on tomes come chirping by the score,
They are but skeletons of trash before.
Dull scribbling cannibals, our authors sit,
And grin, and gorge upon each other's wit;
From stuff to stuff, triumphant they proceed,
And steal or lend, as empty skulls may need;
From hand to hand it goes, till hunted down,—
One good idea serves a reading town!
Amid the wordy waste of modern mind?
Though tomes on tomes come chirping by the score,
They are but skeletons of trash before.
Dull scribbling cannibals, our authors sit,
And grin, and gorge upon each other's wit;
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And steal or lend, as empty skulls may need;
From hand to hand it goes, till hunted down,—
One good idea serves a reading town!
And Poetry—the very sound will throw
A bankrupt gloom on Paternoster Row,
Who mourns not for her unredeem'd disgrace,
Defiled by such a reptile rhyming race,
Who crawl and drag their slimy verse around,
Like creeping snails upon the humid ground?
O! was there not a muse-ennobled time,
When Glory hover'd round the hallow'd rhyme,
And poesy was deem'd celestial art,
To charm and tune the life-strings of the heart?
When cultur'd Genius held the pen's control,
And dash'd the feeling burning from the soul,
While Fancy caught th' immortal spark of fire,
Blazed it in verse, and bade a world admire?
A bankrupt gloom on Paternoster Row,
Who mourns not for her unredeem'd disgrace,
Defiled by such a reptile rhyming race,
Who crawl and drag their slimy verse around,
Like creeping snails upon the humid ground?
O! was there not a muse-ennobled time,
When Glory hover'd round the hallow'd rhyme,
And poesy was deem'd celestial art,
To charm and tune the life-strings of the heart?
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And dash'd the feeling burning from the soul,
While Fancy caught th' immortal spark of fire,
Blazed it in verse, and bade a world admire?
That time hath fled!—Then, poetry was mind,
Turn'd into print, by innate force inclined;
Not the sick dreamings of a drowsy head,
Steep'd in the dulness of the page that's read;
Nor foggy raptures of a six years' strain,
Or meagre drippings of a barren brain.
Turn'd into print, by innate force inclined;
Not the sick dreamings of a drowsy head,
Steep'd in the dulness of the page that's read;
Nor foggy raptures of a six years' strain,
Or meagre drippings of a barren brain.
Alack! for Poetry—each numskull now,
At the bare word, lifts up his mocking brow,
Hooks his nice nose, dilates his staring eye,
And then, with shrugging pertness, speeds to cry—
“Read poetry! that trashy, turbid stuff!
So vile, it wont repay a Sunday Puff!
The world's rhyme-bloated,—burn your luckless verse,
And spare at once your credit and your purse;
Once dubbed a “poet,” and that odious name
Will cast a vap'ry shadow round your fame.”
At the bare word, lifts up his mocking brow,
Hooks his nice nose, dilates his staring eye,
And then, with shrugging pertness, speeds to cry—
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So vile, it wont repay a Sunday Puff!
The world's rhyme-bloated,—burn your luckless verse,
And spare at once your credit and your purse;
Once dubbed a “poet,” and that odious name
Will cast a vap'ry shadow round your fame.”
Ask ye the reason, why the Muse, distress'd,
Weeps o'er her classic laurels once possess'd?
Go, find it in the hourly grubs that rise,
From ponds of tear-drops, and from caves of sighs.
Who sweat and swell, then burst abroad in verse,
And make themselves and poesy a curse!
How shall we number all the whining gang
Of mope-eyed things, that sound their ceaseless twang!
What odes, and elegies, on cats and dogs,
What brilliant pictures of romantic fogs!
What splay-foot madrigals—what ragged lays,
In every spot obtrude upon the gaze!
From the pert monthly patch of couplets small,
To the brown distich on a barber's wall.
Weeps o'er her classic laurels once possess'd?
Go, find it in the hourly grubs that rise,
From ponds of tear-drops, and from caves of sighs.
Who sweat and swell, then burst abroad in verse,
And make themselves and poesy a curse!
How shall we number all the whining gang
Of mope-eyed things, that sound their ceaseless twang!
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What brilliant pictures of romantic fogs!
What splay-foot madrigals—what ragged lays,
In every spot obtrude upon the gaze!
From the pert monthly patch of couplets small,
To the brown distich on a barber's wall.
Like a mix'd herd of pigs, the sons of rhyme,
Methinks I see them up Parnassus climb:
One grunts an epic with a hideous howl,
And nods his pond'rous head, and shakes his jowl;
Another, half between a grunt and groan,
Snuffles along, delighted with his tone;
The last, a little whimp'ring, frisky thing,
Squeaks a shrill stanza on the state and king.
Methinks I see them up Parnassus climb:
One grunts an epic with a hideous howl,
And nods his pond'rous head, and shakes his jowl;
Another, half between a grunt and groan,
Snuffles along, delighted with his tone;
The last, a little whimp'ring, frisky thing,
Squeaks a shrill stanza on the state and king.
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Two faults, amid ten thousand more, combine
To bring dishonour on the poet's line;
Facility and Dulness:—both alike
With sickly weariness the reader strike:
First comes your vain-struck versifying fool,
Who boasts at every hour his rhyme to rule;
So acquiescent is his frothy Muse,
She drivels nonsense whensoe'er he choose;
By sea or land—at supper or at tea—
Abed or up—one living rhyme is he!
To bring dishonour on the poet's line;
Facility and Dulness:—both alike
With sickly weariness the reader strike:
First comes your vain-struck versifying fool,
Who boasts at every hour his rhyme to rule;
So acquiescent is his frothy Muse,
She drivels nonsense whensoe'er he choose;
By sea or land—at supper or at tea—
Abed or up—one living rhyme is he!
And round him, when he takes his quill in hand,
What viewless trash-inspiring Spirits stand!
First, Flippancy with her insensate tongue,
Then Metaphor amid her daubings hung,
Then Rhyme, with bells upon her hands and toes,
And nimble Nonsense cackling as she goes!
Thus aided, boldly is the strain begun,
And ready lines like loosen'd sluices run;
While in one changeless, inexpressive chime,
The syllables rush scamp'ring into rhyme!
What viewless trash-inspiring Spirits stand!
First, Flippancy with her insensate tongue,
Then Metaphor amid her daubings hung,
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And nimble Nonsense cackling as she goes!
Thus aided, boldly is the strain begun,
And ready lines like loosen'd sluices run;
While in one changeless, inexpressive chime,
The syllables rush scamp'ring into rhyme!
Meanwhile, upon the canvass of his mind,
What Claude-like scenes of gaudy tints refined;
Landscapes, supplied with prime Parnassian trees,
And virgin sighs inserted in the breeze;
Moon, lake, and grove—and all the colours due,
In one rich mess rise on the reader's view!
How bright it looks! the words how smooth and fine!
“Dear me!” cries Flimsy, “can such strains be mine?'
What Claude-like scenes of gaudy tints refined;
Landscapes, supplied with prime Parnassian trees,
And virgin sighs inserted in the breeze;
Moon, lake, and grove—and all the colours due,
In one rich mess rise on the reader's view!
How bright it looks! the words how smooth and fine!
“Dear me!” cries Flimsy, “can such strains be mine?'
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Enough:—the pen is wiped,—the piece complete,
And, like a twelfth-cake, figured, spruce, and sweet;
Then serv'd up to the public's sated eye,—
The stupid praise—but all refuse to buy!
Still unabash'd, the Bard retires to write,
With desp'rate fury, for his own delight.
And, like a twelfth-cake, figured, spruce, and sweet;
Then serv'd up to the public's sated eye,—
The stupid praise—but all refuse to buy!
Still unabash'd, the Bard retires to write,
With desp'rate fury, for his own delight.
Then comes your drowsy, dull, afflicting bore,
Infused with all the verse he's read before:
With many a long and uncongenial strain,
He melts a line from out his frosty brain:
So from the roof-tops, when the sun is felt,
Reluctant snows in liquid crystal melt:
Unmoved by genius, whose warm flames inspire,
And o'er the page exhale a mental fire,
With graceless toil he plies his stubborn art,
And writes too faultless to awake the heart;
Obtusely chaste, and so correct indeed,
Our heads grow sleepy as we try to read;
Till tired and sicken'd with the languid stuff,
We curse the poet, and exclaim, “Enough!”
Infused with all the verse he's read before:
With many a long and uncongenial strain,
He melts a line from out his frosty brain:
So from the roof-tops, when the sun is felt,
Reluctant snows in liquid crystal melt:
Unmoved by genius, whose warm flames inspire,
And o'er the page exhale a mental fire,
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And writes too faultless to awake the heart;
Obtusely chaste, and so correct indeed,
Our heads grow sleepy as we try to read;
Till tired and sicken'd with the languid stuff,
We curse the poet, and exclaim, “Enough!”
Noticulæ Quædam.
“Μηνιν αειδε, --- ---.”“Of man's first disobedience, &c.”
—Milton.
“The mighty mother, and her son, who brings
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing!”
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing!”
Dunciad.
Noticulæ Quædam.
“Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race,Patterns of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace.”
—Cowper.
Noticulæ Quædam. There is one thing, which the author ventures to think, that has escaped the notice of our philanthropical patriots—the state of the Sunday Press:—To describe red-faced peasants, romantically dissecting the news over their ale, is very pretty in poetry; but the plain truth is, that the quantity of filth, obscenity, and blasphemy diffused through the nation every Monday morning, forms a complete bar to every patriotic attempt; for what the mechanics, &c. &c. have learnt during the six days, is undone or debased by what they peruse on the Sabbath; on which day a number of journals present them with a faithful record of all the bestial occurrences and disgusting depravities of the week: the placard-bills which plaster the shutters of the news' offices in the metropolis, on Sunday mornings, are, in themselves, a powerful satire on the morals of the people.
Noticulæ Quædam. This personage is by no means singular in his patriotism: generally speaking, the origin of modern patriotism, when traced home, is nothing else but self-interest: Cobbett, &c. &c. &c., and similar democratical buffoons, would have been hotheaded tories, if they could have made the same money by it as they have by bellowing and blustering about “the rights of the people.” But the “people” love to have their betters abused; and he who can fire away in a furious style against rank, and howl industriously the decay of liberty, &c. &c., and, like the clap-trap makers in the comedies of the day, introduce magnanimous nonsense about “a Briton,” becomes the darling of all the scum in the country.
Noticulæ Quædam. In Addison's time, an author was a complete magnet in society; in ours, he is quite a common-place character, often to be shunned rather than courted.—Indeed, such are now the multitudes of book-makers, that you can scarcely put your head into a decent drawing-room, without running it against some one who is “The Author” of certain celebrated rubbish:—“That's Mr. So-and-so; don't you know him? he is the author of—.” “Is he, indeed?—Humph—can't say I ever read his work!”
Noticulæ Quædam. This is one of the tricks very popular among the trashpurveyors of the day. Pigmy ideas, when introduced amid the pomp of breaks, interjections, and interrogations, remind one of puss in pattens:—“Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write naturally; not hunt after lofty expressions to deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping when we only mean to deliver a whisper.”—Goldsmith.
53
II. PART II.
“Puff him up with glory, till it swell
And break him.”
Denham.
And break him.”
Denham.
“Quid referam, quantâ siccum jecur ardeat irâ,
Quum populum—premit hic spoliator.”
—Juv. 1.
Quum populum—premit hic spoliator.”
—Juv. 1.
ARGUMENTUM.
Prince Puff—manuscript treasury—Puff-proceedings—specimens of Puffs—Puffs irresistible—their impression on Fashionables —Puff monopoly unattainable—rivals—multitude of authors— qualifications of an ephemeral book-maker—glance at our chief Puff-fed authors and works—reminiscents, &c.—cooks and quacks —C---d's.
Address to Puffers-general—freedom of the press—critics par metier, alias “the wes”—a genuine critic—certain quacks— origin of Puffery—Puff-bought fame—the man who wins his laurels by desert—conclusion.
Thus having mark'd the morals of the time,
The trot of Dulness and the march of Crime,
Fountain of Puffs! to thee—to thee belong
The flaming wonders of our future song.
The trot of Dulness and the march of Crime,
Fountain of Puffs! to thee—to thee belong
The flaming wonders of our future song.
And what a man of privilege art thou!
Come forth, my hero! rear thy brazen brow:
While peerless Scott, whose vast Shakspearian mind
Like a new world hath open'd on mankind,
Is forced to sound the caverns of his soul,
Ere the charm'd Age adore its grand control,—
Thou, in thy happier rank, at ease can rule,
And turn the reading herd one mighty fool!
Free from thy pen the sibyl periods fall,
Doom'd to attract, and triumph over all;
Touch'd by thy genius' titillating ray,
See the great master-passion faint away!
Yes! six short lines from thy magnetic quill
Both sage and dunce with longing fancies fill,—
The pockets jingle—lies nor sense restrain,—
And Puff retires to chuckle o'er his gain!
Come forth, my hero! rear thy brazen brow:
54
Like a new world hath open'd on mankind,
Is forced to sound the caverns of his soul,
Ere the charm'd Age adore its grand control,—
Thou, in thy happier rank, at ease can rule,
And turn the reading herd one mighty fool!
Free from thy pen the sibyl periods fall,
Doom'd to attract, and triumph over all;
Touch'd by thy genius' titillating ray,
See the great master-passion faint away!
Yes! six short lines from thy magnetic quill
Both sage and dunce with longing fancies fill,—
The pockets jingle—lies nor sense restrain,—
And Puff retires to chuckle o'er his gain!
55
Close to that street where noontide puppies haste,
To pull the whisker and to sport the waist,
Where, long and lean, an apish concourse meet,
And scent, like civet cats, the crowded street,
One dome there is, where manuscripts abound,
Turn into print, and spread pollution round:
Here authors, shirtless, hatless, of all hues,
From volume-hacks to grubbers for reviews,
Thick as the blights on wintry trees, resort,
As to one common, all-directing court;
Hence Ramsgate tourists, full of far renown,
With greasy quartos stuff the stupid town!
Hence novel-vampers, fraught with lackey lore,
Supply St. James's with their kitchen store;
Hence reminiscent rubbish, picked from brains
Addled and heavy with their rakish pains,
In fat octavos pester all the isle
With slip-slop, nasty, venomous, and vile;
Hence hungry hermits, Bow-Street blackguards, all
Book-vamping reptiles in this earthly ball,
In fetid volumes on the world intrude,
Spurr'd by the vulgar wish of getting food.
To pull the whisker and to sport the waist,
Where, long and lean, an apish concourse meet,
And scent, like civet cats, the crowded street,
One dome there is, where manuscripts abound,
Turn into print, and spread pollution round:
Here authors, shirtless, hatless, of all hues,
From volume-hacks to grubbers for reviews,
Thick as the blights on wintry trees, resort,
As to one common, all-directing court;
Hence Ramsgate tourists, full of far renown,
With greasy quartos stuff the stupid town!
56
Supply St. James's with their kitchen store;
Hence reminiscent rubbish, picked from brains
Addled and heavy with their rakish pains,
In fat octavos pester all the isle
With slip-slop, nasty, venomous, and vile;
Hence hungry hermits, Bow-Street blackguards, all
Book-vamping reptiles in this earthly ball,
In fetid volumes on the world intrude,
Spurr'd by the vulgar wish of getting food.
To this book-ars'nal, all who want a name,
And sweat along the dusty road to Fame,
All they who pant to buzz about the town
With simp'ring consciousness of small renown,
Resort, and in an antechamber sit,—
Their inky stuff, all duly smug and fit;
The glass door opes—a well-bred tool appears,
With smiles that shuffle from his mouth to ears;
A nimble one, and nicely formed to be
A pliant piece of snug duplicity;
No shop-bred pertness, or buffoon grimace,
Flutters and flashes o'er his busy face;
More courtly he! unlike that lump of---
Once ---'s bulldog,—vicious-minded ---:
True to the trade, his tact determines well,
What trash may not, and what is sure to sell;
And when poor Merit pleads her modest due,—
“Forgive me, sir, I'll keep the cash in view.”
And sweat along the dusty road to Fame,
All they who pant to buzz about the town
With simp'ring consciousness of small renown,
57
Their inky stuff, all duly smug and fit;
The glass door opes—a well-bred tool appears,
With smiles that shuffle from his mouth to ears;
A nimble one, and nicely formed to be
A pliant piece of snug duplicity;
No shop-bred pertness, or buffoon grimace,
Flutters and flashes o'er his busy face;
More courtly he! unlike that lump of---
Once ---'s bulldog,—vicious-minded ---:
True to the trade, his tact determines well,
What trash may not, and what is sure to sell;
And when poor Merit pleads her modest due,—
“Forgive me, sir, I'll keep the cash in view.”
58
“A hem!” a bow hath pass'd from head to head,
And, lo! a manuscript before them spread;
And thus the author:—“Gentle sir, I've brought
The midnight harvest of much toil and thought—
A novel!—just three volumes, when in print,”—
“The title, sir? What taking chapters in't?”
“The characters are all from life, you'll find;
I've ta'en a precious peep the scenes behind.
Broad hints that cannot fail to raise the dust,
A parry here, and there a desp'rate thrust;
Three lords unmask'd—a duchess to the life—
Crim-conic tales—much matrimonial strife—
Blues, blacks, and redcoats—duels fought by night,—
All in my page of ton and truth unite;
With now and then a most tremendous lie,
And slanders furnish'd in a full supply:—
I'm sure I'm safe,—to finish off my book
I bribed a housemaid and secured a cook!
I know your taste—the work must have a run,
Wing'd on the flying puffs of Burlington”—
The tool replies,—a promise on his cheek,—
“I think so too—you'll hear from me next week.”
And, lo! a manuscript before them spread;
And thus the author:—“Gentle sir, I've brought
The midnight harvest of much toil and thought—
A novel!—just three volumes, when in print,”—
“The title, sir? What taking chapters in't?”
“The characters are all from life, you'll find;
I've ta'en a precious peep the scenes behind.
Broad hints that cannot fail to raise the dust,
A parry here, and there a desp'rate thrust;
Three lords unmask'd—a duchess to the life—
Crim-conic tales—much matrimonial strife—
Blues, blacks, and redcoats—duels fought by night,—
All in my page of ton and truth unite;
59
And slanders furnish'd in a full supply:—
I'm sure I'm safe,—to finish off my book
I bribed a housemaid and secured a cook!
I know your taste—the work must have a run,
Wing'd on the flying puffs of Burlington”—
The tool replies,—a promise on his cheek,—
“I think so too—you'll hear from me next week.”
But where's the moving spirit of the whole,
Of puffs the prime quintessence and the soul?
Viewless to vulgar eyes, he sits alone,
With embryo puffs and papers round him thrown,
In the snug corner of a noiseless room
(True greatness loves to be enwrapt in gloom):
Here, unbeheld, he plies the live-long-day,
At composition short, but sure to pay.
No muggy tomes from the Museum store,
No mildew'd relics of the hacks of yore,
He needs! true genius prompts the glowing line
Where avarice and impudence combine:
The sterling vigour of his pen ne'er fails,
Alike in novels, memoirs, and in tales;—
Yes! mark the magic of its lies support,
With smutty trash, the country and the court,—
Wake tender itchings in the public mind,
Astound the learned, and mislead the blind:
His puffs appeal—the nation hears the call—
They strike, they tickle, and they cozen all!
Of puffs the prime quintessence and the soul?
Viewless to vulgar eyes, he sits alone,
With embryo puffs and papers round him thrown,
In the snug corner of a noiseless room
(True greatness loves to be enwrapt in gloom):
60
At composition short, but sure to pay.
No muggy tomes from the Museum store,
No mildew'd relics of the hacks of yore,
He needs! true genius prompts the glowing line
Where avarice and impudence combine:
The sterling vigour of his pen ne'er fails,
Alike in novels, memoirs, and in tales;—
Yes! mark the magic of its lies support,
With smutty trash, the country and the court,—
Wake tender itchings in the public mind,
Astound the learned, and mislead the blind:
His puffs appeal—the nation hears the call—
They strike, they tickle, and they cozen all!
61
As pyrotechnists, ere Vauxhall display
Fantastic fireworks on the gala day,
Frame little crackers to engage the eye,
Till fiery fountains spout unto the sky!
So Burlington, ere trash in full appear,
To close in mutton-pies its brief career,
By wily puffs, and most enticing ways,
Filters a work before the public gaze.
His boast it is (proceed, you happy man!
And gull the donkey nation while you can),
To force the vilest chaff reviews can quote,
Down, down the gaping country's glutton throat.
Fantastic fireworks on the gala day,
Frame little crackers to engage the eye,
Till fiery fountains spout unto the sky!
So Burlington, ere trash in full appear,
To close in mutton-pies its brief career,
By wily puffs, and most enticing ways,
Filters a work before the public gaze.
His boast it is (proceed, you happy man!
And gull the donkey nation while you can),
To force the vilest chaff reviews can quote,
Down, down the gaping country's glutton throat.
What pen shall justly praise the pleasing art
To pick the pocket, and beguile the heart?
That crafty—curious—most convenient stuff,
Belov'd by authors, and baptized a puff?
A puff!—in learning, politics, and prayer—
In virtue—vice—'tis puffery every where;
Puff me—puff you—thus puffing on we go,
Until the last Puff puff us all below!
To pick the pocket, and beguile the heart?
62
Belov'd by authors, and baptized a puff?
A puff!—in learning, politics, and prayer—
In virtue—vice—'tis puffery every where;
Puff me—puff you—thus puffing on we go,
Until the last Puff puff us all below!
Amid
the splendid works that soon will run,
All piping hot, from Mr. Burlington,
We hear, a novel from a noble hand,
Will make a precious bustle through the land;
Hard hits upon the heads of all the Great,
Some neat dissections of machines of state,—
The coming-out—the art of hooking wives—
The whole gay round of fashionable lives,—
All will be seen as clear as midday sun;—
Of course it cannot fail “to have a run.”
All piping hot, from Mr. Burlington,
We hear, a novel from a noble hand,
Will make a precious bustle through the land;
63
Some neat dissections of machines of state,—
The coming-out—the art of hooking wives—
The whole gay round of fashionable lives,—
All will be seen as clear as midday sun;—
Of course it cannot fail “to have a run.”
“We're pleased to find in this amusive page
A charm congenial to each rank and age;
The lively author, with uncommon art,
Plays round the secret inlets to the heart:
Now wins a smile,—now drowns it in a tear,
Now wings our hope,—now sinks us into fear.
Immortal thanks are due to such a pen!
We'll gladly hail the author once again.”
A charm congenial to each rank and age;
The lively author, with uncommon art,
Plays round the secret inlets to the heart:
Now wins a smile,—now drowns it in a tear,
Now wings our hope,—now sinks us into fear.
Immortal thanks are due to such a pen!
We'll gladly hail the author once again.”
64
“No doubt, great Homer had a wondrous mind,
Although, poor fellow! he was old and blind;
And Milton, too, can wield the epic rod,
Though sometimes he can condescend to nod;
But why should we insult the present day
With fulsome praise of genius pass'd away?
Oh, no! delighted, then, are we to see
Lord Lump announce a work that is to be
An epic poem of unrivall'd power,
Where talent sparkles like an April shower;
As bright and beaming will his verses run,
As rays just frisking from the flaring sun:
His thunder will be heard! his lightning seem
To glance the page, like phantoms in a dream,—
The breeze will murmur, and the roses smell
Like Nature's own,—and blush almost as well;
This will be poetry!—it cannot fail
To strike—and have a most astounding sale!
Although, poor fellow! he was old and blind;
And Milton, too, can wield the epic rod,
Though sometimes he can condescend to nod;
But why should we insult the present day
With fulsome praise of genius pass'd away?
Oh, no! delighted, then, are we to see
Lord Lump announce a work that is to be
An epic poem of unrivall'd power,
Where talent sparkles like an April shower;
As bright and beaming will his verses run,
As rays just frisking from the flaring sun:
His thunder will be heard! his lightning seem
To glance the page, like phantoms in a dream,—
The breeze will murmur, and the roses smell
Like Nature's own,—and blush almost as well;
65
To strike—and have a most astounding sale!
“One subject heats the nation's busy tongue,
One ceaseless topic through the town is rung—
The coming novel from our New Unknown:
We hear—but do not give it as our own—
The plot is most enticing,—from a time
Full of romantic traits of blood and crime:
It cannot fail, from its momentous aim,
To perch the writer on a rock of fame;
Second to Scott alone, he rules the day,
And paints as fine in his peculiar way.
“'Tis often said, that Self's supreme control
Makes up the master-passion of the soul.
We're glad in Miss Meander's page to find
This musty doctrine banish'd from the mind;
For powers descriptive, and pathetic charm,
And all those tender strokes that touch and warm,
She stands unrivall'd,—let the reader see
Her ‘Tale of Truth,’—he'll be enrapt as we!”
One ceaseless topic through the town is rung—
The coming novel from our New Unknown:
We hear—but do not give it as our own—
The plot is most enticing,—from a time
Full of romantic traits of blood and crime:
It cannot fail, from its momentous aim,
To perch the writer on a rock of fame;
Second to Scott alone, he rules the day,
And paints as fine in his peculiar way.
66
Makes up the master-passion of the soul.
We're glad in Miss Meander's page to find
This musty doctrine banish'd from the mind;
For powers descriptive, and pathetic charm,
And all those tender strokes that touch and warm,
She stands unrivall'd,—let the reader see
Her ‘Tale of Truth,’—he'll be enrapt as we!”
“Much doubt hath risen—and it rages still—
Whose tart and keenly Hudibrastic quill,
That prodigy of wit, M--- F---, may claim:
Tom Moore and Rogers,—every first-rate name
Has been applied. We don't pronounce—not we!
‘Who shall decide when doctors disagree?’
But this is sure—to whomsoe'er it fall,
Its wit combines the Attic salt of all!”
Whose tart and keenly Hudibrastic quill,
That prodigy of wit, M--- F---, may claim:
Tom Moore and Rogers,—every first-rate name
Has been applied. We don't pronounce—not we!
‘Who shall decide when doctors disagree?’
67
Its wit combines the Attic salt of all!”
Such baits, and others, varied in their size,
From fearful quackery to barefaced lies,
Who can escape, when every printed sheet
Unites to further the disgustful cheat?
No! though the plain italics, black and thick,
Might force a bedlamite to see the trick,
There's magic in the honied baits of print,—
The reader's hook'd—there must be something in't.
From fearful quackery to barefaced lies,
Who can escape, when every printed sheet
Unites to further the disgustful cheat?
No! though the plain italics, black and thick,
Might force a bedlamite to see the trick,
There's magic in the honied baits of print,—
The reader's hook'd—there must be something in't.
68
“Dear love!” Belinda cried, as, sprucely sage,
She sipp'd her cocoa, then the news-cramm'd page,
While at her noontide breakfast languid sat,
To legislate for night in morning chat,—
“Here's Lady Laura—do I cheat my sight!
They hint”—
“Indeed! Mamma, about to write?”—
“My love! will you allow me to declare?—
Why, read! as authoress she's mentioned there.”
She sipp'd her cocoa, then the news-cramm'd page,
While at her noontide breakfast languid sat,
To legislate for night in morning chat,—
“Here's Lady Laura—do I cheat my sight!
They hint”—
“Indeed! Mamma, about to write?”—
“My love! will you allow me to declare?—
Why, read! as authoress she's mentioned there.”
“She write! I can't believe so vain a thing
Can do aught else but slander, flirt, and sing.
She write! well, who shall say, if this be true,
What titled vice and vanity may do?”
Can do aught else but slander, flirt, and sing.
She write! well, who shall say, if this be true,
What titled vice and vanity may do?”
69
A bell hath jingled: “John, immediate go,—
My compliments to Messrs. Puff and Co.,
They'll please to put down Lady Lumley's name
The first, for ‘Fortune,’ ‘Flatt'ry,’ ‘Fools,’ and ‘Fame.’”
My compliments to Messrs. Puff and Co.,
They'll please to put down Lady Lumley's name
The first, for ‘Fortune,’ ‘Flatt'ry,’ ‘Fools,’ and ‘Fame.’”
If knavish puffery were but confined
To Burlington—the boundless master-mind—
Some hopes were left; for now and then he dares
Turn out some sense amid his printed wares:
Be witness, W---d! above the scrawling race,
Thy classic pen displays delightful grace:
Taught by thy truths, the heart forgets to roam
In search of others' faults, to look at home;
And B---n, too—long may his genius write
The puff-born, puff-bred mimics from our sight.
But puff monopoly can never be,
In the snug race of modern villainy:
The puff-plague rages to the meanest grade
Of book-mechanics, christen'd now “the trade;”
All, puff-inspired by the primeval fount,
Pant by its dirty tricks to gain and mount.
To Burlington—the boundless master-mind—
Some hopes were left; for now and then he dares
Turn out some sense amid his printed wares:
Be witness, W---d! above the scrawling race,
Thy classic pen displays delightful grace:
Taught by thy truths, the heart forgets to roam
In search of others' faults, to look at home;
And B---n, too—long may his genius write
The puff-born, puff-bred mimics from our sight.
70
In the snug race of modern villainy:
The puff-plague rages to the meanest grade
Of book-mechanics, christen'd now “the trade;”
All, puff-inspired by the primeval fount,
Pant by its dirty tricks to gain and mount.
But let the muse, to graceful merit due,
Of Burlington's famed rivals hint a few.
First, Bone and Skin—a sleek and supple pair
As ever shut up shop to sniff the air;
Then Chiverton, whose cultivated soul
Should scorn the pettifogging puff's control;
Then, Frippery, a most outrageous man,
For clawing, catching, scraping all he can,
And, last, long Fungus, with his neck awry,
Brag in his tongue, and puppy in his eye;
All in the puffing, quacking art excel,—
Arise, ye dunderheads! applaud them well.
Of Burlington's famed rivals hint a few.
First, Bone and Skin—a sleek and supple pair
As ever shut up shop to sniff the air;
Then Chiverton, whose cultivated soul
Should scorn the pettifogging puff's control;
Then, Frippery, a most outrageous man,
For clawing, catching, scraping all he can,
71
Brag in his tongue, and puppy in his eye;
All in the puffing, quacking art excel,—
Arise, ye dunderheads! applaud them well.
What wonder, then, while puffs insure a sale,
That, thick as muck-flies in the evening gale,
Authors appear, of every breed and kind,
Far as absurdity can stretch the mind:
Pun-clenchers—they whose eyes poetic roll
With all the hot insanity of soul;
Prose-dabblers, wrenching, like great L---'s face,
Their style and words into a monstrous grace,
Makers of tales, romance-mechanics, all
Book-scrawlers, brazen, barren, great and small,—
Arise each morn—assert their lofty claim,
And yelp, like hungry puppies, for their fame.
That, thick as muck-flies in the evening gale,
Authors appear, of every breed and kind,
Far as absurdity can stretch the mind:
Pun-clenchers—they whose eyes poetic roll
With all the hot insanity of soul;
Prose-dabblers, wrenching, like great L---'s face,
Their style and words into a monstrous grace,
Makers of tales, romance-mechanics, all
Book-scrawlers, brazen, barren, great and small,—
72
And yelp, like hungry puppies, for their fame.
A choice acquaintance with newspaper trash,
All that the monthly humdrums dress and hash,
And index lore, a picking from each page,
With flash and flippancy to feed the age;—
All this, combined with arrogance, and ease
To spin out nonsense nimbly as you please,
May form an “Author” of imposing mien,
And melt the honey from a magazine!
All that the monthly humdrums dress and hash,
And index lore, a picking from each page,
With flash and flippancy to feed the age;—
All this, combined with arrogance, and ease
To spin out nonsense nimbly as you please,
May form an “Author” of imposing mien,
And melt the honey from a magazine!
“But sure, to fill three volumes from the brain
Deserves a moiety of applause to gain!”—
Fill'd from the brain!—dear sir, sound brains are rare,
And heads, like wind-guns, oft explode in air.
If thought and study framed the author's book,
If mental toil—but, pshaw!—why, only look!
Read, if you can, each season's book supply,
And say what brain-fruit meets the reader's eye!—
What makes an author, but a want of sense?
What gets his fame?—a stock of impudence.
O Impudence!—the idol of the land,—
Wealth for the poor, and titles for the grand;
Virtue for the base, talent for the tool,
Rank for the rogue, and fortune for the fool.
Deserves a moiety of applause to gain!”—
Fill'd from the brain!—dear sir, sound brains are rare,
And heads, like wind-guns, oft explode in air.
73
If mental toil—but, pshaw!—why, only look!
Read, if you can, each season's book supply,
And say what brain-fruit meets the reader's eye!—
What makes an author, but a want of sense?
What gets his fame?—a stock of impudence.
O Impudence!—the idol of the land,—
Wealth for the poor, and titles for the grand;
Virtue for the base, talent for the tool,
Rank for the rogue, and fortune for the fool.
Oh! bull-eyed goddess! let me pause awhile,
And thank thee for thy favours tow'rd our isle:
Here, with a full-blown pomp and painted mien,
Thou walk'st in brazen beauty o'er each scene;
Bless'd be thy bounty! for thou gav'st us H---,
Poetic B---, and palavering B---,
Disgusting W---, and detested W---,
With a neat progeny of knaves and bilks;
And oh! most gracious, glorious gift of all,
Thou gav'st us bedlam C---, and golden B---,
And beastly C---t with his hideous slang,
C---e and Co., and all the hell-hound gang;
And last, to serve thee, T---r's self was made,
To lie by nature, and blaspheme by trade.
And thank thee for thy favours tow'rd our isle:
Here, with a full-blown pomp and painted mien,
Thou walk'st in brazen beauty o'er each scene;
74
Poetic B---, and palavering B---,
Disgusting W---, and detested W---,
With a neat progeny of knaves and bilks;
And oh! most gracious, glorious gift of all,
Thou gav'st us bedlam C---, and golden B---,
And beastly C---t with his hideous slang,
C---e and Co., and all the hell-hound gang;
And last, to serve thee, T---r's self was made,
To lie by nature, and blaspheme by trade.
Now help me, all ye Heliconian dames!
Stir up my mind, excite becoming flames,
While, briefly just, I humbly seek to trace
The puff-throned monarchs of the scribbling race.
Stir up my mind, excite becoming flames,
While, briefly just, I humbly seek to trace
The puff-throned monarchs of the scribbling race.
75
And first, for novels,—who so great as thou,
With rotten laurels rustling o'er thy brow?
If dull conception—vapid scenes that rise,
Like bilious mists, along the matin skies,—
If barren plots, and most somnific things,
Dubb'd rogues or rascals, parasites or kings,—
If, like a woodlouse in a log of deal,
From antiquarian dust, to pick and steal,—
Can stamp the novelist as truly great,
Then reign triumphant o'er our novel state;
Long may applausive hirelings shout thy praise,
Long may perennial puffs refresh thy bays;
Till Theodore, and Ward, and Walter Scott,
Shrunk in thy blaze of glory, sink forgot.
With rotten laurels rustling o'er thy brow?
If dull conception—vapid scenes that rise,
Like bilious mists, along the matin skies,—
If barren plots, and most somnific things,
Dubb'd rogues or rascals, parasites or kings,—
If, like a woodlouse in a log of deal,
From antiquarian dust, to pick and steal,—
Can stamp the novelist as truly great,
Then reign triumphant o'er our novel state;
Long may applausive hirelings shout thy praise,
Long may perennial puffs refresh thy bays;
Till Theodore, and Ward, and Walter Scott,
Shrunk in thy blaze of glory, sink forgot.
76
Last season's triumph—the supreme A---s,
Cooked up to tickle Fashion's brainless hacks,—
What quill Castalian shall attempt to raise
A monument of verse to speak its praise?
Let all the jades that frisk it at the rooms,
Let all the demireps that rear their plumes,
Let every puppet born of high degree,
Resound its praises through eternity!
What grace of style! what show of heart and head,
When love was made, or ladies brought to bed!
What jokes on breeches—operatic jokes,
What ball-room gab, and luscious equivoques—
Were here! St. James's turn'd a bedlam quite;
Scott, in despair, cried out, “I'll cease to write!”—
No Paul-Pry mania, or Miss F--- e'er fired
So many tongues as chaste “A---'s” inspired!
Cooked up to tickle Fashion's brainless hacks,—
What quill Castalian shall attempt to raise
A monument of verse to speak its praise?
Let all the jades that frisk it at the rooms,
Let all the demireps that rear their plumes,
Let every puppet born of high degree,
Resound its praises through eternity!
What grace of style! what show of heart and head,
When love was made, or ladies brought to bed!
What jokes on breeches—operatic jokes,
What ball-room gab, and luscious equivoques—
Were here! St. James's turn'd a bedlam quite;
Scott, in despair, cried out, “I'll cease to write!”—
77
So many tongues as chaste “A---'s” inspired!
Then why, when all the land unites to praise,
Speeds not the author to secure her bays?
Thrice “Great Unknown,” relieve the tiresome doubt,
Creep from your hole, and let the truth come out!
If Lady F---, or some smart waiting-maid,
Eves-dropping lackey, or of lower grade,—
Housemaid or peeress, whatsoe'er you be,
Nonsense shall own her darling child in thee;
And Truth confess, no former worthless page
Reveal'd so many fools in one fine age.
Speeds not the author to secure her bays?
Thrice “Great Unknown,” relieve the tiresome doubt,
Creep from your hole, and let the truth come out!
If Lady F---, or some smart waiting-maid,
Eves-dropping lackey, or of lower grade,—
Housemaid or peeress, whatsoe'er you be,
Nonsense shall own her darling child in thee;
And Truth confess, no former worthless page
Reveal'd so many fools in one fine age.
78
For “V--- G---,
that soporific stuff,
How raged the quack'ry of the rascal puff!—
Some household slanders, cull'd from kitchen spies,
A rich collection of malicious lies,
Gentility's soft slang, pretension's fine
To Fashion's creed—from mustard-pot to wine—
With thund'ring names of big-nosed German asses,
Roaring and ramping round their monstrous glasses—
What then?—audacious puffery made it pay,
And misses squeak'd out, “charming V--- G---!”
How raged the quack'ry of the rascal puff!—
Some household slanders, cull'd from kitchen spies,
A rich collection of malicious lies,
Gentility's soft slang, pretension's fine
To Fashion's creed—from mustard-pot to wine—
With thund'ring names of big-nosed German asses,
Roaring and ramping round their monstrous glasses—
What then?—audacious puffery made it pay,
And misses squeak'd out, “charming V--- G---!”
79
But, must I rummage, from our rank book-pile,
All that is dull or dirty, vain or vile?
Expose the offspring of each muddled brain,
And bid the stifled lumber breathe again?
To name it all would tire the muse to death,
And force poor Pegasus to gasp for breath!
A few more books,—and let their brothers lie
In the fond arms of safe obscurity.
All that is dull or dirty, vain or vile?
Expose the offspring of each muddled brain,
And bid the stifled lumber breathe again?
To name it all would tire the muse to death,
And force poor Pegasus to gasp for breath!
A few more books,—and let their brothers lie
In the fond arms of safe obscurity.
First, low “H---h L---e,” a prurient owlish lot,
Doom'd on the dusty shelves to waste and rot,—
“The G---s,” a still more vulgar vapid thing,
Although the wet leaves went to charm the king!
“The A---rs” next, a mean, calumnious store,
More pert and puppyish than the dregs before,—
And tales so national, that none would sell,
While wights o'er unbought copies raised a yell.
With ---'s lustful heap of green-room lies,
---'s and ---'s, and all the play-hound spies
Who haunt society to do and dare,
And publish every filthy folly there.
Doom'd on the dusty shelves to waste and rot,—
“The G---s,” a still more vulgar vapid thing,
Although the wet leaves went to charm the king!
“The A---rs” next, a mean, calumnious store,
More pert and puppyish than the dregs before,—
80
While wights o'er unbought copies raised a yell.
With ---'s lustful heap of green-room lies,
---'s and ---'s, and all the play-hound spies
Who haunt society to do and dare,
And publish every filthy folly there.
And thou, lamented bard! whose boundless mind
Soar'd in its eagle strength above mankind,
Whose genius rais'd thee to that glorious seat,
Where Wonder crouch'd admiring at thy feet,
Who did not sorrow o'er that mournful doom
That wreath'd thy laurels round an early tomb?
Oh! all who could forget—forgive—admire—
All who e'er listen'd to that matchless lyre,
Upon whose strings Enchantment trembling stood,
In meek obedience to the poet's mood,—
With unaffected sorrow mark'd thy bier,
And blotted Passion's fault with Pity's tear.
Soar'd in its eagle strength above mankind,
Whose genius rais'd thee to that glorious seat,
Where Wonder crouch'd admiring at thy feet,
Who did not sorrow o'er that mournful doom
That wreath'd thy laurels round an early tomb?
Oh! all who could forget—forgive—admire—
All who e'er listen'd to that matchless lyre,
81
In meek obedience to the poet's mood,—
With unaffected sorrow mark'd thy bier,
And blotted Passion's fault with Pity's tear.
Yet one there was, of Treason's rebel crew,
Coxcombic, vain, and avaricious too,
Who froth'd his reptile poison on thy name,
To fill his pocket, and to puff his fame!—
Yes! he who by thy bounty daily fed,
Betray'd thee living, and befoul'd thee dead!
O! worthy sample of the marching mind,
Doom'd to delight and elevate mankind;
Though damn'd before, now damn'd with double rage,
At once the hate and humbug of the age!
Coxcombic, vain, and avaricious too,
Who froth'd his reptile poison on thy name,
To fill his pocket, and to puff his fame!—
Yes! he who by thy bounty daily fed,
Betray'd thee living, and befoul'd thee dead!
O! worthy sample of the marching mind,
Doom'd to delight and elevate mankind;
Though damn'd before, now damn'd with double rage,
At once the hate and humbug of the age!
82
Of puff-raised poets, who shall count the swarms
In bowers of love, or war's sublime alarms?
One—one alone, of the Parnassian throng,
Like a poor pedlar plods his way along;
Pleas'd when he fly-blows every envied rhyme,
The paragraphic scarecrow of the time!
What, though his linsey-woolsey, wire-drawn line,
Like a stuck pig, pours forth tremendous whine,—
His plaintive drivel but relieves a heart,
Made up of every cold and jealous art;
Beloved by none, he crawls his reptile way,
Stabs where he can, and slanders for his pay,—
Without one gen'rous thought his soul to fire,
The meanest cur that ever struck the lyre.
In bowers of love, or war's sublime alarms?
One—one alone, of the Parnassian throng,
Like a poor pedlar plods his way along;
Pleas'd when he fly-blows every envied rhyme,
The paragraphic scarecrow of the time!
What, though his linsey-woolsey, wire-drawn line,
Like a stuck pig, pours forth tremendous whine,—
His plaintive drivel but relieves a heart,
Made up of every cold and jealous art;
Beloved by none, he crawls his reptile way,
Stabs where he can, and slanders for his pay,—
Without one gen'rous thought his soul to fire,
The meanest cur that ever struck the lyre.
83
The last, and most disgusting quack of all,
Is she, the lech'rous lackey of L---:
A vagabondic scribe, whose vicious page
Completes the letter'd dunghill of the age;
As vain as vulgar—trashy, stupid, tame,
A living monument of filth and shame.
Is she, the lech'rous lackey of L---:
A vagabondic scribe, whose vicious page
Completes the letter'd dunghill of the age;
As vain as vulgar—trashy, stupid, tame,
A living monument of filth and shame.
Thou dirty stigma on the female race,
Whose wrinkles are but trenches of disgrace;
Did giddy Youth's untemper'd passion fire
Thy mean malignancy, or lewd desire
To fabricate a putrid heap of lies
On foreign courts and French depravities,
Some hope were left, that Age would blush to see
A drain of anecdotic filth in thee:
But thou, o'er whose unhallow'd hoary head,
Seventy long years have unproductive sped,—
At such an awful age to squat at home,
And scribble beastly lies on France and Rome;
Then hawk thy manuscript of greasy-brown,
Thy ungrammatic trash, about the town,—
Oh! what apology shall plead for thee,
Sunk in the foulest pool of infamy?
And thou a M---! perchance a cook,
And in thyself a model for thy book,—
Yes, though some starving garretteer, for pay,
Polish thy gibb'rish for the light of day,
And, adding lies unto thy lying store,
Make dirt more dirty than it was before.
Whose wrinkles are but trenches of disgrace;
Did giddy Youth's untemper'd passion fire
Thy mean malignancy, or lewd desire
To fabricate a putrid heap of lies
On foreign courts and French depravities,
Some hope were left, that Age would blush to see
A drain of anecdotic filth in thee:
84
Seventy long years have unproductive sped,—
At such an awful age to squat at home,
And scribble beastly lies on France and Rome;
Then hawk thy manuscript of greasy-brown,
Thy ungrammatic trash, about the town,—
Oh! what apology shall plead for thee,
Sunk in the foulest pool of infamy?
And thou a M---! perchance a cook,
And in thyself a model for thy book,—
Yes, though some starving garretteer, for pay,
Polish thy gibb'rish for the light of day,
And, adding lies unto thy lying store,
Make dirt more dirty than it was before.
85
No private hate, no petty spleen of mine,
Hath bared thy baseness in this honest line,
But indignation for the vilest curse,
That ever merited the rack of verse!
Then down, polluted hag! repent and weep,
Ere death shall wrap thee in eternal sleep;
Down on thy knees, till Conscience quail within,
And shriek and shudder at her load of sin!
Hath bared thy baseness in this honest line,
But indignation for the vilest curse,
That ever merited the rack of verse!
Then down, polluted hag! repent and weep,
Ere death shall wrap thee in eternal sleep;
Down on thy knees, till Conscience quail within,
And shriek and shudder at her load of sin!
Divinely delicate, discerning age!
That patronizes such a wretch's page;
Yet, when the censor, with avenging rhymes,
Tears the dim veil that hides the vilest crimes,
And with an honest but indignant hand
Unmasks the rogues and rascals of the land,
Imagination's touch'd with sickly hue,—
The author's coarse—so unpolitely true;—
Yes! eyes that sparkle at a harlot's tale,
And linger round the fornicating frail,
From virtuous condemnation turn away,—
“That horrid man, he don't respect the day!”
That patronizes such a wretch's page;
Yet, when the censor, with avenging rhymes,
Tears the dim veil that hides the vilest crimes,
And with an honest but indignant hand
Unmasks the rogues and rascals of the land,
86
The author's coarse—so unpolitely true;—
Yes! eyes that sparkle at a harlot's tale,
And linger round the fornicating frail,
From virtuous condemnation turn away,—
“That horrid man, he don't respect the day!”
These are the levelling times, when all that once
Daunted the clever and appall'd the dunce,
Is made as easy as the fool desires,
By all whom lies assist, or cash inspires.
Steam-engines—heaven preserve the boilers tight,
And make the jabb'ring wheels to whirl aright!
Buggies and chariots made to skim the stones,
Pumps for the stomach, marrow for the bones,
Eyes for the eyeless, by Newtonian laws,
And dog-teeth—ornaments for Christian jaws,—
Attract the booby eye in every street;
But—flourish trumpets!—dear! delicious! sweet!
Ye march-of-mind admirers, rush and see
The master triumph of philosophy!—
“Latin in two hours render'd pure and plain
Without the tedious bore of using brain,
And French infus'd into a learner's mind,
Though deaf, or dumb, or dull, half-dead, or blind!”
Oh, H---l---n! thou dog-star to the times!
Bestow thy wisdom to improve our rhymes;
Oh! haste to realize this hopeful dream—
Plan for producing poetry by steam!
Daunted the clever and appall'd the dunce,
Is made as easy as the fool desires,
By all whom lies assist, or cash inspires.
Steam-engines—heaven preserve the boilers tight,
And make the jabb'ring wheels to whirl aright!
Buggies and chariots made to skim the stones,
Pumps for the stomach, marrow for the bones,
87
And dog-teeth—ornaments for Christian jaws,—
Attract the booby eye in every street;
But—flourish trumpets!—dear! delicious! sweet!
Ye march-of-mind admirers, rush and see
The master triumph of philosophy!—
“Latin in two hours render'd pure and plain
Without the tedious bore of using brain,
And French infus'd into a learner's mind,
Though deaf, or dumb, or dull, half-dead, or blind!”
Oh, H---l---n! thou dog-star to the times!
Bestow thy wisdom to improve our rhymes;
Oh! haste to realize this hopeful dream—
Plan for producing poetry by steam!
88
Authors, avaunt! unto your garrets hie!—
Enter the Prince of Pudding and of Pie!
See! round his frizzly pate what grandeur plays,
While his eyes twinkle with a kitchen blaze,—
Illustrious child of gastronomic art!
While sentimental dunces stuff the heart,
Thou stuff'st the meat with scientific hand,
And rott'st the noblest stomach of the land,
When at the steaming board rich gluttons dine,
And turn their entrails into pipes of wine.
Like thee who models with a Catian gust,
The pepper'd viand and the painted crust,
The soup and sauce, each highly-flavour'd food,
That taints and festers in the heated blood?
Oh! many an ulcer'd leg, and saffron cheek,
And palsied hand, and tongue too parch'd to speak;
Many a midnight rack is owed to thee,
Thou flower of cooks, and lord of fricassee!
Enter the Prince of Pudding and of Pie!
See! round his frizzly pate what grandeur plays,
While his eyes twinkle with a kitchen blaze,—
Illustrious child of gastronomic art!
While sentimental dunces stuff the heart,
Thou stuff'st the meat with scientific hand,
And rott'st the noblest stomach of the land,
When at the steaming board rich gluttons dine,
And turn their entrails into pipes of wine.
Like thee who models with a Catian gust,
The pepper'd viand and the painted crust,
89
That taints and festers in the heated blood?
Oh! many an ulcer'd leg, and saffron cheek,
And palsied hand, and tongue too parch'd to speak;
Many a midnight rack is owed to thee,
Thou flower of cooks, and lord of fricassee!
Not witty Warren—that humbugging bore!
Not Martin, Hunt, or greasy Kalydore;
Not he whose lyrically comic line
Champagnes the cockneys with his gooseberry wine,
Not one who fattens on the public pay,
For lessening population day by day,—
Can stand by thee, delightful stomach curse!
Long may our gluttons live to fill thy purse;
Long may the gibb'rish of thy Gallic tongue
From room to room,—from town to town be rung:
So shall thy wit for ever live and glow,
And rival all but R---'s puns below!
Not Martin, Hunt, or greasy Kalydore;
Not he whose lyrically comic line
Champagnes the cockneys with his gooseberry wine,
Not one who fattens on the public pay,
For lessening population day by day,—
Can stand by thee, delightful stomach curse!
Long may our gluttons live to fill thy purse;
90
From room to room,—from town to town be rung:
So shall thy wit for ever live and glow,
And rival all but R---'s puns below!
Go on, luxurious sons of love and ease,
And gorge, and glut, and guzzle, as you please;
Go on, ye sallow belles and beaux, that bloom
Like musty parchment with a damp perfume,
And hug, and feed the whisker'd knaves that roam,
In native beauty, from their pestful home;
Yes! bow the knee to every ape from France,
And monkeyfy your children for a dance;
Lend your lewd ears unto V---'s note,
And shrine the unsex'd creature for his throat;
Swoon at the opera o'er each graceful limb,
So roundly glowing, and so tightly trim:
So shall your simp'ring scented misses shine,
The chaste reflections of their parents' line;
So shall our isle unrivall'd be for stores
Of foreign puppets, eunuchs, apes and ---,
And Fashion's haggard brood exult to see,
On English ground, the world's menagerie!
And gorge, and glut, and guzzle, as you please;
Go on, ye sallow belles and beaux, that bloom
Like musty parchment with a damp perfume,
And hug, and feed the whisker'd knaves that roam,
In native beauty, from their pestful home;
Yes! bow the knee to every ape from France,
And monkeyfy your children for a dance;
91
And shrine the unsex'd creature for his throat;
Swoon at the opera o'er each graceful limb,
So roundly glowing, and so tightly trim:
So shall your simp'ring scented misses shine,
The chaste reflections of their parents' line;
So shall our isle unrivall'd be for stores
Of foreign puppets, eunuchs, apes and ---,
And Fashion's haggard brood exult to see,
On English ground, the world's menagerie!
Now for the foulest thing whom puffs have fed;
Let Vengeance drain her vial on his head!
Thou hideous glutton on the public purse,
Eternal pander to pollution's curse,
Rhyme is too weak to damn thy filthy fame,
And scorch thee with an inward hell of shame!
Is't not enough that Lust should rot and rage,
And be the monster passion of the age,
But thou, abhorrent hack! must taint the times,
And heap the mountain of enormous crimes?
Must each wild youth by thine incentive bill,
Become the victim of detested skill?
Must infant hands be poison'd by thy lies,
And crime come recommended to our eyes?
Oh! may the father's curse and mother's shriek
Of madness wither thee!—May Vengeance wreak
Her worst on one so calmly base and vile,
Thou more than Nero to thy natal isle!
Let Vengeance drain her vial on his head!
Thou hideous glutton on the public purse,
Eternal pander to pollution's curse,
92
And scorch thee with an inward hell of shame!
Is't not enough that Lust should rot and rage,
And be the monster passion of the age,
But thou, abhorrent hack! must taint the times,
And heap the mountain of enormous crimes?
Must each wild youth by thine incentive bill,
Become the victim of detested skill?
Must infant hands be poison'd by thy lies,
And crime come recommended to our eyes?
Oh! may the father's curse and mother's shriek
Of madness wither thee!—May Vengeance wreak
Her worst on one so calmly base and vile,
Thou more than Nero to thy natal isle!
93
Now cease the puff in print, for puff in stone,
Which Hell itself hath bargain'd for its own.
Go! blind adorers of the day, and see
The modern temple of Iniquity:
Full in that street where Fashion's pimpled apes
Limp forth at noon, to show their poker shapes,
There in proud triumph mark a princely pile,
Rear'd to advance the ruin of our isle;
Where midnight sharpers and their hideous crew
Unite to see what knaves and dice can do.—
How many hearts shall wither to the core,
How many happy shall be so no more!—
Yes; in yon room, where polish'd scoundrels meet,
Night after night to plunder and to cheat,
There shall be seen the fiercely-glaring eye,
There shall be heard the riven bosom's sigh,
There shall the hollow groan of Anguish sound,
And Ruin glance her deadly eyes around!
Which Hell itself hath bargain'd for its own.
Go! blind adorers of the day, and see
The modern temple of Iniquity:
Full in that street where Fashion's pimpled apes
Limp forth at noon, to show their poker shapes,
There in proud triumph mark a princely pile,
Rear'd to advance the ruin of our isle;
Where midnight sharpers and their hideous crew
Unite to see what knaves and dice can do.—
How many hearts shall wither to the core,
How many happy shall be so no more!—
Yes; in yon room, where polish'd scoundrels meet,
Night after night to plunder and to cheat,
There shall be seen the fiercely-glaring eye,
There shall be heard the riven bosom's sigh,
94
And Ruin glance her deadly eyes around!
And thou, base hell-hound! whose remorseless soul
Owns neither Pity's throb nor Shame's control;
Thou fishy vagabond, whose demon mind
Is black enough to damn all human kind,
Come forth in all thy filthy bloom of crime!—
I will not pat thee with persuasive rhyme,
But bare thy baseness till the world shall see
How rank a reptile they support in thee.
Yes! though I mark thee, with a savage smile,
Survey the chambers of thy sumptuous pile,
Till warm anticipations swell and rise,
And the full villain flashes from thine eyes!
Owns neither Pity's throb nor Shame's control;
Thou fishy vagabond, whose demon mind
Is black enough to damn all human kind,
Come forth in all thy filthy bloom of crime!—
I will not pat thee with persuasive rhyme,
But bare thy baseness till the world shall see
How rank a reptile they support in thee.
Yes! though I mark thee, with a savage smile,
Survey the chambers of thy sumptuous pile,
Till warm anticipations swell and rise,
And the full villain flashes from thine eyes!
95
Ye ancient Virtues of our glorious clime,
The friends of honour and the foes of crime,
Spirits that burn'd with an heroic glow,
Awake! arise! resume your reign below!
Again with Vice a valiant contest wage,
And blast the brazen monsters of the age;
Down with the domes where titled scoundrels meet,
And lash the dastard dogs from street to street,
Till every C---d from his throne be hurl'd,
Cursed by the good, and carted round the world!
The friends of honour and the foes of crime,
Spirits that burn'd with an heroic glow,
Awake! arise! resume your reign below!
Again with Vice a valiant contest wage,
And blast the brazen monsters of the age;
Down with the domes where titled scoundrels meet,
And lash the dastard dogs from street to street,
Till every C---d from his throne be hurl'd,
Cursed by the good, and carted round the world!
And ye, ye pliant tools! whose manly page
Should prove the mental bulwark of the age,
Shame on the prostitution of the quill,—
Shame on the paltry bribe and supple will!
O, vaunted freedom of the giant Press,
When venal bribes can make it curse or bless!
Save when infuriate Spite would plant a blow
Against some patriot, or a private foe;
Then Freedom bounces forth in wild-boar strains,
Rears her huge head, and rattles off her chains;
Then, then behold! our darling Press all free
To pile up mountains of base obloquy;
Free in the bosom-scenes of life to rove,
And violate the home of wedded love,
To leave the principle,—attack the man,
And break as many hearts as baseness can!
But when some rising rascal-quack in trade,
By cash secures your paragraphic aid,
Then braggart Freedom smoothes her stoic frown,
Nods her assent,—and pockets half-a-crown!
Should prove the mental bulwark of the age,
Shame on the prostitution of the quill,—
Shame on the paltry bribe and supple will!
96
When venal bribes can make it curse or bless!
Save when infuriate Spite would plant a blow
Against some patriot, or a private foe;
Then Freedom bounces forth in wild-boar strains,
Rears her huge head, and rattles off her chains;
Then, then behold! our darling Press all free
To pile up mountains of base obloquy;
Free in the bosom-scenes of life to rove,
And violate the home of wedded love,
To leave the principle,—attack the man,
And break as many hearts as baseness can!
But when some rising rascal-quack in trade,
By cash secures your paragraphic aid,
97
Nods her assent,—and pockets half-a-crown!
Ye
of the empty skull! unsafe, unsound,—
Ye critic-gnats, that sting and buzz around;
Obsequious grubs, whose idiotic page
Is wet-nurse to the wig-wams of the age,—
How shall the muse portray your petty arts,
Your addled heads, or your polluted hearts?
What! though the pert and pompous “we's”
combine
To stamp the trump'ry of a stupid line,
And, primed with indexes and old reviews,
You blunder on, and gabble as ye choose,—
And now and then, when wrath is boiling o'er,
Surpass St. Giles's dames in blackguard lore,—
How rarely truth and taste direct the pen,
Paid to refine and teach your fellow-men!
Ye critic-gnats, that sting and buzz around;
Obsequious grubs, whose idiotic page
Is wet-nurse to the wig-wams of the age,—
How shall the muse portray your petty arts,
Your addled heads, or your polluted hearts?
98
To stamp the trump'ry of a stupid line,
And, primed with indexes and old reviews,
You blunder on, and gabble as ye choose,—
And now and then, when wrath is boiling o'er,
Surpass St. Giles's dames in blackguard lore,—
99
Paid to refine and teach your fellow-men!
'Tis hard to tell the baser of the two,—
The one who writes or reads each quack review;
Such letter'd cutthroats in the cause unite,
Such knaves direct them, and such numskulls write!
A critic!—that's a man, whose mind should be
Steep'd in the lore of sage antiquity;
Of taste well modell'd, and of judgment sound,—
Unprejudiced, untainted, and profound:
But say, amid the fry of critics now,
With dainty eye, and Aristarchian brow,
How seldom shall we find the man whose mind
Is fit to helm the judgment of mankind!
The one who writes or reads each quack review;
Such letter'd cutthroats in the cause unite,
Such knaves direct them, and such numskulls write!
A critic!—that's a man, whose mind should be
Steep'd in the lore of sage antiquity;
Of taste well modell'd, and of judgment sound,—
Unprejudiced, untainted, and profound:
But say, amid the fry of critics now,
With dainty eye, and Aristarchian brow,
How seldom shall we find the man whose mind
Is fit to helm the judgment of mankind!
100
How much I scorn some ignominious crews,
Plump with the vulgar venom of reviews,—
How much I loathe their miserable yell,
Hate is too blunt, and verse too weak to tell:
If such upon this humble page of mine
Shall condescend to pen a fulsome line,
May the mean tools eject their rankest bile,
And dub me “wretch,” and all they deem more vile;
From these a line of well intended praise
Would be the foulest blot upon an author's days!
Plump with the vulgar venom of reviews,—
How much I loathe their miserable yell,
Hate is too blunt, and verse too weak to tell:
If such upon this humble page of mine
Shall condescend to pen a fulsome line,
May the mean tools eject their rankest bile,
And dub me “wretch,” and all they deem more vile;
From these a line of well intended praise
Would be the foulest blot upon an author's days!
But, while these puff-impostors shame the day,
And critics prostitute their praise for pay,
M---y maintains an honest tradesman's pride,
Though quacking vermin swarm on every side:
Too proud to dabble in the puffing trade,
His works rely on merit for their aid;
He sticks no baits to every batch of news,
He bribes no underlings of small reviews;
But deems the matter of the book enough,
And sense a better patron than a puff.
And critics prostitute their praise for pay,
M---y maintains an honest tradesman's pride,
Though quacking vermin swarm on every side:
101
His works rely on merit for their aid;
He sticks no baits to every batch of news,
He bribes no underlings of small reviews;
But deems the matter of the book enough,
And sense a better patron than a puff.
But whence the source of all this venal art,
That drains the pocket, and pollutes the heart?
'Tis lust of fame—a paltry wish for praise,—
A mean desire to wear the common bays,—
Then strut and swell, reveal it in each look—
My name is Nonsense, and I wrote a book!
That drains the pocket, and pollutes the heart?
'Tis lust of fame—a paltry wish for praise,—
A mean desire to wear the common bays,—
Then strut and swell, reveal it in each look—
My name is Nonsense, and I wrote a book!
Great heavens! must every fool protrude his claim,
To catch a puff of praise, or slice of fame?
Must ev'ry ass unload his addled brains
In lumpish prose, or Paternoster strains?
Are there no merits in seclusion found?—
Yes! honour dwells in Duty's hallow'd ground;
Better to live and die without a name,
Than dabble in the dirty pool of fame!
To catch a puff of praise, or slice of fame?
102
In lumpish prose, or Paternoster strains?
Are there no merits in seclusion found?—
Yes! honour dwells in Duty's hallow'd ground;
Better to live and die without a name,
Than dabble in the dirty pool of fame!
I grant, desire of fame may nobly thrive,
Where inborn Genius keeps the flame alive;
But Genius never marches in a band,
And fools exceed the sages of the land.
Still, wise or brainless, both alike pursue
The self-same path, and keep the self-same view;
And, while the first toil doubtful of their pay,
The last bounce in, and snatch the prize away!
Where inborn Genius keeps the flame alive;
But Genius never marches in a band,
And fools exceed the sages of the land.
Still, wise or brainless, both alike pursue
The self-same path, and keep the self-same view;
And, while the first toil doubtful of their pay,
The last bounce in, and snatch the prize away!
103
Alas!
and to be known, what men will dare!
No honour curbs them, and no crimes can scare:
Some filch a maiden, some seduce a wife,
Some ease a blockhead of his useless life,—
Some stink with blasphemy, like Rev'rend Bob,
Some pander, perjure—cozen, quack, or rob,—
All bravely find a highway road to fame,
And win an immortality of shame!
No honour curbs them, and no crimes can scare:
Some filch a maiden, some seduce a wife,
Some ease a blockhead of his useless life,—
Some stink with blasphemy, like Rev'rend Bob,
Some pander, perjure—cozen, quack, or rob,—
All bravely find a highway road to fame,
And win an immortality of shame!
104
But, to be known, most wield the lordly pen,
Then shake their mighty heads at common men;
Yes! charming 'tis, amid the humming street,
To fancy homage in each eye you meet;
To set a room in one hoarse buzz, and stare,—
“That's Mr. D---; why, don't you see? there! there!
He wrote ‘The Wind.’”—“And is that truly he?
Dear witty creature, let me rise and see!
“His head, how finely formed!—how pregnant now!
A poem's perch'd upon that pensive brow!
And then his eye—oh! what an eye is there!
True Genius has a grand and godlike air!”
Then shake their mighty heads at common men;
Yes! charming 'tis, amid the humming street,
To fancy homage in each eye you meet;
To set a room in one hoarse buzz, and stare,—
“That's Mr. D---; why, don't you see? there! there!
He wrote ‘The Wind.’”—“And is that truly he?
Dear witty creature, let me rise and see!
“His head, how finely formed!—how pregnant now!
A poem's perch'd upon that pensive brow!
And then his eye—oh! what an eye is there!
True Genius has a grand and godlike air!”
105
But shallow is the basis of his name,
Whom puffs alone have foisted into fame;
What, though some parasites pretend to find
A mine of talent in a barren mind,
And papers, for sev'n-shilling puffs, declare
Him Scott the Second, till his rivals stare;
While magazines assist the fulsome whine,
And dub him great, resistless, and divine,
This sickening praise can barely but dispense
A dull apology for want of sense:
One week his novel struggles through the town,
One week the writer swaggers with renown,
The next, with brother trash his volume lies,
And cold oblivion all the scribbler's prize!
Whom puffs alone have foisted into fame;
What, though some parasites pretend to find
A mine of talent in a barren mind,
And papers, for sev'n-shilling puffs, declare
Him Scott the Second, till his rivals stare;
While magazines assist the fulsome whine,
And dub him great, resistless, and divine,
This sickening praise can barely but dispense
A dull apology for want of sense:
One week his novel struggles through the town,
One week the writer swaggers with renown,
The next, with brother trash his volume lies,
And cold oblivion all the scribbler's prize!
106
Still, works by number, not by merit, may
Bear up a hack upon the public way,—
No sooner do his last new volumes sink,
Than, lo! another mess is fresh with ink;
Again reviewing hirelings plead his cause,
And stuff their darling with divine applause!
Again the mountebank, in snug brevier,
On puffs performs his annual career;
And thus each year his brains are squeez'd to give
Trash after trash, by which his fame may live;
Till, high at last, upon his volume-pile,
Behold him view it with imperial smile!
Such countless tomes have issued from his hand,
Their sheets would make an awning for the land!—
At length the skull is worn, and empty quite,
He can no more—a hack must cease to write,
And so in peevish thought he ends his day,
And on his heap of rubbish rots away!
Bear up a hack upon the public way,—
No sooner do his last new volumes sink,
Than, lo! another mess is fresh with ink;
Again reviewing hirelings plead his cause,
And stuff their darling with divine applause!
Again the mountebank, in snug brevier,
On puffs performs his annual career;
And thus each year his brains are squeez'd to give
Trash after trash, by which his fame may live;
Till, high at last, upon his volume-pile,
Behold him view it with imperial smile!
Such countless tomes have issued from his hand,
Their sheets would make an awning for the land!—
At length the skull is worn, and empty quite,
He can no more—a hack must cease to write,
107
And on his heap of rubbish rots away!
Now mark the one whose mind commands a store
Of all that wit or wisdom can adore:
How nobly different wrestles he for fame!
He hires no trumpet to prelude his name,
He wants no hand to drag him to the goal,
But reaches it by energy of soul;
And, though some clouds of envy may o'ershroud
His struggling light, nor let it be allow'd,
And stars of vulgar fame may pertly frown
Upon his dim approach to fair renown,
Like the broad sun, he'll brighten into day,
Blaze on the world, and blot them all away!
Of all that wit or wisdom can adore:
How nobly different wrestles he for fame!
He hires no trumpet to prelude his name,
He wants no hand to drag him to the goal,
But reaches it by energy of soul;
And, though some clouds of envy may o'ershroud
His struggling light, nor let it be allow'd,
And stars of vulgar fame may pertly frown
Upon his dim approach to fair renown,
Like the broad sun, he'll brighten into day,
Blaze on the world, and blot them all away!
Noticulæ Quædam.
“Ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopolæ,Mendici, mimæ, balatrones, hoc genus omne.”
—Hor.
Noticulæ Quædam. See “Essay on Puffing,” in the first volume of “Table Talk,” which contains some pertinent remarks on the tickling qualities of puffs.
Noticulæ Quædam. Another of the running works. However, it certainly did show gleams of mind far beyond “A---'s,” notwithstanding a certain “monthly” prostituted its applause to serve the latter.
Noticulæ Quædam. There are two or three honourable exceptions, and in the foremost rank stands “The Times.”
Noticulæ Quædam. The author would not be considered indiscriminate here:— there are several reviews in the metropolis which appear to be conducted with honour, liberality, and talent. But it is equally true that there are a certain set of poor discarded devils who, after having sweated and scribbled as authors to no purpose, skulk behind obscure reviews, and exhaust their venom on their more fortunate cotemporaries.
Theodore Hooke makes a sensible remark on the “we's” in one of the tales among the first series of “Sayings and Doings.” As the reader may not remember it, it may be worth quoting here: “His obscurity alone gives him importance, as vessels at sea seem larger in a fog; and the combination of that mysterious monosyllable we, by which he dispenses his ordinance in the plural number, with the notorious apathy of the world at large, confers upon the hidden individual, in his editorial capacity, an importance and an influence.”
Noticulæ Quædam.
Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris et carcere dignum,Si vis esse aliquis; probitas laudatur et alget.
This miserable impostor has been excused for his blasphemous pranks, on the plea of insanity! The best cure for it would be a few turns in the pillory.
Out, rogue!Thou most infernal counterfeit—avaunt!
The Devil is an Ass.
THE END.
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