The Fancy :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Fancy

A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Gray's Inn, Student at Law. With a brief memoir of his life [by J. H. Reynolds]

Reynolds, John Hamilton (1794-1852)

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STANZAS.

SONNET.

THE FIELDS OF TOTHILL:

POEMS.

STANZAS TO KATE,

PETER BELLv. PETER BELL.

LINES TO PHILIP SAMSON,

SONNET ON THE NONPAREIL.

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THE FIELDS OF TOTHILL:

A FRAGMENT.

[_]

The Poem from which the present Canto is selected, was written before that clever, rambling little story, yclept Beppo, appeared; but I believe that Corcoran had seen the national specimen which Messrs. Whistlecraft of Stowmarket had published,—and that he chose his measure from that facetious performance. Peter has suffered his muse to play most fantastic tricks before the Public; but though she is skittish, she is decent; and unlike her sisters, who generally figure away to the Italian measure, it may safely be said that she never shews more than the ancle. The first Canto scarcely ventures into the story, being much occupied by the indecision and gaiety of the author,—and, perhaps, he is rather too indecisive in all that he notices; but he is so unreserved in his misgivings and his wanderings, so candid in his communications, and so amiable in his explanations, that it is thought the public will love it if

only for its record of Peter's eager, rattling, rambling, and fanciful nature.

There are two other Cantos finished, but the Editor did not choose to hazard their publication till he was informed, by the success or failure of a portion of the Poem, of the manner in which the whole would be received. Some few stanzas have been omitted on account of severe allusions to persons whose feelings the Editor and the world respect, and to whom Peter could only have alluded harshly in those hours of feverish irritation and lonely depression which visit all persons at times, and none more than men of ardent and poetical temperament.

I

The Gods have made the Brother Smiths poetical,
As Touchstone saith, though not of either Smith;
And there hath, too, been many a great and petty call
Of Bards on either side the Thames and Nith.
But verse, like ink, must be a kind of jetty gall,
Or folk will think it not worth meddling with:
Most men of any nous will tell you this,
From Juvenal's time:—(This stanza's not amiss!)

II

I long to be a writer of the rhyme;
And since men may be Poets, and not know it,
Why may not I be fit for the soft crime
Of linking language with the view to show it.
I do not make a fuss about “all time,”
Give me to be the fleeting darling Poet,
That simmers on the pot of life, and then
Is skimmed away with other scum of men.

III

Epic is not my passion; nor thin lines
To thinner dames, who sicken on romance;
Nor the slim elegy, that crawls and whines
Like German women through a solemn dance.
I hate the language or the lass that pines;
And epigrams are far too apt to glance
Away, ere we can win them; so that I
Am very hard to please—but I must try.

IV

I have no notion what I mean to do,
Though I have started with the pen in hand;
But if a man his whim or wish pursue,
'Tis ten to one he safely comes to land.
I've heard of men whose very errors too
Have caught the plan their reason never scann'd;
As some who have been swearers—sad oath givers—
Have ta'en to blasting rocks and damming rivers.

V

There is no doubt that stories told in verse,
Of ruffian suitors, most successful prove;
Of dames that take for better or for worse
Knights, quite as full of fight as full of love:
The cant must be kept up that life's a curse,
(A lover's oath, nought else.) For Venus' dove
Is but a very pigeon when 'tis pluck'd;—
Even she herself in early life was duck'd.

VI

How fine are Wooers when they're desperate men !
The souls of dear tempestuous tenderness!
What beauty in their fiery natures, when
They tread highways or wood-walks, to caress
The traveller's throat or lady's hand! And then
They wear so very spirited a dress,
It quite takes off a robbery's vulgarity,
And varnishes a murder's cold barbarity.

VII

They may cut throats as fast as cooks cut capers,
And help themselves to ladies without leave,
And be deep damn'd in all the daily papers,
For being so sadly prone to slay and thieve;
They may give warmth to ricks and rooms, with tapers,
And husbands of their amorous wives relieve;
Still they've a saving grace o'er all inclining,
Like one star over Newgate gently shining:

VIII

They love—they pick a pocket—but they love!
Their dames too, it may be, are not nun-astical,
But they are passionate creatures, much above
Folk that are meek, demure, ecclesiastical,
Whose web of life dame Nature never wove
To be eccentric, dissolute, fantastical.
Your common crawling lives are not worth leading,
The balmy brutal make the prettiest reading

IX

But to return:—I wish that I could settle
To tell a tale right out, like Walter Scott,
Who surely is successful, and must nettle
Your tale-mechanics:—Whether Bard or not,
I should be very glad to boil the kettle,
I know my verse will never boil the pot,
With annual heaps of profitable rhyme,
Food for the day, if famine for “all time.”

XI

O Walter Scott! give me that sweet disorder,
Of making first the verse, and then the most of it;
Send Mr. Constable across the Border
To take my bastard up, and pay the cost of it.
Oh, be of me, and not of Hogg the lauder,
And I will make a profit and a boast of it:
I'd go as far as Market Street, or Dunstable,
To pick and split a straw with Mr. Constable.

X

I'm not the author of Guy Mannering,
If I confess'd it, I should be a liar;
Nor is Rob Roy a chicken from my wing,
But that is not the fault of my desire:
I should be very glad indeed to string
A bunch of tales, like honest Jedediah;
And sell them well, and never more beg alms,
But take a cottage in the Isle of Palms:—

XII

Or be an Ettrick shepherd in far lands,
A thing with prudent Scotchmen not uncommon,
And live and linger there till all the sands
Of life had pass'd: and with some gentle woman
Feed the sweet hours with beauty—and take hands,
And dance, and sing, and gambol, like a true man
Who scorns to check his money, till he must
Come down, as honest folks say, with the dust.

XIII

A beautiful high forehead, where the snow
Is never absent, as on lofty hills;
With hair that hath indeed a sunlike glow,
And wanders round it like its golden rills!—
I cannot bend my eyes on such a brow,
And not forget the world and all its ills:
I tremble at a star-like eye—and start,
Feeling the blood-tide flow upon the heart.

XIV

The touch of the white hand—all white, but warm;
The inconstant rose that creeps upon the cheek,
And sheds its glowing leaf at the soft storm
Of hurried feelings:—and the lily meek
Invading where the rose had set its form,
All these a fatal language to me speak:—
Fatal, yet sweet—I take it to my breast,
And feel that knowledge robs me of all rest.

XV

But they, who mean to love, must pay their taxes,
For gatherers molest us at the door;
The gathering, as I opine by praxis,
Differs on Scotland's and on England's shore!
Beauty avails not when the gatherer waxes
Impatient for the sum of one pound four;
She may be exquisite, but he will not
Take off a penny or relax a jot.

XVI

But how I speculate and stagger on,
Through stanzas to no purpose and no end;
The misery of this measure is, that one
Can never well and steadily attend
To the main subject:—but I'm too far gone
In it, to choose a new one or amend;
Besides I have no subject—though 'tis time
There should be one, as ballast for the rhyme.

XVII

The tale I now begin is as romantic
As any thing in Tom Moore's Lalla Rookh;
The lovers are as mystic and as frantic,
But they're not Turkish—that's against the book.
I wish they had play'd off some Eastern antic,
Or liv'd in any Haram's palmy nook,
But they have not—and I would sooner die
Than make them oriental, with a lie.

XVIII

Southey would put them into India quickly,
Make them amenable to wooden gods;
But I, who do not wish to act so strictly,
Would not expose them to such solemn rods:
They can't be foreign, but they might be sickly,
Though snug at home as peas are in their pods;
There's something grand tho' in Hindoo mythology,
Yet what to them or me is dusk Theology.

XIX

They were not Catholics, nor Calvinists,
Nor Swedenborgians, nor yet Armenians;
They were not amorous with the Methodists,
Nor fetter'd heart and hand to the Socinians:
They were not even, what the state insists,
Church people in his Majesty's dominions;
They were, in short, or else their tales belie us,
Exceeding fond, but very far from pious.

XX

I wish to heaven they had been born in Turkey,
For booksellers despise an English book;
And though I held my head a little perky,
And cultivated an immortal look,
Unless the hero's mind and face were murky,
They'd see me in the Counter ere they took
A page to sell, although the whole was made for it,
And deuce a penny should I e'er get paid for it.

XXI

And I am looking forward to the dawning
Of days when I may breathe a little air;
At present I give welcome to the morning
In Vine Street, Piccadilly, up three pair:
But if my copy sells, I'll sure give warning,
And pay the landlord, which will make him stare;
For his two rooms are naked, dun, and muggy,—
And somewhat tatter'd, and exceeding buggy!

XXII

Besides, it is extremely necessary
To give the o'er—fraught mind a relaxation;
The wisest find it requisite to vary
Their time 'twixt carelessness and cogitation:
I hate the smoky, but I love the airy,
As well as any of the English nation;
In fields and woods, if not too near the town,
I find my mind re-beaver'd, I must own.

XXIII

'Tis dreadful to endure a worsted climate,
To breathe an atmosphere of dingy woollen;
It is enough to make one place and time hate,
To render one untractable and sullen.
I'm sure the effects are dreary upon my mate,
And I can feel my intellect a dull one;
I dread lest strangers should be strange and close, or I
Would seek a better air than fleecy-hosiery.

XXIV

How sweet to feed the pocket with some cash,
That after feeding you may not look silly;
To breakfast first, to next lift up the sash,
Look at the morn, if cheerful or if chilly,
And then in joyous mood, but nothing rash,
Get on a Chiswick stage at Piccadilly;
And travel down with a determin'd face,
To play the devil with the roach and dace.

XXV

To nibble cold meat at the water's side,
And watch the float, is one of my delights;
To see the ripple of the restless tide,
To tug and struggle when the barbel fights;
To put new worms on when the old have died,
Or try a maggot, as the maggot bites:
All these are things at which I'm quite at home,
If such a phrase is fitting when I roam.

XXVI

Or else to lie along the grass and slumber,
Under the blue sky's summer canopy;
Or throw aside the garments which encumber
A body that delighteth to be free,
And bathe where lilies blossom without number:
This is, perhaps, a sort of poetry,
Which all who lead a life of prose, would find
A cheap, luxurious pleasure of its kind.

XXVII

But when shall I get on?—I marvel greatly
At my own indolence and strange assurance;
In verse like this which should be staid and stately,
I hunt my butterflies past all endurance.
The lovers whom I introduc'd so lately
Are not described as yet:—there's no insurance,
Upon my life, against this monstrous failing
Of tacking, when it ought to be plain sailing.

XXVIII

Well—I have told, some trifling stanzas back,
What sort of creatures my good souls were not;
And now I'll try, if I can get the knack,
To picture what they were, and paint their lot.
My Pegasus is but a bungling hack,
By no means such a beast as Walter Scott
Mounts when he rides a foraging in verse,
Hunting wild characters, if nothing worse.

XXIX

But first I must make known the matchless scene
In which I place my Poem; and 'tis one,
Though little given to trees, that hath been green
In other days—those days of course are gone.
It hath its alleys and its nooks, I ween,
And, by it, waters make a pleasant moan;
In it were fought old Battles of Appeals:—
(Vide the Term Reports)—'tis Tothill Fields.

XXX

The reason why I quote authorities,
And give as upon evidence my statement,
Is that my practice rather that way lies;
Though, God knows! it has puzzled me what Fate meant
By mixing me with writs, recoveries,
Bills, judgments, pleas, and all the things for hate meant:—
But so it is. Though now and then I glean as
Much time as my betters from subpœnas.

XXXI

These Tothill Fields are by the knowing ones
Known very generally as Tothill Downs,
'Tis something more romantic—the name runs
More trippingly from off the tongue. Most towns
Have their resorts for enterprising sons
Of pillage and enjoyment—two mild nouns,
Which if I must translate, would surely wear
A fouler meaning—so I'll leave them fair.

XXXII

My heroine's name is at the best call'd Bessy,
A very laughing, rosy sort of creature:
The more romantic name of Rose or Jessy
Was due, beyond a doubt, to her sweet nature.
Her hair is what the Cockney School call tressy;
And loveliness, like oil, glosses each feature
Of her round dimpling countenance, and lends
A quakerish look—but warmer than a friend's.

XXXIII

While you gaze slily at her eyes, you're brewing
A cup of dangerous mischief for your drinking;
They look all full of sweet and maddening ruin,
And do a deal of havoc with their winking;
They're like the darkest flowrets with the dew in;
And if you meet them fully there's no slinking;
They snare one like the serpent's, till one feels
Very confus'd between the head and heels.

XXXIV

Around her lips there is a smiling sweetness,
Which much inviteth other lips to kissing:
I wish I ne'er had witness'd such completeness
Of face—there's not a charm of value missing.
Her words trip from her tongue with all the neatness
Of morning dairy-maids, when winds are hissing
In the early leaves. I would that I were wittier,
To liken her to something that is prettier.

XXXV

There is no picture in the magazines
Sufficiently divine for such a face;
I've seen fac-similes of cheeks and chins,
But none with all her warmth, or half her grace.
Some of the scarcest portraits of choice queens,
Such as the Scottish Mary, give a trace;
But her sweet visage always looks the cosier—
She's something like Miss Stevens—only rosier.

XXXVI

Her dress—I've said no word about her dress,
And surely that deserves a stanza wholly;
It wreathes simplicity with loveliness,
And is a perfect alien to all folly:
You look at her—you look at it no less—
It throws an air of pastoral melancholy,
As Wordsworth phrases it, serene around her.
(I never saw an arm or bosom rounder!)

XXXVII

'Tis muslin on high days and holidays,
'Tis “seventeen-hunder-linen” when in common;
For its chaste neatness it deserves my praise,
It lets the neck and arms be seen by no man.
I like for my part these particular ways,
And recommend them much to every woman.
With her fine heart, and head-dress simply gay—
She's capp'd and jewell'd, watch-makers would say.

XXXVIII

Bessy the beautiful, you needs must think,
Was not without her feelings or her suitors:
She was adored by those who are the pink
Of that wild neighbourhood—by college tutors,
And sober serjeants:—privates too in drink,
While pamper'd by those red kites their recruitors,
Would ope their minds, when, from the feverish drouth
Of gin and beer, they scarce could ope their mouth.

XXXIX

The highest in the Fancy—all the game ones
Who were not very much beneath her weight,
Would take her ivory fingers in their lame ones,
And woo her very ardently to mate:
But she, although she did not love the tame ones,
Was not for men of such a desperate fate;
She knew a smart blow, from a handsome giver,
Could darken lights, and much abuse the liver.

XL

And eyes are things that may be bung'd, or blacken'd—
And noses may lie down upon the face—
Unless the pace of a quick fist is slacken'd;
And jawbones will break down, to their disgrace;
And oftentimes a facer from the back hand,
Will leave of poor Humanity no trace.
She, like a prudent woman, well reflected
On all these things, and dozens she rejected.

XLI

But many of my readers may not know
What 'tis the Fancy means, so I'll explain it.
I hope the very learned will not throw
Slurs on my explanation, and disdain it;
The best of language can but be so so—
Tho' Berkley breed it, and tho' Barclay train it.
I struggle all I can—I do my best;
The thing is difficult—but let that rest.

XLII

Fancy's a term for every blackguardism—
A term for favourite men, and favourite cocks—
A term for gentlemen who make a schism
Without the lobby, or within the box—
For the best rogues of polish'd vulgarism,
And those who deal in scientific knocks—
For bull-dog breeders, badger baiters—all
Who live in gin and jail, or not at all.

XLIII

Childe Bessy had a father, not forgot:—
I fear this line is Byron's, and not mine;
But he can spare it me, for he is not
So over honest as to need repine
At other's thievery;—from Crabb and Scott
Many a golden thought and metal line
Has he purloin'd. One scarce can keep one's own
In this abominable swindling town.

XLIV

Childe Bessy had a father, as I said,
A man of science in his own strange way;
He train'd the half, and broke the thorough-bred—
And fought a match in exquisite array;
He kept a bear and badger, and he led
The former through the streets to dance by day;
At night, by candle-light, in cellar dim,
He chain'd the furry brute and baited him.

XLV

These night-amusements were without cessation,
And Bruin's fame was bandied far and wide:
He squeez'd his pesterers to admiration,
And many a beast in his embrace has died.
Brutes there brought brutes of each denomination,
To dip their muzzles in his dusky hide,
To bay at him from 'twixt the legs, and cling
By couples at him from the loosen'd string.

XLVI

But this would end; and after its delight,
Our Bessy's father (surnamed Abberfield,)
Allowed two dogs of equal weight and height,
With heads like billiard-balls, to take the field;
And truly very fiercely would they fight,
Scorning, as so it would appear, to yield,
Wagging most dext'rously their jaws and tail,
And clinging and caressing, tooth and nail.

XLVII

I never could perceive, and my endeavour
Has been most earnest, how it is that dogs
Are made so eager, desperate, and clever,
Chewing each other into senseless logs;
They live with butchers and with brutes for ever,
And so in manners they become such hogs;
Or else they're starv'd, which is enough to bother
The best bred dogs, and make them gnaw each other.

XLVIII

(Heaven bless thee, Kate!—to think of thee—of thine,
Is sweeter far than poesy or fame;—
And though thine anger'd eyes all alter'd shine,
To thee my loving heart is still the same,—
The same,—though left deservedly to pine;—
In a parenthesis I bless thy name!
I bless it early, hopelessly, and late:
Oh! what a life is lost for ever, Kate!—

XLIX

Yet what avails repining—have I not
Soil'd the sweet plumage of my youthful life;
Abandon'd my loose spirit to each spot
Which promis'd low delights or merry strife?
Have I not rush'd perversely to the lot
Which with regret and loneliness is rife?—
The gather'd apple in my hand I see,
Then what avails to wish it on the tree?)

L

The badger there was baited; which is done
By letting beasts of courage in, who draw
The poor domestic creature one by one,
From his box'd house, by tail, or skin, or claw;
To many this is mighty pleasant fun,
But I confess I ne'er with pleasure saw
Such sport—not caring which should lose or win it,
And shrinking at the cruelty that's in it.

LI

Such were the revelries that chas'd the night;
Abberfield's house was always well attended;
The badger and the bear gave full delight,
Their flagrance and their fragrance were so blended.
Each evening left, if I'm instructed right,
Legs to be set, and jaw-bones to be mended;
And money was there wager'd, as they say,
Wheedled from simple pockets in the day.

LII

The mind of Abberfield—But I must beg
Permission to take breath, I've not been idle,
Or wandering or diffuse,—and now my keg
Of spirits is near out, and with a sidle
My weary Pegasus doth lift his leg,
Seeming to ask me just to pull the bridle.
I really will:—he must not be distrest,
Master and horse alike are wanting rest.

LIII

So now I'll stop at Fancy's livery-stable,
Where Pegasus is taken in to bait,
(Not in the manner just described): At table,
Over my Cape Madeira, I'll in state
Think over all the incidents I'm able
For my new Canto. It is rather late:
To-morrow after breakfast—about ten,
As Macheath says, I'll take the road again.

The Corsair was but the Slender Billy of the Cyclades. It is on record that he was guilty of robbery and arson.