The Works of John Hall-Stevenson ... Corrected and Enlarged. With Several Original Poems, Now First Printed, and Explanatory Notes. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
A FRAGMENT OF AN EPIC POEM.
|
|
| III. |
 | The Works of John Hall-Stevenson |  |
147
A FRAGMENT OF AN EPIC POEM.
BOOK IV.
Musæum, ante omnes, medium, nam plurima turba,
Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit omnes
Dicite Fælices Animæ, Tuque Optime vates
Quæ Regio Anchisen, quis habet Locus? illius ergo
Venimus, et magnos Erebi tranavimus amnes.
Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit omnes
Dicite Fælices Animæ, Tuque Optime vates
Quæ Regio Anchisen, quis habet Locus? illius ergo
Venimus, et magnos Erebi tranavimus amnes.
148
ARGUMENT.
The hero applies to a sorceress, called a Spey-Wife—she informs him of what is necessary for him to do to accomplish his desire of visiting the Infernal Regions, conducts him, blindfold, to the brink of a deep pit near the Spey, called the Witches hole; where he is to remain upon his knees during the Magic Rites—Incantation—Instruction—Voyage to Hell—The Paradise of Blessed Fools.
149
Evening came on, and with the setting sun
The rites were ended, and the charm was done.
The Beldam Spey-wife bade the Hero rise,
And bade him take the bandage from his eyes.
All is prepar'd, your equipage is ready;
Speed you my son, she said, be bold and steady.
The moment that he saw, where he was led;
His head forsook him, like a moon-struck head,
And, as a roosted turkey, staring drops,
His head quite lost, into a Fox's chops,
The chief fell headlong down the vast profound,
Nor felt himself, before he felt the ground;
Then felt at once 'twas hell; but knew no more
How he came there than Dives did before.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Treading the dreary waste, with feet unbless'd,
His shoulders mounted high above the rest,
He spied, amidst a crew of perjur'd dead ,
Old Samuel, shaking his Colossean head;
Filmer before, Sacheverell in the rear,
With unbelieving David , and Shebbeare;
St. John pass'd by, and Prior laughing loud,
Pointing to Paul , with Dashwood in the crowd;
Bolingbroke wheeling stopp'd, and with surprise
Cried out, By G---, I scarce can trust my eyes!
Mat, turn about, as sure as we are damn'd,
There's M---y, kissing Dr. Samuel's hand.
How could the quibbling casuist contrive
To cheat our master , and get here alive?
The Reverend Chieftain of the Law, you'll guess,
Had reach'd the Ancient Chieftain of the Press.
To Samuel, thus, the chief address'd his speech,
“Spirit of Night, profound didactic Leech;
And, ye attendants, say; you know too well,
Where dwells your King that sent you all to hell?”
The rites were ended, and the charm was done.
The Beldam Spey-wife bade the Hero rise,
And bade him take the bandage from his eyes.
All is prepar'd, your equipage is ready;
Speed you my son, she said, be bold and steady.
The moment that he saw, where he was led;
His head forsook him, like a moon-struck head,
And, as a roosted turkey, staring drops,
His head quite lost, into a Fox's chops,
The chief fell headlong down the vast profound,
Nor felt himself, before he felt the ground;
Then felt at once 'twas hell; but knew no more
How he came there than Dives did before.
150
His shoulders mounted high above the rest,
He spied, amidst a crew of perjur'd dead ,
Old Samuel, shaking his Colossean head;
Filmer before, Sacheverell in the rear,
With unbelieving David , and Shebbeare;
St. John pass'd by, and Prior laughing loud,
Pointing to Paul , with Dashwood in the crowd;
Bolingbroke wheeling stopp'd, and with surprise
Cried out, By G---, I scarce can trust my eyes!
Mat, turn about, as sure as we are damn'd,
There's M---y, kissing Dr. Samuel's hand.
151
To cheat our master , and get here alive?
The Reverend Chieftain of the Law, you'll guess,
Had reach'd the Ancient Chieftain of the Press.
To Samuel, thus, the chief address'd his speech,
“Spirit of Night, profound didactic Leech;
And, ye attendants, say; you know too well,
Where dwells your King that sent you all to hell?”
To whom the Seer reply'd, with bellowing voice,
“Here we have room enough; but little choice,
As upon earth; in this sequester'd vale
We have no certain dwelling, but a jail:
Thither, at certain periods, we repair,
At certain periods wander here and there.
'Tis neither East nor West, nor North nor South,
We live as heretofore, from hand to mouth.
M---d go on, you have not far to go,
Down in that bottom lies the seat of woe.
There you will find the Sovereign of your heart,
Your King, still acting the same drivelling part.”
“But, says the Doctor, with a Cynick sneer,
What do you think of our grand landscapes here?
I have seen just such scenes up in your North,
Is not that solemn river like your Forth?
The lofty banks of Forth, that so delight us,
Are in the taste of these, along Cocytus.”
This said, the Chief, without the least reply,
Bowed, and pursued his journey with a sigh .
“Here we have room enough; but little choice,
As upon earth; in this sequester'd vale
We have no certain dwelling, but a jail:
Thither, at certain periods, we repair,
At certain periods wander here and there.
'Tis neither East nor West, nor North nor South,
We live as heretofore, from hand to mouth.
152
Down in that bottom lies the seat of woe.
There you will find the Sovereign of your heart,
Your King, still acting the same drivelling part.”
“But, says the Doctor, with a Cynick sneer,
What do you think of our grand landscapes here?
I have seen just such scenes up in your North,
Is not that solemn river like your Forth?
The lofty banks of Forth, that so delight us,
Are in the taste of these, along Cocytus.”
This said, the Chief, without the least reply,
Bowed, and pursued his journey with a sigh .
153
Joyless, he labour'd, through the barren sand,
Oft stroak'd his wig, and often pinch'd his band:
Arriv'd—the Porter hail'd him with a grin,
The gates flew open, and he enter'd in.
The first he fix'd his eyes upon was Laud,
With pontiff curses swearing like a bawd,
Leading the Martyr Charles through thick and thin,
Scourg'd for ten thousand years, and scourg'd by Prynne.
Stenny he saw, along with daddy James,
Tied back to back, and both impail'd in flames.
His other Paramours, all in a row,
Were all impail'd, up to the waist in snow.
And farther on, continuing his rout,
He saw a black and dismal head peep out,
Out of a boiling cauldron, through the smoke,
Just like the head, out of the Royal Oak.
Two figures next approach'd, in monkish weeds,
Muttering fantastic prayers, and dropping beads.
The two last James's, walking with bead-rolls,
Condemn'd to pray in vain for all their souls;
For ages doom'd, in that devoted pound
To walk, incessantly, their foolish round.
Hook'd by the ribs, on a high gibbet, hung
Kirk; still retaining his audacious tongue,
Cried, as they pass'd, 'tis certain—tho' 'tis hard,
The prayers of fools can never fly a yard.
Nothing can ever make these blockheads wise—
How do you think that yours can mount the skies?
Arm'd with credentials from the Cocoa-tree
Down dropp'd the chief upon his bended knee;
Father and son both eyed him with dismay,
Both of them cross'd themselves, and walk'd away.
Oft stroak'd his wig, and often pinch'd his band:
Arriv'd—the Porter hail'd him with a grin,
The gates flew open, and he enter'd in.
The first he fix'd his eyes upon was Laud,
With pontiff curses swearing like a bawd,
Leading the Martyr Charles through thick and thin,
Scourg'd for ten thousand years, and scourg'd by Prynne.
Stenny he saw, along with daddy James,
Tied back to back, and both impail'd in flames.
His other Paramours, all in a row,
Were all impail'd, up to the waist in snow.
And farther on, continuing his rout,
He saw a black and dismal head peep out,
Out of a boiling cauldron, through the smoke,
Just like the head, out of the Royal Oak.
Two figures next approach'd, in monkish weeds,
Muttering fantastic prayers, and dropping beads.
The two last James's, walking with bead-rolls,
Condemn'd to pray in vain for all their souls;
154
To walk, incessantly, their foolish round.
Hook'd by the ribs, on a high gibbet, hung
Kirk; still retaining his audacious tongue,
Cried, as they pass'd, 'tis certain—tho' 'tis hard,
The prayers of fools can never fly a yard.
Nothing can ever make these blockheads wise—
How do you think that yours can mount the skies?
Arm'd with credentials from the Cocoa-tree
Down dropp'd the chief upon his bended knee;
Father and son both eyed him with dismay,
Both of them cross'd themselves, and walk'd away.
A dreadful cave now struck his soul with awe,
Here were the baleful caverns of the law.
Blue lightnings issued forth, and from within
His ears were harrow'd with terrific din,
Chains, lashes, creaking wheels, and crackling bones,
Yells, horrid shrieks, and everlasting groans.
Before the entrance two grim monsters lay,
With many monster cubs, in snarling play,
Chicane the dam, and rapine was their sire,
Their mouths foam'd black, their eyes were balls of fire:
Hell-hounds, the likest to a wolf in make,
A lion's paw, their tail a hooded snake ;
The Chief mov'd forward, till advancing nigh,
Bristling they rous'd and gave a hideous cry.
His staff disclos'd he wav'd with awful nod,
Jaw-lock'd they gaz'd upon the golden rod,
Loud thunder shook the adamantine jail,
The whole pack crouch'd and Rapine wagg'd his tail.
Here were the baleful caverns of the law.
Blue lightnings issued forth, and from within
His ears were harrow'd with terrific din,
Chains, lashes, creaking wheels, and crackling bones,
Yells, horrid shrieks, and everlasting groans.
Before the entrance two grim monsters lay,
With many monster cubs, in snarling play,
155
Their mouths foam'd black, their eyes were balls of fire:
Hell-hounds, the likest to a wolf in make,
A lion's paw, their tail a hooded snake ;
The Chief mov'd forward, till advancing nigh,
Bristling they rous'd and gave a hideous cry.
His staff disclos'd he wav'd with awful nod,
Jaw-lock'd they gaz'd upon the golden rod,
Loud thunder shook the adamantine jail,
The whole pack crouch'd and Rapine wagg'd his tail.
A hollow voice broke from the cells below:
“Stop, Mortal, Stop: Ah, whither would you go!
These are the endless labyrinths of hell,
Relentless vengeance reigns through every cell.”
'Tis not the voice of warning from a friend,
'Tis a damn'd Lawyer warns you of his end.
Amidst eternal torments from his den,
Preaching unwillingly, to long-rob'd men.
Artful he was, invading, but not brave,
A willing hireling, but a timid slave.
Eagle-eyed Judgement, parts almost divine,
Learning that flow'd from an exhaustless mine.
Hero in Science, to its utmost stretch,
Bacon that Hero was—and I that Wretch.
I could besides quote many a serious case;
Would you were here, to quote them in my place:
After this warning that can never be;
Farewel for ever—If you think of me.
Follow Cocytus up the realms of night,
The mournful waters fly the verge of light.
The plaintive streams diminish all the way,
Divide and languish at the sight of day.
Lost amongst frightful rocks its source you'll see,
Within the dolorous region of Ennui.—
Terrible lesson this—Bacon indeed!
Think of you, said the Chief!—Yes—I had need.
The ways of Justice here pass our vain skill;
God's Justice is his own unerring will.
What's that to you? said Bacon; Idle prate!
Your wills are crooked—but the laws are straight.
He felt the stroke, and, like the stricken deer,
Turn'd round, stole off, and dropp'd a painful tear.
“Stop, Mortal, Stop: Ah, whither would you go!
These are the endless labyrinths of hell,
Relentless vengeance reigns through every cell.”
'Tis not the voice of warning from a friend,
'Tis a damn'd Lawyer warns you of his end.
156
Preaching unwillingly, to long-rob'd men.
Artful he was, invading, but not brave,
A willing hireling, but a timid slave.
Eagle-eyed Judgement, parts almost divine,
Learning that flow'd from an exhaustless mine.
Hero in Science, to its utmost stretch,
Bacon that Hero was—and I that Wretch.
I could besides quote many a serious case;
Would you were here, to quote them in my place:
After this warning that can never be;
Farewel for ever—If you think of me.
Follow Cocytus up the realms of night,
The mournful waters fly the verge of light.
The plaintive streams diminish all the way,
Divide and languish at the sight of day.
Lost amongst frightful rocks its source you'll see,
Within the dolorous region of Ennui.—
Terrible lesson this—Bacon indeed!
Think of you, said the Chief!—Yes—I had need.
The ways of Justice here pass our vain skill;
God's Justice is his own unerring will.
157
Your wills are crooked—but the laws are straight.
He felt the stroke, and, like the stricken deer,
Turn'd round, stole off, and dropp'd a painful tear.
Silent he wound along the rueful coast,
And heard the moans of many a wretched ghost,
Wand'ring they walk'd, or fix'd in horror stood,
Nail'd on the banks of that lamenting flood.
Thousands he met, returning to their graves,
Wash'd every night in those disastrous waves.
Far to the right a peep of day appear'd,
Leaving the rocks behind, to that he steer'd.
A boundary stood there—a blasted tree,
Hell goes no farther—and there ends Ennui.
And heard the moans of many a wretched ghost,
Wand'ring they walk'd, or fix'd in horror stood,
Nail'd on the banks of that lamenting flood.
Thousands he met, returning to their graves,
Wash'd every night in those disastrous waves.
Far to the right a peep of day appear'd,
Leaving the rocks behind, to that he steer'd.
A boundary stood there—a blasted tree,
Hell goes no farther—and there ends Ennui.
The Chief press'd on with unremitting speed,
And now in day-light thought he saw the Tweed,
Working its weary way through wide domains,
Where merciless Ennui for ever reigns.
Through sandy tracts and sherifdoms of fen,
Border'd with peat-moss far as eye can ken,
Where spiteful Boreas shews his utmost spite,
And whistling gathers every poison'd blight.
'Twas not the Tweed, the semblance mock'd the Chief;
Ideal witchcraft—seat of mental grief,
Where every object has its proper pain,
To tire the eye, to rack or mope the brain.
Close by the shore he saw in bonnets blue
Many a rebel chief that once he knew;
Fain would have stopp'd them, but they all retir'd,
Save one, whose penance was almost expir'd.
He seem'd an antient Piper, by his geer,
His port was stately, and his eye severe.
A lyre, appendant to his bagpipe hung,
And thus the Northern Orpheus said or sung:
“Out of a roguish king, against all rule,
I undertook to make a learned fool;
And here I am, sent hither, as you see,
For having made him—what he was—all Three.
His royal inclinations were his own,
And all his vice—for virtue he had none.
I am Buchanan, this is my reward,
Make no reply; but listen to your Bard.
A while upon the beech I'll take my stand,
Till I explain the wonders on each hand.
We on the left enclos'd within those shoals
Dwell in the country of perturbed souls.
Hither transported for a certain space,
The restless spirit finds no resting place.
And here the jaded traveller resorts,
Whose days are lost in brothels or in courts.
The midnight gambler, when his race is run,
That lives undoing, and that dies undone.
Wild Mountaineers, who neither plow nor sow,
Who wish no greater curse to their worst foe .
The lawless spoiler, and the licensed cheat,
That eat the bread of outrage and deceit.
Here we must stay till we have cleared our score,
Our penance ended—we are wafted o'er;
Mean while, insuperable waves divide
The Paradise, where blessed fools reside.
We see the Land of Pleasure with despair,
And curse the stream that keeps us where we are,
With anguish view the happiest of Isles,
Where Plenty laughs, and every Season smiles,
Like birds of passage with instinctive sail,
There venial sinners fly with every gale;
Even ambition, avarice, and pride,
Provided Folly only was their guide.
The fool who starv'd himself, and meant no ill,
May starve in Paradise, or take his fill.
Those who were fond of rank and royal show,
Are shadowy Kings and empty Peers below.
All Kings, all Statesmen, have some foolish leaven,
The best come there before they are fit for heaven.
None go directly to that holy place,
But Ideots, Infant Babes, and Babes of Grace.
Sins of complexion, fashion, and skin deep,
Arrive per saltum, following like sheep.
But mighty sinners come not with such ease,
They must come far about, through dreadful seas;
The vainest creatures the most harmless are,
The poorest poet is the vainest far;
God gives the croaking frog, like these vain things,
Some satisfaction, whilst he thinks he sings.
And there the Poet sings, the Lover wooes,
And his warm turtle spreads her tail and cooes.
Many a Debauchee you think in hell
There meets a hearty welcome, and fares well:
Tyrant of beings, worthier than himself,
The Squire pursues, like a malicious elf,
The ghosts of weeping stags and timorous hares,
And for the souls of innocents lays snares:
Just the same noisy fool he was above,
That men despised, and only brutes could love.”
Buchanan finish'd, pointing to a boat,
Gave a few hints, and vanish'd quick as thought;
Close to the shore a dogged boatman plied,
Cover'd with Tartan rags in squalid pride;
The Chieftain lifted up his hand in air,
He knew old Lovat, and he knew his fare:
Simon, invited by the Scotch bawbee,
Push'd his boat through the mud, and took his fee.
I knew you, said the boatman, at first sight;
I see your travels have not chang'd you quite.
You are a judge, now judge between us two,
Which of us is the worthiest, I or you;
You sent me here—I know it gave you pain,
I transport you, as much against the grain.
Troth, maister M---y, if I had the power,
You should go back, and finish the grand tour.
Or else, amuse yourself, if you thought good,
Amongst your friends on this side of the flood.
Taunting and gibing, Simon stemm'd the tide,
And landed M---y on the envied side.
With Talbot, Hardwicke, Pelham, in his train,
And ancient Peers, without a single Thane.
The Second George was walking on the key,
And view'd the sullen marshes of Ennui.
He saw the Clans distinctly with his glass,
Like Mews and Sea Gulls, wailing on the Bass .
Balmarino, said George, Cameron I know;
I never hated any gallant foe:
All would have scaped, had they been only mine;
Would I could waft them o'er, and pay their fine.
Whigs have been sometimes cheats, and often tools,
Tories were always knaves, and Jacks but fools.
Hardwicke replied, “Sir, Nothing is more true;”
T*l*t rejoined, “If you'll except a few”
“Supposing,” Stanhope said, “This can be done,
In which of these exceptions is your son?”
“My Lord,” said Talbot, “both of us were bit;
I, as a humble patriot, you a wit:
You could not make a genteel rogue of Phil;
Nor I an honest Whig of graceless Will.
I grant he kennels with a knavish pack,
But hope and think my son is but a Jack.
Yon rebels were not trapp'd in Folly's snare;
'Twas treachery and falsehood brought them there.
No sooner set ashore than in a scrape,
Placed in full view—no chance for an escape;
Confused the Chief advanc'd—and all the while
Kept up a constant fire of bow and smile.
“Whoever thought to see that Gownman here?
Tell him,” said George, “to drop into the rear.”
“How brisk my uncle looks!” said Jack , “how young!”
George gave a Pugh!—and Jack put out his tongue,
The King had turn'd from that contrasted scene
To sprightly meads and lawns for ever green:
Wood-waving mountains, sunny sheep-clad hills,
And valleys tinkling with perpetual rills.
Not far from thence a terrace lifted high,
With antique towers arrests the ravish'd eye:
Proud Windsor rush'd into the Chieftan's mind,
Thither they hied—and left the Chief behind.
Despised by George, suspected by the best;
Dreaded by some, and hated by the rest.
And now in day-light thought he saw the Tweed,
Working its weary way through wide domains,
Where merciless Ennui for ever reigns.
158
Border'd with peat-moss far as eye can ken,
Where spiteful Boreas shews his utmost spite,
And whistling gathers every poison'd blight.
'Twas not the Tweed, the semblance mock'd the Chief;
Ideal witchcraft—seat of mental grief,
Where every object has its proper pain,
To tire the eye, to rack or mope the brain.
Close by the shore he saw in bonnets blue
Many a rebel chief that once he knew;
Fain would have stopp'd them, but they all retir'd,
Save one, whose penance was almost expir'd.
He seem'd an antient Piper, by his geer,
His port was stately, and his eye severe.
A lyre, appendant to his bagpipe hung,
And thus the Northern Orpheus said or sung:
“Out of a roguish king, against all rule,
I undertook to make a learned fool;
And here I am, sent hither, as you see,
For having made him—what he was—all Three.
159
And all his vice—for virtue he had none.
I am Buchanan, this is my reward,
Make no reply; but listen to your Bard.
A while upon the beech I'll take my stand,
Till I explain the wonders on each hand.
We on the left enclos'd within those shoals
Dwell in the country of perturbed souls.
Hither transported for a certain space,
The restless spirit finds no resting place.
And here the jaded traveller resorts,
Whose days are lost in brothels or in courts.
The midnight gambler, when his race is run,
That lives undoing, and that dies undone.
Wild Mountaineers, who neither plow nor sow,
Who wish no greater curse to their worst foe .
160
That eat the bread of outrage and deceit.
Here we must stay till we have cleared our score,
Our penance ended—we are wafted o'er;
Mean while, insuperable waves divide
The Paradise, where blessed fools reside.
We see the Land of Pleasure with despair,
And curse the stream that keeps us where we are,
With anguish view the happiest of Isles,
Where Plenty laughs, and every Season smiles,
Like birds of passage with instinctive sail,
There venial sinners fly with every gale;
Even ambition, avarice, and pride,
Provided Folly only was their guide.
The fool who starv'd himself, and meant no ill,
May starve in Paradise, or take his fill.
Those who were fond of rank and royal show,
Are shadowy Kings and empty Peers below.
All Kings, all Statesmen, have some foolish leaven,
The best come there before they are fit for heaven.
None go directly to that holy place,
But Ideots, Infant Babes, and Babes of Grace.
161
Arrive per saltum, following like sheep.
But mighty sinners come not with such ease,
They must come far about, through dreadful seas;
The vainest creatures the most harmless are,
The poorest poet is the vainest far;
God gives the croaking frog, like these vain things,
Some satisfaction, whilst he thinks he sings.
And there the Poet sings, the Lover wooes,
And his warm turtle spreads her tail and cooes.
Many a Debauchee you think in hell
There meets a hearty welcome, and fares well:
Tyrant of beings, worthier than himself,
The Squire pursues, like a malicious elf,
The ghosts of weeping stags and timorous hares,
And for the souls of innocents lays snares:
Just the same noisy fool he was above,
That men despised, and only brutes could love.”
Buchanan finish'd, pointing to a boat,
Gave a few hints, and vanish'd quick as thought;
Close to the shore a dogged boatman plied,
Cover'd with Tartan rags in squalid pride;
162
He knew old Lovat, and he knew his fare:
Simon, invited by the Scotch bawbee,
Push'd his boat through the mud, and took his fee.
I knew you, said the boatman, at first sight;
I see your travels have not chang'd you quite.
You are a judge, now judge between us two,
Which of us is the worthiest, I or you;
You sent me here—I know it gave you pain,
I transport you, as much against the grain.
Troth, maister M---y, if I had the power,
You should go back, and finish the grand tour.
Or else, amuse yourself, if you thought good,
Amongst your friends on this side of the flood.
Taunting and gibing, Simon stemm'd the tide,
And landed M---y on the envied side.
With Talbot, Hardwicke, Pelham, in his train,
And ancient Peers, without a single Thane.
The Second George was walking on the key,
And view'd the sullen marshes of Ennui.
163
Like Mews and Sea Gulls, wailing on the Bass .
Balmarino, said George, Cameron I know;
I never hated any gallant foe:
All would have scaped, had they been only mine;
Would I could waft them o'er, and pay their fine.
Whigs have been sometimes cheats, and often tools,
Tories were always knaves, and Jacks but fools.
Hardwicke replied, “Sir, Nothing is more true;”
T*l*t rejoined, “If you'll except a few”
“Supposing,” Stanhope said, “This can be done,
In which of these exceptions is your son?”
“My Lord,” said Talbot, “both of us were bit;
I, as a humble patriot, you a wit:
You could not make a genteel rogue of Phil;
Nor I an honest Whig of graceless Will.
I grant he kennels with a knavish pack,
But hope and think my son is but a Jack.
Yon rebels were not trapp'd in Folly's snare;
'Twas treachery and falsehood brought them there.
164
Placed in full view—no chance for an escape;
Confused the Chief advanc'd—and all the while
Kept up a constant fire of bow and smile.
“Whoever thought to see that Gownman here?
Tell him,” said George, “to drop into the rear.”
“How brisk my uncle looks!” said Jack , “how young!”
George gave a Pugh!—and Jack put out his tongue,
The King had turn'd from that contrasted scene
To sprightly meads and lawns for ever green:
Wood-waving mountains, sunny sheep-clad hills,
And valleys tinkling with perpetual rills.
Not far from thence a terrace lifted high,
With antique towers arrests the ravish'd eye:
Proud Windsor rush'd into the Chieftan's mind,
Thither they hied—and left the Chief behind.
Despised by George, suspected by the best;
Dreaded by some, and hated by the rest.
165
Close by the Royal Dome the King stopp'd short,
And said, “My Lords, you hear the late report—
Lyttelton's come—If so—pray, heaven, he bring,
Good news from honest England, and its King:
Your brother's not yet come—Fame says he's dead;
Pelham, what think you?—Pelham shook his head.
“I fear,” he answer'd, after a short pause,
“If there's bad news my brother was the cause.
You, Royal Sir, are not without some blame,
Knowing their hopes, and knowing whence they came.
You, Sir, yourself, was once the rising sun,
And saw what lengths ambitious courtiers run.”
“Pelham,” replied the King, “I own 'tis true;
All this, and more than this, Alas, I knew.
I saw with pleasure, when I ceased to reign,
My people soon would wish me back again.”
The Monarch then, it was his usual hour,
Slipp'd from them, hurrying to Valmoden's bower.
And said, “My Lords, you hear the late report—
Lyttelton's come—If so—pray, heaven, he bring,
Good news from honest England, and its King:
Your brother's not yet come—Fame says he's dead;
Pelham, what think you?—Pelham shook his head.
“I fear,” he answer'd, after a short pause,
“If there's bad news my brother was the cause.
You, Royal Sir, are not without some blame,
Knowing their hopes, and knowing whence they came.
You, Sir, yourself, was once the rising sun,
And saw what lengths ambitious courtiers run.”
“Pelham,” replied the King, “I own 'tis true;
All this, and more than this, Alas, I knew.
I saw with pleasure, when I ceased to reign,
My people soon would wish me back again.”
The Monarch then, it was his usual hour,
Slipp'd from them, hurrying to Valmoden's bower.
M---y, though humbled, not without disdain
Travers'd the lawns, and saunter'd down a lane;
On each side, arbours, alleys, and alcoves,
And dark recesses for the modest loves.
A noble matron , double-gilt with grace,
Attends, and does the honours of the place.
The secrets of that walk no tongue must tell,
There silence dwells; there only fit to dwell.
Just at the turn he stopp'd to take a view,
A building seem'd to offer something new;
A mansarde roof, a contour light and trim,
Like a Financier's toy or Marquis whim.
Placed in a plain, in flowery mazes scrawl'd,
The plain a sweeping curve with horn-beams wall'd,
Sprinkled with figur'd plots, where statues stray,
Where urns and vases rest and fountains play.
The doors cry out, the windows all proclaim,
Vive le Roy—from France the fancy came.
The garden-gate, said he, cries out Encore;
The lines above, perhaps, may tell us more
Inscription light, and airy like the rest;
Trick'd up in airy French, and thus express'd:
Entrez, aimable fou, soiez content et gai,
Ici, l'on est content, et plus fou qu'à Fernai:
Nous chantons, nous buvons, faisons des vaudevilles,
A nos cotés toujours tenons nos jolies filles:
Notre joyeux concert, pour nous, est assez beau
Nous n'envions aucun qui psalmodie en haut,
Ni saint ni sainte vierge, équipage inutile;
Ici point de pucelle; et point de difficile.
Voulez vous attrister votre vin, mes amis?
Allez à cet hotel, justement vis-à-vis,
Des filles fuiez-vous l'impertinent ramage?
Allez, apprenez là, que c'est que d'etre sage,
Au Sçavoir vivre Anglois, et Scavez vous pour quoi?
S'ennivrer tristemment, c'est Scavoir vivre là.
Travers'd the lawns, and saunter'd down a lane;
166
And dark recesses for the modest loves.
A noble matron , double-gilt with grace,
Attends, and does the honours of the place.
The secrets of that walk no tongue must tell,
There silence dwells; there only fit to dwell.
Just at the turn he stopp'd to take a view,
A building seem'd to offer something new;
A mansarde roof, a contour light and trim,
Like a Financier's toy or Marquis whim.
Placed in a plain, in flowery mazes scrawl'd,
The plain a sweeping curve with horn-beams wall'd,
Sprinkled with figur'd plots, where statues stray,
Where urns and vases rest and fountains play.
The doors cry out, the windows all proclaim,
Vive le Roy—from France the fancy came.
The garden-gate, said he, cries out Encore;
The lines above, perhaps, may tell us more
Inscription light, and airy like the rest;
Trick'd up in airy French, and thus express'd:
167
Ici, l'on est content, et plus fou qu'à Fernai:
Nous chantons, nous buvons, faisons des vaudevilles,
A nos cotés toujours tenons nos jolies filles:
Notre joyeux concert, pour nous, est assez beau
Nous n'envions aucun qui psalmodie en haut,
Ni saint ni sainte vierge, équipage inutile;
Ici point de pucelle; et point de difficile.
Voulez vous attrister votre vin, mes amis?
Allez à cet hotel, justement vis-à-vis,
Des filles fuiez-vous l'impertinent ramage?
Allez, apprenez là, que c'est que d'etre sage,
Au Sçavoir vivre Anglois, et Scavez vous pour quoi?
S'ennivrer tristemment, c'est Scavoir vivre là.
M---y was not in cue for folks so gay,
He slouched his hat, and stepp'd across the way.
'Twas still the mart of British wit and vice,
Arthur's—but what is Arthur's without dice?
A garden, with but one forbidden tree,
Of black-leg Knowledge; all the rest were free.
Thankless, indifferent to all the rest,
Of all God's blessed fools they were least blest.
He pass'd unnotic'd through the maudlin gloom,
And in a corner snug studied the room.
There made these sketches—leaning on his cane,
Drawn on the Album of his fruitful brain.
Northington there!—I envy his good luck,
And C---s Y---k too!—Both of them drunk as muck.
Here I am lost—I can't conceive a bit,
What a weak instrument is human wit!
Instead of contradicting and asserting,
Bedford—grown narrative and less diverting;
Poor matter—the same manner—smart and quick,
B---d house anecdotes; and pranks of Dick .
Is that a soul that's sleeping by the fire?
Hah! honest Stee! would I could see your sire!
What pensive wight is that tracing with wine,
Like Archimedes, some sublime design?
I know him well, and if I judge aright,
Those lines are gibbets—his supreme delight:
The table's full of them—alive or dead
Hanging must always run in S---'s head.
Wilkes, much the liveliest of all the club,
The Wits—as flat as monumental Bub;
Bub in the chair—no more like flesh and blood,
Than the first Consul's Image, made of wood.
Our Orators blow cold—temperate at most;
No heated wind blows here from the gold coast.
O North, where is thy sting? O Gibby, say—
What are you both, but buttermilk and whey?
Tax-ridden Porter, cheated of its malt,
Or wambling, oatmeal porridge without salt.
Waddling, with pinking eyes, and head-piece loose,
St---y still gabbles, like a stubble goose.
P---'s eloquence by all that I can find,
Vanish'd, and has not left a wreck behind.
The Chief, just at that instant, raised his head,
And caught P---s eye, that almost look'd him dead.
Struggling—at last he started from his seat,
Awoke—and found C---n-wood a safe retreat—
Safe in his bed, in a fine breathing steam,
Refreshing, after such a feverish dream.
He slouched his hat, and stepp'd across the way.
'Twas still the mart of British wit and vice,
Arthur's—but what is Arthur's without dice?
A garden, with but one forbidden tree,
Of black-leg Knowledge; all the rest were free.
168
Of all God's blessed fools they were least blest.
He pass'd unnotic'd through the maudlin gloom,
And in a corner snug studied the room.
There made these sketches—leaning on his cane,
Drawn on the Album of his fruitful brain.
Northington there!—I envy his good luck,
And C---s Y---k too!—Both of them drunk as muck.
Here I am lost—I can't conceive a bit,
What a weak instrument is human wit!
Instead of contradicting and asserting,
Bedford—grown narrative and less diverting;
Poor matter—the same manner—smart and quick,
B---d house anecdotes; and pranks of Dick .
Is that a soul that's sleeping by the fire?
Hah! honest Stee! would I could see your sire!
What pensive wight is that tracing with wine,
Like Archimedes, some sublime design?
169
Those lines are gibbets—his supreme delight:
The table's full of them—alive or dead
Hanging must always run in S---'s head.
Wilkes, much the liveliest of all the club,
The Wits—as flat as monumental Bub;
Bub in the chair—no more like flesh and blood,
Than the first Consul's Image, made of wood.
Our Orators blow cold—temperate at most;
No heated wind blows here from the gold coast.
O North, where is thy sting? O Gibby, say—
What are you both, but buttermilk and whey?
Tax-ridden Porter, cheated of its malt,
Or wambling, oatmeal porridge without salt.
Waddling, with pinking eyes, and head-piece loose,
St---y still gabbles, like a stubble goose.
P---'s eloquence by all that I can find,
Vanish'd, and has not left a wreck behind.
The Chief, just at that instant, raised his head,
And caught P---s eye, that almost look'd him dead.
170
Awoke—and found C---n-wood a safe retreat—
Safe in his bed, in a fine breathing steam,
Refreshing, after such a feverish dream.
An Epicurean Philosopher of the North, in whom were united the principles of two sects, seemingly opposite—a Pyrrhonist in Revelation; a Dogmatist in Faction, who does not believe God's word, but will take a Tory's word for any thing.
Some read his master; but our master is better; for he was certainly their master: whether he was his or no, might be guessed by his works; but could only be known by himself. It is remarkable, that those who seldom speak truth upon earth, are never permitted to lie here. No person dare speak affirmatively but from knowledge. To be obliged to speak truth must be a terrible punishment for a liar—and to none so much as a Liar ex Officio.
As every one is not endowed with the gift of discerning, nor with a taste for relishing the delicacy of an allegory, which is the soul of an heroic Poem, it will not be amiss to inform the Reader, that this laborious journey to the Infernal Regions means no more than the dry study and unpleasant drudgery of a certain science which the sublimest genius must submit to before he can reach the height of his profession—When he is at the top, and mounted upon his tribunal, he has hell in full view; for he must necessarily, like Rhadamanthus, be made acquainted with every crime and every kind of iniquity, that entitles human nature to be virtually represented in that senate.
| The Works of John Hall-Stevenson | |