The Pin Basket To The Children of Thespis. A Satire. By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]. With Notes Biographical, Critical, and Explanatory |
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 | The Pin Basket |  |
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THE PIN BASKET. TO THE CHILDREN OF THESPIS.
A SATIRE.
Ρανις ενδελεχουσα κοιλαινει πετραν.
Hom.
Hom.
Nunc eadem, labente die, convivia quærit:
Iliacosque iterum demens audire labores
Exposcit, pendetque iterum narrantis ab ore.
Virg. Æn. IV.
Iliacosque iterum demens audire labores
Exposcit, pendetque iterum narrantis ab ore.
Virg. Æn. IV.
They long again to hear their bard relate
In bold satiric verse, the Thespian fate:
I tell it o'er and o'er: but still in vain;
For still they beg to hear it once again.
The public on their Pasquin's song depends;
And thus the story never—never ends.
Dryd. Trans.
In bold satiric verse, the Thespian fate:
I tell it o'er and o'er: but still in vain;
For still they beg to hear it once again.
The public on their Pasquin's song depends;
And thus the story never—never ends.
Dryd. Trans.
9
Again thy aid invoke, thy quick'ning fire!
Give me with force to strike my fav'rite string—
Grant that not wholly uninspir'd I sing!
Forward the labours of thy Poet's brain;
Once more be Prompter to his Thespian strain:
So shall thy altar of the plunder share,
And oft a fatted calf be offer'd there.
Fear not my vow! I'll solve it o'er and o'er—
No Smithfield drover has a richer store.
Proceed! Come, join my standard, trust my word,
And let's together dash amid the herd.
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Let Peter pension'd sing, and meet the eye,
As fat as any pig, in any stye;
To me such looks belie the vot'ry of the Muse,
Who breathes Parnassian air, and quaffs th' Olympian dews,
And would proclaim to all (a semblance fit)
More of the Cutting Butcher than the wit.
Farewel to song, when poets touch the pelf,
Adieu to Peter then, now batt'ning on the shelf.
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Lord knows the time when I'd a belly full!
No! thin and sleek—in rare fine running order
My honest Muse has kept me—Heaven reward her!
The doctor's gouty leg (I ride a feather)
Would weigh my Pegasus and me together.
But now I pant impatient for the round,
And now I seem to touch the distant ground;
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Yet ere I start, near thirty lines are lost.
Suppose me then, good folks, with fancy heated,
Upon my tripod in the attic seated;
Pen, ink, and paper, all before me laid,
The simple tools of my immortal trade;
With chin upon my thumb and finger lolling,
And eye already fixt, prepar'd for rolling—
When at my door, a tap! alarmed I hear,
And all my well-plann'd thoughts dissolve to air:
A bailiff sure! I knew his tap, methought,
Then softly creeping on, and breathing short,
(As much in fear, just then, of such detection:
As I have seen St. Stephen's at election)
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So ope'd my portal wide, and in stalk'd Kemble.
Thinking I could not now be aught but civil,
(Though I would full as soon have seen the devil)
I begg'd he'd sit—as soon 'twas done as said—
He on the stool, and I upon the bed.
Then thus began the man of tragic gaze,
With Jesuitic grin, and measur'd phrase.
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“So, so, the Green-Room's in a pretty rout,
“And long to know what 'tis that you're about.
“Tell me, my Pasquin, as a friend I ask it,
“Who is't you mean to cram into your Basket?
“Not me, I hope. Consider! Heaven preserve you!
“Would to my heart my friend, that I could serve you.”
“And long to know what 'tis that you're about.
“Tell me, my Pasquin, as a friend I ask it,
“Who is't you mean to cram into your Basket?
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“Would to my heart my friend, that I could serve you.”
Pasquin.
“Away with all such hypocritic stuff!
“I will not take a selfish bribe, to puff
“The undeserving through the list'ning town,
“Above the man whom worth and merit own.
“Go, go, to Boaden, or to Taylor hie,
“Those bards of all work will, as wont, comply;
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“Does with his darling unlick'd cub contend,
“And faith 'twould puzzle Wisdom's self to tell
“The greatest fool, they act their parts so well.
“Off to those honest prints, that virtuous host,
“Who ever praise him best, who pays them most.
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“And then be told ‘How wonderful you play;’
“Deceive the world, out-lie all contradiction,
“And swear yourself a play'r 'gainst conviction.”
Kemble.
“Be calm, my friend!”
Pasquin.
“Be just, 'tis true, you know it!”
Kemble.
“That you're the best of men, and sweetest poet.
“I've brib'd, I own, but merely 'twas, forsooth,
“To keep those lying prints from telling truth.
“What could I do? altho' so much you flout it,
“There's not a manager could live without it.
“What think you otherwise could e'er induce
“That lump of ignorance, Harris, to produce
“Bate Dudley's ribaldry, or Hurlstone's trash,
“But that it serv'd for bribe, and sav'd his cash.
“Or Boaden's tragic Muse create a laugh,
“Unless he paid his way in paragraph.
“Or Walters fill whole boxes at the play—
“Lord help your soul, you do not think they pay!
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“To keep those lying prints from telling truth.
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“There's not a manager could live without it.
“What think you otherwise could e'er induce
“That lump of ignorance, Harris, to produce
“Bate Dudley's ribaldry, or Hurlstone's trash,
“But that it serv'd for bribe, and sav'd his cash.
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“Unless he paid his way in paragraph.
“Or Walters fill whole boxes at the play—
“Lord help your soul, you do not think they pay!
“But now my managerial part is done,
“And strange! I don't regret my sceptre gone!
“They had my services, and sister's too,
“While yet the treasury could boast a sous;
“And tragedy, whate'er the public fancies,
“Much best became the company's finances.
“Can Harris then, or Colman e'er aspire,
“To half my talents, genius, wit, and fire?
“Have not I acted, writ, and alter'd plays,
“Been clapp'd! been damn'd!—now shan't I have your praise?”
“And strange! I don't regret my sceptre gone!
“They had my services, and sister's too,
“While yet the treasury could boast a sous;
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“Much best became the company's finances.
“Can Harris then, or Colman e'er aspire,
“To half my talents, genius, wit, and fire?
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“Been clapp'd! been damn'd!—now shan't I have your praise?”
Pasquin.
“Thus thou, by here recounting others ailings,
“Would'st toil to weave a cloak to hide thy failings.
“Be Harris ignorant, as you declare,
“And obstinate as any Russian bear;
“What tho' a monkey, as the story goes,
“Alone has power to lead him by the nose:
“No mighty disagreement I divine,
“Except he always keeps the stupid line,
“And thou art somewhat more a fool in wine.
“Yet mention not, with impious tongue, thy name
“With his, which Time shall glory to proclaim,
“And honest critics consecrate to fame!
“Boaden may sneer, and tedious Pollio scribble,
“With foul detraction thro' dull columns dribble;
“But impotent they strive, with pigmy blow,
“To beat the firm-fix'd bay from Colman's brow;
“It lives, shall flourish, spite of Envy's blast,
“For gain'd by merit it with time shall last!
“Would'st toil to weave a cloak to hide thy failings.
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“And obstinate as any Russian bear;
“What tho' a monkey, as the story goes,
“Alone has power to lead him by the nose:
“No mighty disagreement I divine,
“Except he always keeps the stupid line,
“And thou art somewhat more a fool in wine.
“Yet mention not, with impious tongue, thy name
“With his, which Time shall glory to proclaim,
“And honest critics consecrate to fame!
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“With foul detraction thro' dull columns dribble;
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“To beat the firm-fix'd bay from Colman's brow;
“It lives, shall flourish, spite of Envy's blast,
“For gain'd by merit it with time shall last!
“Thou, pining at his worth, his wily friend,
“Did'st dare to injure what thou could'st not mend.
“Away, incapable of generous deed!
“Yet mark you first, the lines I'd have you heed.
“‘Reject the praises you can ne'er preserve,
“‘Believe not what you pay for you deserve.
“‘Survey thy soul, not what thou dost appear,
“‘But what thou art—and find the beggar there.”
“Did'st dare to injure what thou could'st not mend.
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“Yet mark you first, the lines I'd have you heed.
“‘Reject the praises you can ne'er preserve,
“‘Believe not what you pay for you deserve.
“‘Survey thy soul, not what thou dost appear,
“‘But what thou art—and find the beggar there.”
This said, with haste, his hat he rising took,
And left the room with curs'd Medusan look.
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Exclaim'd the bard, and smooth'd his ruffled wing.
For honest fervor had distrub'd him more,
Than milk-maids are, when you rub out the score,
Or Lady Lade, when told—her knight is poor.
Or Leeds and Mulgrave, when you laugh to see
Them work away as Cobb and company.
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Or even say he has a hanging look.
Or Doctor Parr, when ask'd a civil question,
Who'll growl and grunt, and eat past all digestion.
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By Derby, who declar'd she wanted shaving,
And swore as she came off the stage—all puffing,
That she'd play Falstaff better—without stuffing.
Or simple Arnold, when, in harmless fun,
You smile to hear him praise his silly son.
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The world in arms!—the mimic world I mean,
And give the final touch, to this our Thespian scene.
New Drury first appears, in clamourous hum,
Like Stock Exchange, when settling day is come!
All ready there, with claims in dread array—
All—all—but those who should be there to pay.
What wonder then if waddling some should quit,
Full well assur'd—ex nihilo nil sit.
Bensley retires! and him the Muse affords
A just eulogium, and his worth records.
O! how she joys to praise!—compell'd she rails,
But yields with zeal when merit fills her sails.
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You've scarce left aught of greater price behind.
But King, shall King, the veteran, begone,
While yet his legs will bear him off and on?
Forbid it Justice—and his cause espouse—
Some Goth or Vandal's sure got in the house!
“True! true! 'tis thus the worn-out actor fares,”
Lisp'd honest Waldron, coming up the stairs.
Waldron.
“Good Master Pasquin—O they've used me foul!
“I'm off!”
Pasquin.
“I would you were with all my soul!
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“And let us hear what's stirring 'bout the town.”
Waldron.
“What, war or peace? For peace the people sigh,
“But all in vain, there's no one heeds their cry:
“Quicquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi.”
Pasquin.
“Pshaw! Stuff! have done! you know what I've in hand,
“Thro' Drury sailing—pray how lies the land?”
Waldron.
“But badly faith, they've chang'd their master, true—
“The Log's dismiss'd, and they've a Stork in lieu;
“One Lawyer Grubb—in vain, poor souls, we bawl out,
“He's in, and ere he's done, will grub us all out.
“The Log's dismiss'd, and they've a Stork in lieu;
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“He's in, and ere he's done, will grub us all out.
“There Gibbs shall strain her little throat no more,
“And Sedgwick, wood-work Sedgwick, cease to roar;
“Thence Bland, by artful villany beguil'd,
“Bears the sweet notes that cheer'd the dreary wild.
“Now follow Caulfield, for thyself art free,
“We'll mark how far thy love will carry thee:
“Hence! on whom each honest brow is scowling,
“Nor loiter here, ‘to bay the moon with howling.’
“Storace too, suspends, 'tis said, her strains,
“If true—no loss, while lovely Leake remains.
“Th' old girl, whene'er she starts, 'tis play and pay,
“And as they could not pay, she would not play,
“Some think 'twas vastly mean—but ‘that's her way.’
“Next Moody.”
“And Sedgwick, wood-work Sedgwick, cease to roar;
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“Bears the sweet notes that cheer'd the dreary wild.
“Now follow Caulfield, for thyself art free,
“We'll mark how far thy love will carry thee:
“Hence! on whom each honest brow is scowling,
“Nor loiter here, ‘to bay the moon with howling.’
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“If true—no loss, while lovely Leake remains.
“Th' old girl, whene'er she starts, 'tis play and pay,
“And as they could not pay, she would not play,
“Some think 'twas vastly mean—but ‘that's her way.’
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Pasquin.
“What somnific?”
Waldron.
“As I hear,
“Pair'd off with Mother Hopkins!”
Pasquin.
“Precious pair!
“To make that sleepy mass of av'rice move,
“Does sure, O Grubb! much in thy favour prove.”
Waldron.
“Ere now, by Sherry, this good act was done,
“By fear made bold, he sent away the drone.
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“'Twas well! But at this rate I have my fears,
“You soon will have more managers than play'rs.”
Waldron.
“We've five!”
Pasquin.
“One less, I never heard of more:”
Waldron.
“The Duke has join'd 'em, and commands the four.
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Pasquin.
“Enough to ruin any house, I vow.
“Alas! poor Drury! what will now become on't?
“You all will starve!”
Waldron.
“Starve!!”
Pasquin.
“Dam'me if you won't!
“Who'll go to see what Richardson can write—
“Dull animal—or Grubb, poor senseless wight?
“Or Cumberland, with five act sermons boring
“Undisturb'd! unless 'tis with our snoring?
“Or who can sing-song, hodge-podge Cobb, endure:
“None, none, the barn will be deserted sure,
“And Shaw on catgut scrape his sharps and flats,
“To moral mice, and sentimental rats.”
“Who'll go to see what Richardson can write—
“Dull animal—or Grubb, poor senseless wight?
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“Undisturb'd! unless 'tis with our snoring?
“Or who can sing-song, hodge-podge Cobb, endure:
“None, none, the barn will be deserted sure,
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“To moral mice, and sentimental rats.”
Waldron.
“But Sheridan!”
Pasquin.
“He write? Dick write? pshaw! stuff!
“He knows too well that he has wrote enough.”
Waldron.
“He will, he says:”
Pasquin.
“Words, words! 'tis all deception,
“I tell you, man, his Muse is past conception!
“The jade gets old, a very stumbler grown,
“Whom if he trusts, he loses all he's won;
“Bed-ridden quite, a fact, believe me, Sir,
“No bairns again he'll get—at least by her.
“You've not a soul upon your books, I'm certain,
“Whose works would pay for drawing up the curtain.
“Think you that St. John, or that Hoare has wit?
“Hast seen his Mahmoud, read St. Marguerite?
“Such sorry dregs would prove we go and pay
“To see some favourite actor, not the play.
“And Cumberland with truth must e'en declare,
“He owes his best successes to the play'r.
“We can't but go, howe'er the piece be barren,
“If Jordan's there, or still bewitching Farren.
“Or Suett, who by laughable grimace,
“Would fain oblivion give to Parsons's face.
“Or Bannister with stir and endless rout,
“Whose fame will last—until he gets the gout!
“Shall Braham's notes mellifluent fill the void—
“Leake sing and smile, and we not be decoy'd?
“Such sounds exact the tribute of applause,
“Think not, O Hoare, thy doggrel is the cause.
“'Tis thus! now quickly say—assist my song,
“Which hence to Covent wings its way along—
“What's left unsung!”
“I tell you, man, his Muse is past conception!
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“Whom if he trusts, he loses all he's won;
“Bed-ridden quite, a fact, believe me, Sir,
“No bairns again he'll get—at least by her.
“You've not a soul upon your books, I'm certain,
“Whose works would pay for drawing up the curtain.
“Think you that St. John, or that Hoare has wit?
“Hast seen his Mahmoud, read St. Marguerite?
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“To see some favourite actor, not the play.
“And Cumberland with truth must e'en declare,
“He owes his best successes to the play'r.
“We can't but go, howe'er the piece be barren,
“If Jordan's there, or still bewitching Farren.
“Or Suett, who by laughable grimace,
“Would fain oblivion give to Parsons's face.
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“Whose fame will last—until he gets the gout!
“Shall Braham's notes mellifluent fill the void—
“Leake sing and smile, and we not be decoy'd?
“Such sounds exact the tribute of applause,
“Think not, O Hoare, thy doggrel is the cause.
“'Tis thus! now quickly say—assist my song,
“Which hence to Covent wings its way along—
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Waldron.
“Crouch, Kelly, yet remain,
“Young Kemble, Siddons, Miller, and a train
“Most numerous!”
“Young Kemble, Siddons, Miller, and a train
“Most numerous!”
Pasquin.
“Ah! Crouch! thy day is o'er,
“‘Cold is that breast, which warm'd the world before,’
“Thy Irish nightingale now roves, I fear,
“And heedless quits ‘his loaf, his only tear.”
“Fast Siddons wains! Young Kemble needs not wait
“For time to silver o'er his gloomy pate,
“But with my free consent, and Wathen, beat retreat.
“Miller has powers, is young, and will improve,
“And if she sings not, win upon our love.
“Now Covent Garden come before my view!”
“‘Cold is that breast, which warm'd the world before,’
“Thy Irish nightingale now roves, I fear,
“And heedless quits ‘his loaf, his only tear.”
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“For time to silver o'er his gloomy pate,
“But with my free consent, and Wathen, beat retreat.
“Miller has powers, is young, and will improve,
“And if she sings not, win upon our love.
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Waldron.
“Then I depart—farewel!”
Pasquin.
“Adieu, adieu!
“Harris appear, and bring thy ragamuffin crew.
“No bring them not—too oft already they
“Have been the heavy burthen of our lay.
“Lewis declines—when dressed, with eyes askew,
“He imitates no buck, except old Q.
“His time's gone by, he stuffs false calves in vain,
“For still the ancient calf is seen too plain.
“Holman has voice; I grant 'tis strong and good—
“But why for ever think he's in a wood?
“Then crying Wallis ne'er with Pope shall vie,
“Whate'er her friends avouch, or papers lie—
“Which you may think your interest to buy.
“Too deep she play'd—you, sapient, made a catch,
“(For greatest rogues will sometimes meet their match)
“Engag'd her fast—paid dearly for your treasure,
“And now repent your folly at your leisure.
“Good Mattocks, ‘she's done up,’ she is, 'tis fact,
“And will be dish'd if she persist to act.
“And Martyr too, in faith does not grow younger,
“And Quick, ah! well a day, can't squeak much longer.
“The rest!—in pity Pasquin names them not—
“Sure Harris you must thank him they're forgot!
“Tis said you pay—'tis truth, per force, 'tis truth,
“For all your vagrants live from hand to mouth.
“In actors Drury highly bears the belle—
“In authors which—I leave for heav'n to tell!
“Should honest Reynolds once his force withdraw,
“You've scarce a writer left, that's worth a straw.
“O'Keefe, poor fellow! sometimes may succeed—
“May make us smile—but ne'er can make us read!
“His plays are fields with poppies rich abounding,
“Where every thing but common-sense is found-in:
“To Robinson's fine hi, te, ti, te, ti!
“This observation also may apply.
“With lofty tip-top inane phrases beaming,
“And metaphors and figures wond'rous, teeming,
“On vellum printed, and but charg'd a guinea,
“Vancenza's in the hand of—ev'ry ninny!
“Anxious they read! and read!! it is so clever!!
“Then rise, and find themselves—as wise as ever.
“Prize Reynolds' humour, for it suits the town,
“'Tis good, original, and all his own.
“No pilf'rer he—whate'er he says he writ,
“He writ! he never borrows other's wit:
“Would scorn an act that's mean, and blush'd to see
“His empty friend tax'd home with roguery.
“Alas! poor Morton! of Zorinskian fame,
“How have you toil'd, and well deserv'd—your shame.
“None's safe with you, for lately, wanting prey,
“You took e'en Reynolds' characters away.
“And now, could he retaliation chuse,
“You know full well you have not one to lose.
“Thus indiscriminate, ‘alive or dead,’
“You steal from all, and ‘grind and make your bread.’
“But hark ye there, who labour with the spleen—
“Hast seen Tom's picture in the magazine?
“Dost think he did not pay to have it in?
“His life too—hold your laughter if you can—
“‘Ohe jam satis est’ of such a man.
“Not so with Andrews, humble plodding cit—
“As genuine in his women as in his wit.
“He takes from none—no keen-eyed book-worm fears,
“As in his Myst'ries clearly it appears.
“Who can, who dares of plagiary indite it—
“I swear that he, and only he could write it!
“O! Andrews! rest assur'd, the fates design
“No one shall envy any piece of thine.
“Holcroft, quite sapless grown, can write no more—
“His body's feeble, and his mind is poor.
“Had Topham genius, and the fame it gives,
“(The world well knows no greater blockhead lives)
“I could not praise him, for my soul abhors
“The man who breaks through Nature's sweetest laws—
“Whose heart so callous to each tender tie,
“So deaf to gratitude—to pity's sigh—
“Can see that form he vilely has betray'd,
“Now pine in want, and never lend his aid.
“Alas! much injur'd, beauteous, gen'rous Wells,
“How oft on thee my thought with sorrow dwells.
“Accept a tear—'tis all I can bestow—
“That, and to hate the author of thy woe.
“Enough, enough! My Thespian song is done—
“The herd dismiss'd!—and is there living one,
“Who thinks I do not all their worth allow them—
“Believe me, 'tis—because he does not know them.”
“Harris appear, and bring thy ragamuffin crew.
“No bring them not—too oft already they
“Have been the heavy burthen of our lay.
“Lewis declines—when dressed, with eyes askew,
“He imitates no buck, except old Q.
“His time's gone by, he stuffs false calves in vain,
“For still the ancient calf is seen too plain.
52
“But why for ever think he's in a wood?
“Then crying Wallis ne'er with Pope shall vie,
“Whate'er her friends avouch, or papers lie—
“Which you may think your interest to buy.
53
“(For greatest rogues will sometimes meet their match)
“Engag'd her fast—paid dearly for your treasure,
“And now repent your folly at your leisure.
“Good Mattocks, ‘she's done up,’ she is, 'tis fact,
“And will be dish'd if she persist to act.
“And Martyr too, in faith does not grow younger,
“And Quick, ah! well a day, can't squeak much longer.
“The rest!—in pity Pasquin names them not—
“Sure Harris you must thank him they're forgot!
“Tis said you pay—'tis truth, per force, 'tis truth,
“For all your vagrants live from hand to mouth.
54
“In authors which—I leave for heav'n to tell!
“Should honest Reynolds once his force withdraw,
“You've scarce a writer left, that's worth a straw.
55
“May make us smile—but ne'er can make us read!
“His plays are fields with poppies rich abounding,
“Where every thing but common-sense is found-in:
“To Robinson's fine hi, te, ti, te, ti!
“This observation also may apply.
56
“And metaphors and figures wond'rous, teeming,
“On vellum printed, and but charg'd a guinea,
“Vancenza's in the hand of—ev'ry ninny!
“Anxious they read! and read!! it is so clever!!
“Then rise, and find themselves—as wise as ever.
“Prize Reynolds' humour, for it suits the town,
“'Tis good, original, and all his own.
“No pilf'rer he—whate'er he says he writ,
“He writ! he never borrows other's wit:
“Would scorn an act that's mean, and blush'd to see
“His empty friend tax'd home with roguery.
“Alas! poor Morton! of Zorinskian fame,
“How have you toil'd, and well deserv'd—your shame.
“None's safe with you, for lately, wanting prey,
“You took e'en Reynolds' characters away.
“And now, could he retaliation chuse,
“You know full well you have not one to lose.
“Thus indiscriminate, ‘alive or dead,’
“You steal from all, and ‘grind and make your bread.’
57
“Hast seen Tom's picture in the magazine?
“Dost think he did not pay to have it in?
“His life too—hold your laughter if you can—
“‘Ohe jam satis est’ of such a man.
60
“As genuine in his women as in his wit.
61
“As in his Myst'ries clearly it appears.
“Who can, who dares of plagiary indite it—
“I swear that he, and only he could write it!
“O! Andrews! rest assur'd, the fates design
“No one shall envy any piece of thine.
“Holcroft, quite sapless grown, can write no more—
“His body's feeble, and his mind is poor.
62
“(The world well knows no greater blockhead lives)
“I could not praise him, for my soul abhors
“The man who breaks through Nature's sweetest laws—
“Whose heart so callous to each tender tie,
“So deaf to gratitude—to pity's sigh—
“Can see that form he vilely has betray'd,
“Now pine in want, and never lend his aid.
“Alas! much injur'd, beauteous, gen'rous Wells,
“How oft on thee my thought with sorrow dwells.
“Accept a tear—'tis all I can bestow—
“That, and to hate the author of thy woe.
63
“The herd dismiss'd!—and is there living one,
“Who thinks I do not all their worth allow them—
“Believe me, 'tis—because he does not know them.”
64
FINIS.
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