The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

The divine Peter giveth an Account of a Conference he held last Year with Satire, who advised him to attack some of the R. A.'s, to tear Mr. West's Works to Pieces, abuse Mr. Gainsborough, fall foul of Mrs. Cosway's Sampson, and give a gentle Stroke on the Back of Mr. Rigaud—The Poet's gentle answer to Satire—The Ode of Remonstrance that Peter received on Account of his Lyrics—Satire's Reply—Peter's Resolution.

‘Not, not this year the lyric Peter sings—
The great R. A.'s have wish'd my song to cease;
I will not pluck a feather from your wings—
So, sons of canvass! take your naps in peace.’

Such was my last year's gracious speech,
Sweet as the King's to Commons and to Peers,
Always with sense and tropes as plum-cake rich,
A luscious banquet for his people's ears!

‘Not write!’ cried Satire, red as fire with rage,
‘This instant glorious war with dulness wage;
Take, take my supple-jack,
Play St. Bartholomew with many a back!

Flay half the academic imps alive!
Smoke, smoke the drones of that stupendous hive.

Begin with George's idol, West;—
And then proceed in order with the rest:
This moment knock me down his master Moses,
On Sinai's mountain, where his nose is
Cock'd up so pertly plump against the Lord,
Upon my word,
With all that ease to him who rules above,
As if that Heaven and he were hand and glove.’

‘Indeed,’ quoth I, ‘the piece hath points of merit,
Though not possess'd throughout of equal spirit.’

‘What!’ answer'd Satire, ‘not knock Moses down!
O stupid Peter! what the devil mean ye?
He looks a dapper barber of the town,
With paper sign-board out—“Shave for a penny.”

Observe the saucy Israelite once more—
Wears he the countenance that should adore?

No! 'tis a son of lather—a rank prig;
Who, 'stead of begging of the Lord the Law,
With sober looks, and reverential awe,
Seems pertly tripping up to fetch his wig.

With all her thunder bid the Muse
Fall furious on the group of Jews,
Whose shoulders are adorn'd with Christian faces;
For by each phiz (I speak without a gibe),
There's not an Israelite in all the tribe—
Not that they are encumber'd by the Graces.

Strike off the head of Jeremiah,
And break the bones of old Isaiah;
Down with the duck-wing'd angels, that abreast

Stretch from a thing call'd cloud, and, by their looks,
Wear more the visage of young rooks
Cawing for victuals from their nest.

Deal Gainsborough a lash, for pride so stiff,
Who robs us of such pleasure for a miff;
Whose pencil, when he chooses, can be chaste,
Give nature's form, and please the eye of taste.

Of cuts on Sampson don't be sparing,
Between two garden-rollers staring,
Shown by the lovely Dalilah foul play!
To atoms tear that Frenchman's trash,
Then bountifully deal the lash
On such as dar'd to dub him an R. A.’

Thus Satire to the gentle poet cry'd—
And thus with lamb-like sweetness I reply'd:—

‘Dear Satire! pray consult my life and ease;
Were I to write whatever you desire,
The fat would all be fairly in the fire—
R. A.'s surround me like a swarm of bees,
Or like a flock of small birds round a fowl
Of solemn speculation, call'd an Owl.’

Quoth I, ‘O Satire, I'm a simple youth,
Must make my fortune, therefore not speak truth,
Although as sterling as the Holy Bible—
Truth makes it (Mansfield says) the more a libel:
I shall not sleep in peace within my hutch;
Like Doctor Johnson , I have wrote too much.’

When Mount Vesuvius pour'd his flames,
And frighten'd all the Naples' dames,
What did the ladies of the city do?
Why, order'd a fat Cardinal to go
With good St. Januarius's head,
And shake it at the Mountain 'midst his riot
To try to keep the bully quiet:
The parson went, and shook the jowl, and sped;
Snug was the word—the flames at once kept house,
The fright'ned Mount grew mute as any mouse.

Thus, should Lord Mansfield from his bench agree
To shake his lion-mane-like wig at me,
And bid his grim-look'd myrmidons assail—
With heads Medusan, and with hearts of bone;
Who, if they did not turn me into stone,
Might turn my limbs, so gentle, into jail.

Read, read this ode, just come to hand,
Giving the Muse to understand
That cruelty and scandal swell her song,
And that 'twere better far she held her tongue.

Moses receiving the Law on Mount Sinai.

A picture by Mr. West.

Another picture by West.

In the Apotheosis, a picture by West.

A picture by Mrs. Cosway.

Rigaud.

The story goes, that Sam, before his political conversion, replied to his present Majesty, in the Library at Buckingham-House, on being asked by the Monarch, why he did not write more?— ‘Please your Majesty, I have written too much.’ So candid a declaration, of which the sturdy moralist did not believe one syllable, procured him pension and a muzzle.

See Sir William Hamilton's account.

TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ.

A thousand frogs, upon a summer's day,
Were sporting 'midst the sunny ray,
In a large pool, reflecting ev'ry face;—
They show'd their gold-lac'd clothes with pride,
In harmless sallies, frequent vied,
And gambol'd through the water with a grace.

It happen'd that a band of boys,
Observant of their harmless joys,

Thoughtless, resolv'd to spoil their happy sport;
One phrensy seiz'd both great and small,
On the poor frogs the rogues began to fall,
Meaning to splash them, not to do them hurt.

Lo, as old authors sing, ‘the stones 'gan pour,’
Indeed an Otaheite show'r:
The consequence was dreadful, let me tell ye;
One's eye was beat out of his head,
This limp'd away, that lay for dead—
Here mourn'd a broken back, and there a belly.

Amongst the smitten, it was found,
Their beauteous queen receiv'd a wound;
The blow gave ev'ry heart a sigh,
And drew a tear from ev'ry eye:—
At length King Croak got up, and thus begun—
‘My lads, you think this very pretty fun!

Your pebbles round us fly as thick as hops,—
Have warmly complimented all our chops;—
To you I guess that these are pleasant stones!
And so they might be to us frogs,
You damn'd, young, good-for-nothing dogs,
But that they are so hard, they break our bones.’

Peter! thou mark'st the meaning of this fable—
So put thy Pegasus into the stable;
Nor wanton thus with cruel pride,
Mad, Jehu-like, o'er harmless people ride.

To drop the metaphor—the fair ,
Whose works thy Muse forbore to spare,
Is blest with talents Envy must approve;
And didst thou know her heart, thou sure wouldst say,
‘Perdition catch the cruel lay!’
Then strike the lyre to Innocence and Love.

‘Poh, poh!’ cried Satire, with a smile,
‘Where is the glorious freedom of our isle,

If not permitted to call names?’
Methought the argument had weight—
‘Satire,’ quoth I, ‘you're very right’—
So once more forth volcanic Peter flames!

Mrs. Cosway.

ODE II.

The Poet correcteth the Muse's Warmth, who beginneth with little less than calling names— Hinteth at some academic Giants—And concludeth with a Pair of apt and elegant Similies.

‘Tagrags and bobtails of the sacred brush!’—
For Heaven's sake, Muse, be prudent:—
Hush! hush! hush!
The great R. A.'s, so jealous of their fame,
Will all declare, of them we make a game;
And then, the Lord have mercy on our skins!

Think what a formidable phalanx, Muse,
Strengthen'd by Messieurs Garvay, and Rigaud, and Co.
How dangerous such a body to abuse!

Then there's among the academic crew,
A MAN that made the President look blue;
Brandish'd his weapon—with a whirlwind's forces,
Tore by the roots his flourishing discourses;
And swore his own sweet Irish howl could pour
A half a dozen such in half an hour.

Be prudent, Muse!—once more I pray—
In vain I preach! th' advice is thrown away:
Ev'n now you turn your nose up with a sneer,
And cry—Lord! Reynolds has no cause to fear:

When Barry dares the President to fly on,
'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage,
Daring most dreadful war to wage,
Nibbles the tail of the Nemæan lion.

Or like a louse, of mettle full,
Nurs'd in some giant's skull—
Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed,
Employs with vehemence his angry claws,
And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws,
To carry off the giant's head!

Mr. Barry.

ODE III.

The Poet addresseth Sir William Chambers, a Gentleman of Consequence in the Election of R. A.'s—He accuseth the Knight of a partial and ridiculous Distribution of the academic Honours—Threateneth him with Rhime— Adviseth a Reformation.

One minute, gentle irony, retire—
Behold! I'm graver than a mustard-pot;
The Muse, with bile as hot as fire,
Could call fool, puppy, blockhead, and what not;
As brother Horace has it—tumet jecur:—
Nor in her angry progress will I check her.

I'm told, that Satan has been long at work
To bring the Academy into disgrace;
Oh! may that member's b*ck**de feel his fork,
Who dares to violate the sacred place!
Who dares the Devil join
In so nefarious a design?
Yet, lo! what dolts the honours claim!
I leave their works to tell their name.

Th' Academy is like a microscope—
For, by the magnifying power, are seen
Objects, that for attention ne'er could hope;
No more, alas! than if they ne'er had been.

So rare a building, and so grac'd
With monuments of ancient taste,
Statues and busts, relievos and intaglios;
For such poor things to watch the treasure,
Is laughable beyond all measure—
'Tis just like eunuchs put to guard seraglios.

Think not, Sir William, I'm in jest—
By Heaven! I will not let thee rest:
Yet thou mayst bluster like bull-beef so big;
And of thy own importance full,
Exclaim, ‘Great cry, and little wool!’
As Satan holla'd, when he shav'd the pig.

Yes, thou shalt feel my tomahawk of satire,
And find that scalping is a serious matter:
Shock'd at th' abuse, how rage inflames my veins!
Who can help swearing, when such wights he sees
Crept to th' Academy by ways and means,
Like mites and skippers in a Cheshire cheese?

What beings will the next year's choice disclose,
The academic list to grace?
Some skeletons of art, I do suppose,
That ought to blush to show their face.

Sir William! tremble at the Muse's tongue;
Parnassus boasts a formidable throng!
All people recollect poor Marsyas' fate,
Save such as are dead, drunk, or fast asleep:
Apollo tied the culprit to a gate,
And flay'd him as a butcher flays a sheep:
And why?—Lord! not as history rehearses,
Because he scorn'd his piping, but his verses:
In vain, like a poor pillory'd punk, he bawl'd,
And kick'd and writh'd, and said his pray'rs, and sprawl'd;

'Twas all in vain—the God pursu'd his sport,
And pull'd his hide off—as you'd pull your shirt!
Then bid not rage the Muse's soul inflame,
Whose thund'ring voice damnation makes or fame.

You'll ask me, p'rhaps, ‘Good master Peter, pray
What right have you to speak?’—then pertly smile.
I'll tell you, sir—My pocket help'd to pay
For building that expensive pile,
A pile that credit to the nation gains,
And does small honour to your worship's brains.

It made a tax on candles and shoe-leather,
Of monstrous use in dirty weather:
It also made a tax on butchers' shops,
So spread its influence o'er poetic chops;
A most alarming tax to ev'ry poet,
Whose poor lank greyhound ribs with sorrow show it.

Therefore, Sir Knight, pray mend your manners:
And don't choose cobblers, blacksmiths, tinkers, tanners:
Some people love the converse of low folks,
To gain broad grins for good-for-nothing jokes—
Though thou, 'midst dulness, mayst be pleas'd to shine,
Reynolds shall ne'er sit cheek-by-jowl with swine.

ODE IV.

The Poet again payeth his Respects to Sir William Chambers—Complaineth of his Illiberality in his Choice of R.A.'s—Adviseth him to keep Company with Prudence, whom he describeth most naturally—He threateneth the Knight—And concludeth with a beautiful Simile.

The Muse is in the fidgets—can't sit still—
She must have t'other talk with you, Sir Will.
Since her last ode, with sorrow hath she heard

You want not men with heavenly genius blest,
But wish the title of R. A. conferr'd
On such as catch the bugs, and sweep the spiders best,
Wash of the larger statues best, the faces,
And clean the dirty linen of the Graces;
Scour best the skins of the young marble brats,
Trap mice, and clear th' Academy from rats.

You look for men whose heads are rather tubbish,
Or, drum-like, better form'd for sound than sense;
Pleas'd with the fine Arabian to dispense,
You want the big-bon'd drayhorse for your rubbish.

Raise not the Muse's anger, I desire;
High-born, she's hotter than the lightning's fire,
And proud! (believe the poet's word)
Proud as the lady of a new-made lord;
Proud as, in all her gorgeous trappings drest,
Fat Lady Mayoress at a city feast;
Whose spouse makes wigs, or some such glorious thing,
Shoes, gloves, hats, nightcaps, breeches, for the King.

Prudence, Sir William, is a jewel—
Is clothes, and meat, and drink, and fuel!
Prudence! for man the very best of wives,
Whom Bards have seldom met with in their lives;
Which, certés, doth account for, in some measure,
Their grievous want of worldly treasure,
On which the greatest blockheads make their brags;
And showeth why we see, instead of lace,
About the poet's back, with little grace,
Those fluttering, French-like followers, call'd rags.

Prudence! a sweet, obliging, curtseying lass,
Fit through this hypocritic world to pass!
Who kept at first a little peddling shop,
Swept her own room, twirl'd her own mop,
Wash'd her own smocks, caught her own fleas,
And rose to fame and fortune by degrees;
Who, when she enter'd other people's houses,
Till spoke to, was as silent as a mouse is;

And of opinions, though possess'd a store,
She left them with her pattens—at the door.

Sir William, you're a hound! and hunting Fame;—
Undoubtedly the woman is fair game:
But, Nimrod, mind—my Muse is whipper-in!
So that, if ever you disgrace,
By turning cur, your noble race,
The Lord have mercy on your curship's skin!

ODE V.

The Poet openeth his Account of the Exhibitors at the Academy—Praiseth Reynolds—Half damneth Mr. West—Completely damneth Mr. Wright of Derby—Complimenteth Mr. Opie.

Muse, sing the wonders of the present year:
Declare what works of sterling worth appear.
Reynolds, his heads divine, as usual, gives,
Where Guido's, Rubens', Titian's genius lives!
Works! I'm afraid, like beauty of rare quality,
Born soon to fade!—too subject too mortality!

West most judiciously my counsel takes,
Paints by the acre—witness parson Peter :
For garbs, he very pretty blankets makes,
Deserving praises in the sweetest metre.

The flesh of Peter's audience is not good—
Too much like ivory, and stone, and wood;
Nor of the figures dare I praise th' expression,
With some folks thought a trifle of transgression.

West, your Last Supper is a hungry piece;
Your Tyburn saints will not your fame increase:

With looks so thievish, with such skins of copper!
Were they for sale, as Heaven's my judge,
To give five farthings for them I should grudge,
Nay, ev'n my old tobacco-stopper.

Candour must own, that frequently thy paints
Have play'd the Devil with the Saints;
For me! I fancy them like doves and throstles!
But thou, if we believe thy art,
Enough to make us pious Christians start,
Hast very scurvy notions of Apostles.

What of thy landscape shall I say,
Holding the old white sow, and sucking litter?
Curs'd be the moment, curs'd the day,
Thou gav'st the Muse such reason to be bitter!
But, Muse, be soft towards him—only sigh,
‘More damned stuff was never seen by eye.’

Thou really dost not equal Derby Wright ,
The man of night!
O'er woollen hills, where gold and silver moons
Now mount like sixpences, and now balloons;
Where sea-reflections, nothing nat'ral tell ye,
So much like fiddle-strings, or vermicelli—
Where ev'ry thing exclaimeth, how severe!
‘What are we?’ and ‘what bus'ness have we here?’

Peter preaching, by West.

A most pitiable performance indeed. It may be fairly called the dotage of the art.

A painter of moon-lights. In this new edition of the Odes, it is but just to acknowledge, that the author has seen some landscapes of a late date, by this artist, that do him great credit.

ODE VI.

The Poet addresseth Majesty—Pleadeth the Cause of poor, starving Poetry—He acknowledgeth in a former Ode the Kindnesses of Fame, yet throweth out a Hint to his Majesty that his Finances may be improved—He relateth a marvellous Story of a Jesuit—Recommendeth something similar to his Sovereign.

An't please your Majesty, I'm overjoy'd
To find your family so fond of painting;
I wish her sister Poetry employ'd—
Poor, dear neglected girl! with hunger fainting.
Your royal grandsire (trust me, I'm no fibber)
Was vastly fond of Colley Cibber.

For subjects, how his Majesty would hunt?
And if a battle grac'd the Rhine or Weser,
He'd cry—‘Mine poet sal mak Ode upon't!’
Then forth there came a flaming Ode to Cæsar.

Dread sire, pray recollect a bit
Some glorious action of your life;
And then your humble poet's wit,
Sharp as a razor, or a new-ground knife,
Shall mount you on her glorious balloon odes,
Like Rome's great Cæsar, to th' immortal Gods .

A Naples' Jesuit, history declares,
On slips of paper scribbled prayers,
Which show'd of wisdom great profundity;
Then sold them to the country folks,
To give their turkeys, hens, and ducks,
To bring increase of fowl-fecundity:

It answer'd.—On their turkeys, ducks, and hens,
The country people all were full of brags—
Whose little bums, in barns, and mows, and fens,
Squat down, and laid like conjuration bags.

I wish this sage experiment were try'd
On me, cries Muse, my gentle bride;
And slips of paper giv'n me, with this pray'r—
‘Pay to the bearer fifty pounds at sight.’
My sweet prolific pow'rs 'twould so delight!
I'd breed like a tame rabbit or a hare!

Muse, give thine idle supplication o'er—
And know that avarice is always poor

Divisum imperium, cum Jove, Cæsar habet.

ODE VII.

Peter's Account of wonderful Reliques in France, with the Devotion paid to them—The sensible Application to Painters and Painting, by way of Simile.

In France, some years ago—some twenty-three,
At a fam'd church, where hundreds daily jostle,
I wisely paid a priest six sols to see
The thumb of Thomas the Apostle.

Gaping upon Tom's thumb, with me in wonder,
The rabble rais'd its eyes—like ducks in thunder;
Because in virtues it was vastly rich,
Had cur'd possess'd of devils, and the itch;
Work'd various wonders on a scabby pate—
Made little sucking children straight,
Though crook'd like rams' horns by the rickets;
Made people see, though blind as moles—
And made your sad, hysteric souls,
As gay as grasshoppers and crickets;

Brought noses back again to faces,
Long stol'n by Venus and her Graces;
And eyes to fill their parent sockets,
Of which sad Love had pick'd their pockets:
And had the priest permitted, with their kisses,
The mob had smack'd this holy thumb to pieces.

Though, reader, 'twas not the Apostle's thumb—
But mum!—
It play'd as well of miracles the trick,
Although a painted piece of rotten stick!

For six sols more, behold! to view, was bolted
A feather of the angel Gabriel's wing!
Whether 'twas pluck'd by force, or calmly molted,
No holy legends tell, nor poets sing.
But was it Gabriel's feather, heav'nly Muses?
It was not Gabriel's feather, but a goose's!
But stay! from truth we would not wish to wander,
For, probably, the owner was a gander.

Painters! you take me right:—the Muse supposes
You make your coup-de-maître dashes,
Christen them eyes, and cheeks, and lips, and noses,
Beards, chins, and whiskers, and eye-lashes;
As like, p'rhaps, as a horse is like a plum,
Or 'foresaid stick, St. Tom th' Apostle's thumb.

With purer eyes the British vulgar sees;
We are no crawthumpers, no devotees;
So that, whene'er your figures are mere wood,
Our eyes will never deem 'em flesh and blood.

ODE VIII.

The generous Peter rescueth the immortal Raphael from the Obloquy of Michael Angelo— The Poet moralizeth—Telleth a Story not to the Credit of Michael Angelo, and nobly defendeth Raphael's Name against his invidious Attack —Concludeth with a most sage Observation.

How difficult in artists to allow
To brother brushmen ev'n a grain of merit!
Wishing to tear the laurels from their brow,
They show a sniv'ling, diabolic spirit.

So 'tis! however moralists may chatter—
What's worse still—nature will be always nature
We can't brew Burgundy from sour small beer,
Nor make a silken purse of a sow's ear.

Sweet is the voice of Praise!—from eve to morn
From blushing morn to darkling eve again,
My Muse the brows of Merit could adorn,
And, lark-like, swell the panegyric strain.

Praise, like the balm which evening's dewy star
Sheds on the drooping herb and fainting flower,
Lifts modest, pining Merit from despair,
And gives her clouded eye a golden hour,

P*x take me if I ever read the story
Of Michael Angelo, without much swearing:
'Tis such a slice cut off from Michael's glory,
He surely had been brandying it or beering:
That is, in plainer English, he was drunk,
And candour from the man with horror shrunk.

Raphael did honour to the Roman school,
Yet Michael did vouchsafe to call him fool;

When working in the Vatican, would stare,
Throw down his brush, and stamp and swear,
If e'er a porter let him in—he'd stone him;
And, if he Raphael caught, most surely bone him.
He swore the world was a rank ass
To pay a compliment to Raphael's stuff;
For that he knew the fellow well enough,
And that his paltry metal would not pass.

Such was the language of this false Italian:
One time he christen'd Raphael a Pygmalion,
Swore that his madams were compos'd of stone;
Swore his expressions were like owls so tame,
His drawings, like the lamest cripple, lame;
That, as for composition, he had none.

Young artists! these assertions I deny;—
'Twas vile ill manners—not to say a lie:
Raphael did real excellence inherit;
And if you ever chance to paint as well,
I bona fide do foretel,
You'll certainly be men of merit.

ODE IX.

The gossiping Peter telleth a strange Story, and true, though strange—Seemeth to entertain no very elevated Opinions of the Wisdom of Kings—Hinteth at the narrow Escape of Sir Joshua Reynolds—Mr. Ramsay's Riches—A Recommendation of Flattery as a Specific in Fortune-making.

I'm told, and I believe the story,
That a fam'd Queen of Northern brutes,
A gentlewoman of prodigious glory,
Whom ev'ry sort of epithet well suits;

Whose husband dear, just happening to provoke her,
Was shov'd to Heaven upon a red-hot poker!
Sent to a certain King, not King of France—
Desiring by Sir Joshua's hand his phiz—
What did the royal quiz?
Why, damn'd genteelly, sat to Mr. Dance!
Then sent it to the Northern Queen—
As sweet a bit of wood as e'er was seen!
And therefore most unlike the princely head—
He might as well have sent a pig of lead.

Down ev'ry throat the piece was cramm'd
As done by Reynolds, and deserv'dly damn'd;
For as to Master Dance's art
It ne'er was worth a single—!
Reader, I blush!—am delicate this time!
So let thy impudence supply the rhime.

Thank God! that monarchs cannot taste control,
And make each subject's poor, submissive soul
Admire the work that judgment oft cries fie on:
Had things been so, poor Reynolds we had seen
Painting a barber's pole—an ale-house queen,
The Cat and Gridiron, or the Old Red Lion!
At Plympton, p'rhaps, for some grave Doctor Slop,
Painting the pots and bottles of the shop:
Or in the Drama, to get meat to munch,
His brush divine had pictur'd scenes for Punch!
Whilst West was whelping 'midst his paints,
Moses and Aaron, and all sorts of saints!

Adams and Eves, and snakes and apples,
And dev'ls, for beautifying certain chapels:
But Reynolds is no favourite, that's the matter—
He has not learnt the noble art—to flatter .

Thrice happy times, when monarchs find them hard things,
To teach us what to view with admiration;
And, like their heads on halfpence and brass farthings,
Make their opinions current through the nation!

I've heard that Ramsay , when he died,
Left just nine rooms well stuff'd with queens and kings;
From whence all nations might have been supplied,
That long'd for valuable things.
Viceroys, ambassadors, and plenipos,
Bought them to join their raree-shows
In foreign parts,
And show the progress of the British arts.

Whether they purchas'd by the pound or yard,
I cannot tell, because I never heard;
But this I know, his shop was like a fair,
And dealt most largely in this royal ware.
See what it is to gain a monarch's smile;—
And hast thou miss'd it, Reynolds, all this while?
How stupid! pr'ythee, seek the courtier's school,
And learn to manufacture oil of fool.

Flattery's the turnpike-road to Fortune's door—
Truth is a narrow lane, all full of quags,
Leading to broken heads, abuse and rags,
And workhouses—and refuge for the poor!—

Flattery's a mountebank so spruce—gets riches;
Truth, a plain Simon Pure, a Quaker preacher,
A moral mender, a disgusting teacher,
That never got a sixpence by her speeches!

The true reason that induced his Majesty to sit to Mr. Dance, was laudable royal economy. Mr. Dance charged fifty pounds for the picture—Sir Joshua Reynolds's price was somewhat more than a hundred—a very great difference in the market-price of paint and canvass; and, let me say, that justified the preference given to the man who worked cheapest.

Sir Joshua's native spot, in Devonshire.

This Ode was composed before Sir Joshua was dubbed King's Painter. Possibly the great artist dreamt of my beautiful lyric, and pursued its advice.

Late painter to his Majesty.

ODE X.

The lofty Peter beginning with an original Simile—Displayeth a deep Knowledge of Homer and modern Duchesses—Concludeth with a Prophecy about his Sovereign.

Painters who figure in the Exhibition,
Are pretty nearly in the same condition
With cocks on Shrove-tide, which the season gathers;
Flung at by ev'ry lubber, ev'ry brat,
Possessing sense to throw a bat,
To break their bones, and knock about their feathers.

This little difference, however, lies
Between the painter and the fowl, I find:—
The artist for the post of danger tries—
The fowl is fasten'd much against his mind;
Who damns his sentence, would annul it,—
Sue out his habeas corpus, and instead
Of being beat with bats about the head,
Make handsome love to a smart pullet.

And yet the painter like a booby groans,
Who courts the very bats which break his bones.
But who from scandal is exempt?
Who does not meet at times contempt?

Great Jove, the god of gods, in figures rich,
Oft call'd his bosom queen a saucy bitch;
Achilles call'd great Agamemnon hog,
An impudent, deceitful, dirty dog!

Behold our lofty duchesses pull caps,
And give each other's reputations raps,
As freely as the drabs of Drury's school;
And who, pray, knows that George our gracious King,
(Said by his courtiers to know every thing)
May not, by future times, be call'd a fool!

Vid. Homer.

ODE XI.

The Bard sensibly reproveth the young Artists for their Propensity to Abuse—Most wittily compareth them to Horse-leeches, Game-cocks, and Curs.

The mean, the ranc'rous jealousies that swell
In some sad artists' souls, I do despise;
Instead of nobly striving to excel,
You strive to pick out one the other's eyes.
To be a painter, was Correggio's glory:—
His speech should flame in gold—‘Sono pittore.’

But what, if truth were spoke, would be your speeches?
This—‘We're a set of fame-sucking horse-leeches;
Without a blush, the poorest scandal speaking—
Like cocks, for ever at each other beaking;
As if the globe we dwell on were so small,
There really was not room enough for all.’

Young men!—
I do presume that one of you in ten
Has kept a dog or two, and has remark'd,
That when you have been comfortably feeding,
The curs, without one atom of court breeding,
With wat'ry jaws, have whin'd and paw'd, and bark'd;

Show'd anxiousness about the mutton bone,
And 'stead of your mouth, wish'd it in their own;
And if you gave this bone to one or t'other,
Heav'ns, what a snarling, quarrelling, and pother!
This, p'rhaps, has often touch'd you to the quick,
And made you teach good manners by a kick;
And if the tumult was beyond all bearing,
A little bit of sweet emphatic swearing,
An eloquence of wondrous use in wars,
Amongst sea captains and the brave jack tars.

Now tell me honestly—pray don't you find
Somewhat in Christians just of the same kind
That you experienc'd in the curs,
Causing your anger and demurs?
As, for example, when your mistress, Fame,
Wishing to celebrate a worthy name,
Takes up her trump to give the just applause;
How have you, puppy-like, paw'd, wish'd and whin'd;
And growl'd, and curs'd, and swore, and pin'd,
And long'd to tear the trumpet from her jaws!
The dogs deserv'd their kicking to be sure;
But you! O fie, boys! go and sin no more.

ODE XII.

The compassionate Peter lamenteth the Death of Mr. Hone, an R. A.—Recommendeth him to Oblivion, the great Patron of a Number of Geniuses.

There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone!
His works be with him under the same stone:
I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em;
But, Muse!—De mortuis nil nisi bonum—
As to his host, a trav'ller, with a sneer,
Said of his dead small-beer.

Go then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train
Sunk in Oblivion's wide pacific ocean;
And may its whale-like stomach feel no motion
To cast thee like a Jonah, up again.

ODE XIII.

The Poet exhibiteth the Inconstancy of the World, by a most elegant Comparison of a Flock of Starlings.

Young artists, it may so fall out,
That folks shall make a grievous rout;
Follow you—praise your painting to the skies;
When, probably, a ribband (fie upon it!)
A feather, or a tawdry bonnet,
Caught, by its glare, their wonder-spying eyes.
Therefore, don't thence suppose that you inherit
Mountains of unexampled merit;
That always you shall be pursu'd,
And like a wondrous beauty woo'd.

Great is the world's inconstancy, God knows!—
Fame, like the ocean, ebbs, as well as flows;
Next year the million pitches on a ruff,
A balloon cap—a shawl—a muff;—
For you, no longer cares a single rush,
Following some other brother of the brush.
To raise to nobler flights the Muse's wing,
A simile's a very pretty thing;
To whose sweet aid I'm oft an humble debtor,
T'illustrate with more force the thing I mean;—
And if the simile be neat and clean,
Tant mieux—that is—so much the better.

Therefore, young folks, as there's a great deal in't,
Accept one just imported from the mint.

You've seen a flock of starlings, to be sure,
A hundred thousand in a mess, or more;
Who fortunately having found
A lump of horse-litter upon the ground,
Down drops the chattering cloud upon the dung,
Then, Lord, what doings! Heav'ns, what admiration!
What joy, what transport 'midst the speckled nation.
How busy ev'ry beak, and ev'ry tongue!
All talking, gabbling, but none list'ning,
Just like a group of gossips at a christ'ning;—
Let but a cowdab show its grass-green face,
They're up, without so much as saying grace:
And lo! the busy flock, around it pitches!
Just as upon the lump before,
They gabble, wonder, and adore!
And equal brother Martyn's speeches.
These starlings show the world, with great propriety,
Mad as March hares, or curlews for variety.

A much-admired speaker in the House of Commons, who nem. con. was baptized the Starling Martyn.

ODE XIV.

The Great Peter despiseth Frenchmen.

I beg it as a favour, my young folks,
You will not copy, monkey-like the French,
Whose pictures, justly, are all standing jokes,
Whether they represent a man or wench.
If monsieur paints a man of fashion,
Making an obeisance well bred,
The gentleman's a ram-cat in a passion,
His back all crumpled o'er his head:

Or, if he paints a wretch upon the wheel,
And bone-breaking's no trifling thing, G---d knows!
Amidst his pains the fellow's so genteel!
He feels with such decorum all the blows.
Or if a culprit's going to the devil,
Which some folks deem a serious evil
So dégagée you see the man advance,
His arms, hands, shoulders, turn'd-out toes,
Madona-lifted eyes, and cock'd up nose
Proclaim the pretty puppy in a dance.
I've seen a sleeping Venus, I declare,
With hands and legs stretch'd out with such an air!
Her neck and head so twisted on one shoulder,
With such a heav'nly smile, that each beholder
Would swear (disdaining dancing's vulgar track)
The dame was walking minuets on her back!
E'en an old woman yielding up her breath
By means of cholic, stone, or gravel,
How smirkingly she feels the pangs of death;
With what a grace her soul prepares to travel!

A Frenchman's angel is an Opera Punk;
His Virgin Marys—milliners half drunk;
Our blest Redeemer, a rank petît-maitre,
In every attitude and feature;
The humble Joseph, so genteelly made,
Poor gentleman—as if above his trade,
And only fit to compliment his wife—
So delicate! as if he scarcely knew
Oak from deal board—a gimlet from a screw,
And never made a mouse-trap in his life.

Think not I wantonly the French attack:—
I never will put Merit on the rack:
No!—yet, I own I hate the shrugging dogs—
I've liv'd amongst them, eat their frogs,
And vomited them up, thank God, again;
So that I'm able now to say,
I carried nought of theirs away,
Which otherwise had made the puppies vain.

ODE XV.

The conceited Peter turneth an arrant Egotist— Mentioneth a number of fine Folks—This Minute condemneth Will Whitehead's Verses; and the next, exculpateth the Laureat, by clapping the right saddle on the right horse.

No giant more rejoiceth in his course,
Not Count O'Kelly in a winning horse;
Not Mistress Hobart to preserve a box,
Not George the Third to triumph o'er Charles Fox;
Not Spain's wise monarch to bombard Algiers—
Not pillories, obeying law's stern voice,
Can more rejoice
To hold Kitt Atkinson's two ears;
Not more rejoiceth patriotic Pitt,
By patriotic grocers to be fed;
Not Mother Windsor in a nice young tit,
Nor gaping deans, to hear a bishop's dead:
Not more reform'd John Wilkes, to court the crown;
Nor Skinner in his aldermanic gown,
Nor common-councilmen on turtle feeding:

Not more rejoice old envious maids, so stale,
To hear of weeping beauty a sad tale,
And tell the world a reigning toast is breeding:—
Than I, the poet, in a lucky ode,
That catches at a hop the cynic face;
Kills by a laugh its grave Bubonic face;
And tears, in spite of him, his jaws abroad.

And are there such grave dons that read my rhimes?
All-gracious Heav'n forgive their crimes!
Oh! be their lot to have wise-talking wives;
And if in reading they delight,
To read, ye gods! from morn to night,
Will Whitehead's birth-day sonnets all their lives.

Perhaps, reader, thou'rt a tinker, or a tanner;
And mendest kettles in a pretty manner;
Or tannest hides of bulls, and cows, and calves:
But if the saucepan, or the kettle,
Originally be bad metal,
Thou'lt say, ‘It only can be done by halves;’
Or if by nature bad the bullock's skins,
‘They'll make vile shoes and boots for people's shins.’

Then wherefore do I thus abuse
Will Whitehead's hard-driv'n Muse?
Who merits rather Pity's tend'rest sigh;
For what the devil can he do,
When forc'd to praise—the Lord knows who!
Verse must be dull on subjects so damn'd dry.

The contest between Mrs. Hobart and Lady Salisbury, with their seconds, about a box at the Opera, is a subject for the most sublime epic.

A priestess of the Cyprian goddess.

This Ode was written before a late laureat resigned his earthly crown for a heavenly one. May Mr. Tom Warton be more successful in his Pindaric adulations, and not verify the Latin adage—Ex nihilo, nihil fit.

ODE XVI.

The classic Peter adviseth Painters to cultivate Taste—Lasheth some of the Ignorant—Accuseth Painters of an affection for Vulgarity, whom he horse-whippeth—Recommendeth a charming Subject—Telleth the Secret of his Love, and giveth a die-away Sonnet of former Days—Persecuteth Tenier's Devils, but applaudeth the Execution.

Painters, improve your education;
That surely stands in need of reformation.
I've heard that some can neither write nor read,
Which does no honour to the hand or head.

Many, I know, would rather paint a bear,
Or monkey playing his quaint tricks,
Than some sweet damsel, whom all hearts revere,
Would rather see a stump with strength express'd,
Than all the snowy fulness of her breast,
Or lip, that innocence so sweetly moves,
Or smile, the fond Elysium of the loves.
This brings those days to mem'ry, when my tongue
To Cynthia's beauty pour'd my soul in song;
When, on the margin of the murm'ring stream,
My fancy frequent form'd the golden dream
Of Cynthia's grace—of Cynthia's smiles divine,
And made those smiles and peerless beauty mine.

It brings to mem'ry too, those dismal times,
When nought my sighs avail'd, and nought my rhimes;
When at the silent, solemn close of day,
My pensive steps would court the darkling grove,
To hear, in Philomela's lonely lay,
The fainting echoes of my luckless love;

Till night's increasing shades around me stole,
And mingled with the gloom that wrapp'd my soul.

Reader—dost choose a sonnet of those days?
Take it—and say not I'm a foe to praise.

TO CYNTHIA.

O Thou! whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair,
And night hath lost her sweet repose;

Yet who, alas! like me was blest
To others e'er thy charms were known;
When fancy told my raptur'd breast,
That Cynthia smil'd on me alone?

Nymph of my soul! forgive my sighs:
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor blame the trembling wretch, who dies
When others to thy beauties kneel.

Lo! theirs is every winning art,
With fortune's gifts unknown to me!
I only boast a simple heart,
In love with innocence and thee.

Build not, alas! your popularity
On that beast's back yclep'd vulgarity;
A beast that many a booby takes a pride in—
A beast beneath the noble Peter's riding.

How should the man who loves to be unchaste,
To feed on carrion dread his hound-like paunch,
Judge of an ortolan's delicious taste,
Or feel the flavour of a fine fat haunch?

Or, wont with bitter purl to wet his clay,
How should he judge of claret or tokay?

Teniers's devils, witches, monkeys, toads,
That make me shudder whilst I pen these Odes,
Most truly painted, to be pure, you'll find:—
How greater far the excellence, to paint
With heaven-directed eye, the beauteous saint,
And mark th' emotions of her angel-mind!
Envy not such as have in dirt surpast ye;—
'Tis very, very easy to be nasty!

ODE XVII.

The moralizing Bard exposeth the unfairness of Mankind in the Article of Laughing—Descanteth upon Wit—Disclaimeth Pretension to it— Maketh Love to Candour, and modestly concludeth.

How dearly mortals love to laugh and grin!
Just as they love to stuff themselves to chin
With other people's meat—good saving sense!
Because at other folks' expense;
But turn the laugh on them—how chang'd their notes!
‘O damn 'em! this is serious—cut their throats!’

Wit, says an author that I do not know,
Is like Time's scythe—cuts down both friend and foe;
Ready each object, tiger-like, to leap on!
‘Lord! what a butcher this same wit! thank God!
(A critic cries) in Master Pindar's Ode,
We spy th' effect of no such dangerous weapon.’

No, Sir—'tis dove-ey'd Candour's charms
I woo to these desiring arms;

She is my goddess—to her shrine I bend:
Nympth of the voice, that beats the morning lark.
Sweet as the dulcet note of either Park ,
Be thou my soft companion and my friend.

Thy lovely hand my Pegasus shall guide,
And teach thy modest pupil how to ride:
Thus shall I hurt not any group-composers,
From Sarah Benwell's brush, to Mary Mozer's .

Two brothers, of the most distinguished merit on the oboe.

The last of those ladies, an R. A. by means of a sublime picture of a plate of gooseberries—the other in hopes of academic honours, through an equal degree of merit.

ODE XVIII.

The judicious Peter giveth most wholesome Advice to Landscape Painters.

Whate'er your wish in landscape to excel,
London's the very place to mar it.
Believe the oracles I tell,
There's very little landscape in a garret,
Whate'er the flocks of fleas you keep,
'Tis badly copying them for goats and sheep;
And if you'll take the poet's honest word,
A bug must make a miserable bird.

A rush-light winking in a bottle's neck,
Ill represents the glorious orb of morn;
Nay, though it were a candle with a wick,
‘Twould be a representative forlorn.

I think, too, that a man would be a fool,
For trees, to copy legs of a joint-stool;

Or ev'n by them to represent a stump:
As also broomsticks—which, though well he rig
Each with an old fox-coloured wig,
Must make a very poor autumnal clump.

You'll say, ‘Yet such ones, oft a person sees
In many an artist's trees;
And in some paintings, we have all beheld,
Green baise hath surely sat for a green field;
Bolsters for mountains, hills, and wheaten mows;
Cats, for ram-goats; and curs, for bulls and cows.’

All this, my lads, I freely grant;
But better things from you, I want.
As Shakespeare says (a Bard I much approve)
‘List, list, oh! list,’ if thou dost painting love.

Claude painted in the open air!
Therefore to Wales at once repair;
Where scenes of true magnificence you'll find:
Besides this great advantage—if in debt,
You'll have with creditors no tête-à-tête.
So leave the bull-dog bailiffs all behind;
Who, hunt you with what noise they may,
Must hunt for needles in a stack of hay.

ODE XIX.

The Poet hinteth to Artists the Value of Time.

The man condemn'd on Tyburn-tree to swing,
Deems such a show, a very dullish thing;
He'd rather a spectator be, I ween
Than the sad actor in the scene.

He blames the law's too rigid resolution:
If with a beef-steak stomach—in his prime,
Lord, with what rev'rence he looks on time!
And most of all—the hour of execution!

And as the cart doth to the tree advance,
How wondrous willing to postpone the dance!

Believe me, time's of monstrous use;
But, ah! how subject to abuse!
It seems that with him, folks were often cloy'd:
I do pronounce it, time's a public good,
Just like a youthful beauty—to be woo'd,
Made much of, and be properly enjoy'd.

Time's sand is wonderfully small;
It slips between the fingers in a hurry:
Therefore, on each young artist let me call,
To prize it as an Indian does his curry ;
Whether his next rare exhibition be
Amidst the great R. A.'s—or on a tree.

A universal food in the East-Indies.

XX.

The unfortunate Peter lamenteth the Loss of an important Ode by Rats—He prayeth devoutly for the Rats.

Hiatus maxime deflendus!
I've lost an Ode of charming praise;
From like misfortune, Heav'n defend us!
The sweetest of my lyric lays!
Where many a youthful artist shone with fame,
Like his own pictures in a fine gilt frame.

Perdition catch the roguish rats!
Their trembling limbs shall fill the maws of cats,
Were I to be their sole adviser:
Vermin! like trunk-makers, kings, pastry-cooks,
Dealing in legions of delightful books,
Yet, with the learning, not a whit the wiser.
Thank G*d! the Ode unto Myself they spar'd:
And, lo! the labour of the lucky bard.

ODE XXI.

TO MYSELF.

The exalted Peter wisheth to make the gaping World acquainted with the Place of his Nativity; but before he can get an Answer from himself, he most sublimely bursteth forth into an Address to Mevagizzy and Mousehole, two Fishing towns in Cornwall—the first celebrated for Pilchards, the last for giving Birth to Dolly Pentreath —The Poet praiseth the Honourable Daines Barrington and Pilchards—Forgetteth the Place of his Nativity; and, like his great Ancestor of Thebes, leaveth his Readers in the dark.

O thou! whose daring works sublime
Defy the rudest rage of Time,
Say!—for the world is with conjecture dizzy,
Did Mousehole give thee birth, or Mevagizzy?

HAIL, Mevagizzy! with such wonders fraught!
Where boats, and men, and stinks, and trade, are stirring;
Where pilchards come in myriads to be caught!
Pilchards! a thousand times as good as herring.

Pilchard! the idol of the Popish nation!
Hail, little instrument of vast salvation!
Pilchard, I ween, a most soul-saving fish,
On which the Catholics in Lent are cramm'd;
Who, had they not, poor souls, this lucky dish,
Would flesh eat, and be consequently damn'd.

Pilchards! whose bodies yield the fragrant oil,
And make the London lamps at midnight smile;
Which lamps, wide spreading salutary light,
Beam on the wandering beauties of the night,
And show each gentle youth their cheeks' deep roses,
And tell him whether they have eyes and noses.

Hail, Mousehole! birth-place of old Doll Pentreath ,
The last who jabber'd Cornish—so says Daines,
Who, bat-like, haunted ruins, lane, and heath,
With Will-o'-wisp, to brighten up his brains.

Daines! who a thousand miles, unwearied, trots
For bones, brass farthings, ashes, and old pots,
To prove that folks of old, like us, were made
With heads, eyes, hands, and toes, to drive a trade.

A very old woman of Mousehole, supposed (falsely, however,) to have been the last who spoke the Cornish language. The honourable antiquarian, Daines Barrington, Esq. journeyed, some years since, from London to the Land's-end, to converse with this wrinkled, yet delicious, morceau. He entered Mousehole in a kind of triumph, and, peeping into her hut, exclaimed, with all the fire of an enraptured lover, in the language of the famous Greek philosopher—‘Eureka!’ The couple kissed—Doll soon after gabbled—Daines listened with admiration—committed her speeches to paper, not venturing to trust his memory with so much treasure. The transaction was announced to the Society—the Journals were enriched with their dialogues—the old lady's picture was ordered to be taken by the most eminent artist, and the honourable member to be publicly thanked for the discovery!

ODE XXII.

The following Ode was written just after the great Crashes and Falls at Somerset House.— Peter is charmingly ironical.

Sir William! cover'd with Chinese renown,
Whose houses are no sooner up than down,
Don't heed the discontented nation's cry:
Thine are religious houses!—very humble;
Upon their faces much inclin'd to tumble;
So meek, they cannot keep their heads on high.

I know the foolish kingdom all runs riot,
Calling aloud for Wyat, Wyat, Wyat!
Who on their good opinion hourly gains.
But where lies Wyat's merit?—What his praise!
Abroad this roving man spent half his days,
Contemplating of Rome, the great remains.

This Wyat's works a classic taste combine,
Who studied thus the ancients o'er and o'er;
But, lo! the greater reputation thine,
To do what no man ever did before.

I take it for granted, that the houses in general built by the knight, are as much in the style of gingerbread as Somerset House.

ODE XXIII.

Peter concludeth his Odes—Seemeth hungry— Expostulateth with the Reader—And getteth the Start of the World, by first praising his own Works.

Tom Southern to John Dryden went one day,
To buy a head and tail piece for his play:—
‘Thomas,’ quoth John ‘I've sold my goods too cheap;
So, if you please, my price shall take a leap.’

O reader, look me gravely in the face;—
Speak, is not that with me and thee the case?
For this year's Odes I charge thee half a crown:
So, without grumbling, put thy money down:
For things are desperately ris'n, good Lord!
Fish, flesh, coals, candles, window-lights, and board.
Why should not charming poetry then rise?
That comes so dev'lish far too—from the skies!
And, lo! the verses that adorn this page,
Beam, comet-like, alas! but once an age.