Guy's Porridge Pot A Poem, In Twenty-Four Books. The First Part [by R. E. Landor] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | BOOK IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Guy's Porridge Pot |  |
BOOK IV.
AN EPISODE.
ARGUMENT.
THE story—Portrait painting—The Doctor's picture. Lamentable consequences which it produced—Effects of envy—A dissertation on beards—their design—use—short catalogue of human calamities—The thrift and foresight of our ancestors—Improvident disposition and habits of the present age—The origin of swearing. Distressing situation in which the great man was involved by this very want of a beard—The soliloquy—The effects of grief—The poetical address of his melodious friend to him—The confession —Wings and herse, a simile—The artist comes—The picture— Quotation from Propria quæ maribus—Greatness of soul—Conclusion.
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye shew.
Shak.
Papa's sweet face for Misses sake,
And Miss, although she hates to sit,
Of course does what Papa thinks fit.
Thus youth with age, with sinner saint,
Throng round this mighty man of paint:
Hard is the task, and long the labour,
Where each looks fairer than her neighbour,
And wrinkled Squires, and virgin quizzes
Lay claim to sleek, arch, modern phyzzes!
Yea, long he labours, much he works
On men like maids, and maids like Turks!
Looks either stiff or maidenly—
Was pleased to sit, and all declare
The canvass breathes, they see him there.
His hand was raised to tear his beard—
For he, poor man! had read and knew
What wisdom once was used to do!
“To tear his beard! and did he tear?”
(Author)
The beard escaped, for none was there.
Fools that we are! to soap and shave
Those hairs indulgent nature gave,
That beard she hung around the throat
Of lordly man, and lordly goat!
Now why in goats she placed it there,
I neither say, nor know, nor care;
But men, since all are doomed to groan
With cares and sorrows of their own—
She kindly meant to pull and scatter
When vexed by any cross-grained matter,
As hopeless courtship, blighted corn,
Ricks fired, roosts robb'd, or aching horn—
Aching while spightful gossips gibe
The wanderings of a wanton Rib—
Streams overflowing, cattle drowned,
Colts lamed, ewes cast, pigs put in pound
That vex'd them once, or vexes still.
Preserved their chins for floods and fires.
Thus armed against the worst of woes,
They tore their beards to save their clothes!
But now, forsooth, as if despair
Scorned such a brittle hold as hair—
Or else as if the barber's lather
Could take them both away togather —
The fearless, senseless, beardless fops,
Wear costly clothes, and close-clipt tops,
And for the sake of smoother joles
Damn both their own and neighbour's souls!
But sorrow taught him what to do—
Like Hassan, thrice, the afflicted man
Sighed, smote his breast, and thus began!
In cassoc, band, and frame of gold,
The Doctor smiling from a wall,
Whilst I must never hang at all,
Or sus. per Coll.! and shall he grace
The exhibition with his face,
Mine quite unknown! though formed with care
Year after year, to figure there?”
Go wretched man! ah! go and die!
Grief filled the house, his wife related
Not why, but how, he mourned to
The poet flies with friendship's wings,
And softly says, or sweetly sings,
Sullen sorrow dims your eye,
Care contracts your clouded brow
Tell me sometime! tell me now,
What misfortune thus can move,
Broken friendship, faithless love?
Wherefore suffer, as he flies,
Time to number only sighs?”
He raised his head, and told his pain—
But should it prove that thou canst see
No magic in this poesy,
Reader I let the secret loose
He's less a swan than thou a goose.
And told the painter what to do.
Yea on those very wings which bore
That mighty burden there before;
The wings of friendship—not of verse,
On those he travels like a herse,
With vast solemnity and state
When lifeless figures load his pate;
Move on with more celerity.
The men drew back! the women fainted!
The children screamed! the bats gan wail!
The dogs clapt close the timid tail!
All looked with fear and wild amaze on
This “Gorgon, Icon, et Amazon!”
All but the wonderous man, and far
From him who rivals Doctor—
Be childish hopes with form or dress,
And outward shows of comeliness,
To make the foolish world admire
Sleek-visaged charms, and rich attire!
He fairly cut the Doctor out,
And all the other sons of men
From Fe Fo Fum to Saracen!
—Βλεπω γαρ αυτον Ταχα, κηρε, και λαλησεις.
Alas! it is in vain that I would exclaim with the same author
Στολισον το λοιπον αυτην υποπορφυροισι π=επλοις.
How much more frequently is this wish in the intermediate ones gratified.
Διαφαινετω δε σαρκων.
Diod. Sic.—Plat Banq.—Athæn. Kirch.—Orig. Com. Cel.— Strom. 1. 5.—Jamb. de Myst.—Lucan.—Hierocl. Com. in Carm. Aur. Pyth.—Hes. de Sæcl. Aur. Orph.—Procl.—Plut. de Anim. Form.—Argon. apud Steph. edit. Fuegger.—Pocock Specim.
The apt alliteration of Churchill is deplorable. There is a gap between every two words. Instead of an aid it is an impediment. Poor Tom Warton's “Clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,” is ten times worse. This exquisite specimen is sufficient to place the author above all his brethren. There is something like fortune in the effusions of genius. To produce this they were united. Critics may cavil, but that which excites their malevolence, ensures my immortality.
| Guy's Porridge Pot | |