ODE VII.
Peter breaketh out into Learning, and talketh
Latin—Adviseth young Artists to do no more
than they can do—Recommendeth to each the
Knowledge of his Genius.—Peter talketh of
Æsop's Fables, and Mr. Stubbs.—Peter ventureth
on the Stage—Recordeth a Story of an
Actor, and concludeth facetiously.
Qui
fit, Mæcenas, ut nemo quam sibi sortem,’
Was partly written for those fools
Who slight the very art that would support 'em,
In spite of gratitude's and wisdom's rules.
It brings to mind old Æsop's tale, so sweet,
Of a poor country-bumkin of a stag,
Who us'd to curse his clumsy legs and feet,
But of his horns did wonderfully brag:
Unlike our London poor John-Bulls,
Who, from the wardrobe of their sculls,
Could, with the greatest pleasure, piece-meal tear,
Such pretty-looking ornamental geer.
But, to the story of the buck,
Like many English ones, much out of luck.
When to a thicket master buck was chas'd,
His fav'rite horns contriv'd to spoil his trot,
By keeping the young 'squire in limbo fast,
Till John the huntsman came and cut his throat.
Unfortunately for the graphic art,
Painters too often their true genius thwart;
Mad to accomplish what can ne'er be done,
They form for criticism a world of fun.
The man of hist'ry longs to deal in little,
Quits lasting oil, for perishable spittle:
The man of miniature to history springs,
Mounts with an ardour wild the broom-like brush,
Makes for sublimity a daring push,
And shows, like Icarus, his feeble wings.
'Tis said that nought so much the temper rubs
Of that ingenious artist, Mr. Stubbs,
As calling him a horse-painter—how strange,
That Stubbs the title should desire to change!
Yet doth he curses on th' occasion utter,
And, foolish, quarrel with his bread and butter:
Yet, after landscape, gentlemen and ladies,
This very Mr. Stubbs prodigious mad is:
So quits his horse—on which the man might ride
To Fame's fair temple, happy and unhurt;
And takes a hobby-horse to gall his pride,
That flings him, like a lubber, in the dirt.
The self-same folly reigns, too, on the stage,
Such for impossibilities the rage!
The man of Farce, to Tragedy aspires,
And, calf-like bellowing, feels heroic fires.—
Weston for Hamlet and Othello sigh'd,
And thought it dev'lish hard to be denied.
The courtly Abington's untoward star
Wanted her reputation much to mar,
And sink the lady to the washing-tub—
So whisper'd—‘Mrs. Abington, play Scrub.’
To folly full as great, some imp may lug her,
And bid her slink in Filch, and Abel Drugger.
An actor, living at this time
That now I pen my verse sublime,
Could not, to save his soul, find out his fort;
But lo! it happen'd, on a lucky night,
He on the subject got a deal of light;
And thus doth Fame the circumstance report.
After exhibiting to pit and boxes,
To take a dram, the actor stroll'd to Fox's;
Where soon his friend came in, such fine things saying,
Offering a thousand pretty salutations,
With full confirming oath-ejaculations,
Unto this son of Thespis, for his playing.
‘By Heav'ns!’ quoth he, ‘unrivall'd is thy merit—
Thou playd'st to-night, my friend, with matchless spirit;
Zounds! my dear fellow, let me go to h*ll,
If ever part was acted half so well!’
The actor blush'd, and bow'd, and silly look'd,
To hear such compliments so nicely cook'd:
Getting the better of his mauvaise honte,
And staring at the other's steady front.
He ask'd—‘What part, pray, mean ye? for, in troth,
I know of none that you should so commend’—
‘What part!’ replied the other with an oath:
‘The hind-part of a jack-ass,
my dear friend!’
The player, pleas'd instead of being hurt,
Thank'd him for the discovery of his fort:
Pursu'd his genius—sought no higher game,
And by his jack-ass won unenvied fame.
