The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
CANTO II.
How the visitors were presented to Apollo, and what sort of a ball he gave them.
Now as to the names (how much less then the natures,
And writings, and beauties!) of all the dear creatures,
I boast not to mention the whole of them;—nay,
I live so sequester'd, so out of the way,
That perhaps I don't know them,—perhaps shall omit
Some bud of such promise, such sweet virgin wit,
Or for want of due reading, shall fail in due notice
Of some such delight of all earth's epiglottis,
That when I am told what I've done, I shall tear
From my head, in pure anguish, whole masses of hair:
You will think it a barber's shop all round my chair,
And yet, when I vow that I'll seize all occasion
Of loading “the love” with my best reparation,
My “startling,” “intense,” “truly new,” “soul-subduing,”
And other fond truths of impartial reviewing,
I fancy I hear her, in tones of caresses,
Exclaim, “God preserve his dear elderly tresses!”
And writings, and beauties!) of all the dear creatures,
I boast not to mention the whole of them;—nay,
I live so sequester'd, so out of the way,
That perhaps I don't know them,—perhaps shall omit
Some bud of such promise, such sweet virgin wit,
Or for want of due reading, shall fail in due notice
Of some such delight of all earth's epiglottis,
That when I am told what I've done, I shall tear
From my head, in pure anguish, whole masses of hair:
You will think it a barber's shop all round my chair,
207
Of loading “the love” with my best reparation,
My “startling,” “intense,” “truly new,” “soul-subduing,”
And other fond truths of impartial reviewing,
I fancy I hear her, in tones of caresses,
Exclaim, “God preserve his dear elderly tresses!”
Lo! first then (for not in stern order of fame,
But in blest alphabetical order they came,
Though she that first enter'd, well headed the dears)
Mrs. Adams, rare mistress of thought and of tears;
Then Aikin judicious;—discreet Mrs. Austin,
Whose English her German you'll never find lost in;—
And Madame d'Arblay, mighty grave all the while,
Yet at heart smitten still betwixt fun and a style,
And longing to tell us more ladies' distresses
'Twixt lords, and vulgarians, and debts for their dresses.
So deep was her curtsey, the hoop that she wore
Seem'd fairly conveying her right through the floor.
But in blest alphabetical order they came,
Though she that first enter'd, well headed the dears)
Mrs. Adams, rare mistress of thought and of tears;
Then Aikin judicious;—discreet Mrs. Austin,
Whose English her German you'll never find lost in;—
And Madame d'Arblay, mighty grave all the while,
Yet at heart smitten still betwixt fun and a style,
And longing to tell us more ladies' distresses
'Twixt lords, and vulgarians, and debts for their dresses.
So deep was her curtsey, the hoop that she wore
Seem'd fairly conveying her right through the floor.
But up she swam round, and Miss Baillie succeeded:
No queen could have come with such pages as she did;
For who, do you think, held her train up?—The Passions:
They did indeed; all too in elegant fashions.
The god in his arms with gay reverence lock'd her,
For two sakes,—her own, and her brother's, the doctor.
No queen could have come with such pages as she did;
For who, do you think, held her train up?—The Passions:
They did indeed; all too in elegant fashions.
The god in his arms with gay reverence lock'd her,
For two sakes,—her own, and her brother's, the doctor.
A young lady then, whom to miss were a caret
In any verse-history, named, I think, Barrett,
(I took her at first for a sister of Tennyson)
Knelt, and receiv'd the god's kindliest benison.
—“Truly,” said he, “dost thou share the blest power
Poetic, the fragrance as well as the flower;
The gift of conveying impressions unseen,
And making the vaguest thoughts know what they mean.”
In any verse-history, named, I think, Barrett,
(I took her at first for a sister of Tennyson)
Knelt, and receiv'd the god's kindliest benison.
—“Truly,” said he, “dost thou share the blest power
Poetic, the fragrance as well as the flower;
The gift of conveying impressions unseen,
And making the vaguest thoughts know what they mean.”
“Lady Blessington!” cried the glad usher aloud,
As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud:
I know not which most her face beam'd with,—fine creature!
Enjoyment, or judgment, or wit, or good-nature.
Perhaps you have known what it is to feel longings
To pat silken shoulders at routs, and such throngings;—
Well, think what it was at a vision like that!
A Grace after dinner! A Venus grown fat!
Some “Elderly Gentleman” risked an objection;
But this only made us all swear her “perfection.”
His arms the host threw round the liberal bodice,
And kiss'd her, exactly as god might do goddess.
As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud:
I know not which most her face beam'd with,—fine creature!
Enjoyment, or judgment, or wit, or good-nature.
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To pat silken shoulders at routs, and such throngings;—
Well, think what it was at a vision like that!
A Grace after dinner! A Venus grown fat!
Some “Elderly Gentleman” risked an objection;
But this only made us all swear her “perfection.”
His arms the host threw round the liberal bodice,
And kiss'd her, exactly as god might do goddess.
Betham, Blackwood, Bowles, Bray, and Miss Browne, too, were there;
What a sweet load of B's! But then what a despair!
For I know not their writings. (I'm tearing my hair!)
What a sweet load of B's! But then what a despair!
For I know not their writings. (I'm tearing my hair!)
Cary Burney came next, so precise yet so trusting,
Her heroines are perfect, and yet not disgusting.
“However,” said Phœbus, “I can't quite approve them:
Conceit follows close on the mere right to love them.”
Her heroines are perfect, and yet not disgusting.
“However,” said Phœbus, “I can't quite approve them:
Conceit follows close on the mere right to love them.”
Then came Fanny Butler, perplex'd at her heart
Betwixt passion and elegance, nature and art;
The daughter of sense and of grace, yet made wroth
With her own finer wit by o'er-straining at both.
Phœbus smil'd on her parents, who stood there in sight,
And quoted some lines from her play about “Night.”
Betwixt passion and elegance, nature and art;
The daughter of sense and of grace, yet made wroth
With her own finer wit by o'er-straining at both.
Phœbus smil'd on her parents, who stood there in sight,
And quoted some lines from her play about “Night.”
Marg'ret Cullen succeeded, whose novels one lives in,
Like one of her hamlets, where talk never gives in;
Dear, kind-hearted, arch-humour'd, home-loving dame;
And to sum up all eulogy,—worthy her name.
“You make me sleep sometimes,” quoth Phœbus, “'tis true;
But I do even that, let me tell you, with few.”
Like one of her hamlets, where talk never gives in;
Dear, kind-hearted, arch-humour'd, home-loving dame;
And to sum up all eulogy,—worthy her name.
“You make me sleep sometimes,” quoth Phœbus, “'tis true;
But I do even that, let me tell you, with few.”
“Lady Dacre.”—'Twas pleasant to see the god raise,
In honour of her and of Petrarch, his bays.
“And how go your own winged horses?” quoth he:
Then he asked after Margaret Gillies and Mee,
Seyffarth, Carpenter, Robertson, Barrett, and Sharp,
The Corbaux, the Chalons:—in short, more than his harp
Has strings to outnumber, or haste can disclose;
And look'd at the gall'ries, and smil'd as they rose:
For they all sat together, in colours so rare
They appear'd like a garden, enchanting the air;
But what pleas'd me hugely, he call'd to my wife,
And said, “You have done Shelley's mood to the life.”
Some lady musicians completed the bower,
At head of whom earnestly gaz'd Betsy Flower.
In honour of her and of Petrarch, his bays.
“And how go your own winged horses?” quoth he:
Then he asked after Margaret Gillies and Mee,
Seyffarth, Carpenter, Robertson, Barrett, and Sharp,
The Corbaux, the Chalons:—in short, more than his harp
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And look'd at the gall'ries, and smil'd as they rose:
For they all sat together, in colours so rare
They appear'd like a garden, enchanting the air;
But what pleas'd me hugely, he call'd to my wife,
And said, “You have done Shelley's mood to the life.”
Some lady musicians completed the bower,
At head of whom earnestly gaz'd Betsy Flower.
At the sight of Miss Edgeworth, he said, “Here comes one,
As sincere and as kind as lives under the sun;
Not poetical, eh?—nor much giv'n to insist
On utilities not in utility's list
(Things, nevertheless, without which the large heart
Of my world would but play a poor husk of a part),
But most truly, within her own sphere, sympathetic,
And that's no mean help tow'rds the practic-poetic.”
Then, smiling, he said a most singular thing,—
He thank'd her for making him “saving of string”!!
But for fear she should fancy he didn't approve her in
Matters more weighty, prais'd much her “Manœuvring;”
A book, which if aught could pierce craniums so dense,
Might supply cunning folks with a little good sense.
And her Irish (he added) poor souls! so impressed him,
He knew not if most they amus'd or distress'd him.
As sincere and as kind as lives under the sun;
Not poetical, eh?—nor much giv'n to insist
On utilities not in utility's list
(Things, nevertheless, without which the large heart
Of my world would but play a poor husk of a part),
But most truly, within her own sphere, sympathetic,
And that's no mean help tow'rds the practic-poetic.”
Then, smiling, he said a most singular thing,—
He thank'd her for making him “saving of string”!!
But for fear she should fancy he didn't approve her in
Matters more weighty, prais'd much her “Manœuvring;”
A book, which if aught could pierce craniums so dense,
Might supply cunning folks with a little good sense.
And her Irish (he added) poor souls! so impressed him,
He knew not if most they amus'd or distress'd him.
No fault had Miss Ferrier to find with her lot;
She was hail'd by the god as the “lauded of Scott.”
She was hail'd by the god as the “lauded of Scott.”
“Mrs. Gore.” Phœbus open'd his arms, with a face,
In the gladness of which was the coming embrace.
“For her satire,” he said, “wasn't evil, a bit;
But as full of good heart, as of spirits and wit;
Only somewhat he found, now and then, which dilated
A little too much on the fashions it rated,
And heaps of ‘Polite Conversation’ so true,
That he, once, really wish'd the three volumes were two;
But not when she dwelt upon daughters or mothers;
Oh, then the three made him quite long for three others;
And poor ‘Mrs. Armytage,’ warning exaction,
Sits arm-chair'd forever, a dread petrifaction.
Then how much good reading! what fit flowing words!
What enjoyment, whether midst houses or herds!
'Twas the thinking of men with the lightness of birds!”
In the gladness of which was the coming embrace.
“For her satire,” he said, “wasn't evil, a bit;
But as full of good heart, as of spirits and wit;
Only somewhat he found, now and then, which dilated
A little too much on the fashions it rated,
And heaps of ‘Polite Conversation’ so true,
That he, once, really wish'd the three volumes were two;
But not when she dwelt upon daughters or mothers;
Oh, then the three made him quite long for three others;
210
Sits arm-chair'd forever, a dread petrifaction.
Then how much good reading! what fit flowing words!
What enjoyment, whether midst houses or herds!
'Twas the thinking of men with the lightness of birds!”
Never prais'd be prose-love in a style so poetic.—
Then he kiss'd Mrs. Gillies by right sympathetic,
And somebody smiling, and looking askance,
He said, “Honi soit, my friend, qui mal y pense;
What in gods is a right and confirms a good fame,
Were in you a presumption. The same's not the same.”
And with this profound speech, and a bow to the dame
(Whom he thank'd for “Cleone,” and “Gentile and Jew,”
And for other things far more didactic and blue,
But advis'd for the future, to preach reformation
With all of her sweets, and no exacerbation)
He rais'd Mrs. Hall from her rev'rence profound,
Saying, “Nonsense, my dear; clasp me honestly round:—
For the gods love the pleasure you take, 'tis so hearty,
In all sorts of characters, careless of party.”
Then he kiss'd Mrs. Gillies by right sympathetic,
And somebody smiling, and looking askance,
He said, “Honi soit, my friend, qui mal y pense;
What in gods is a right and confirms a good fame,
Were in you a presumption. The same's not the same.”
And with this profound speech, and a bow to the dame
(Whom he thank'd for “Cleone,” and “Gentile and Jew,”
And for other things far more didactic and blue,
But advis'd for the future, to preach reformation
With all of her sweets, and no exacerbation)
He rais'd Mrs. Hall from her rev'rence profound,
Saying, “Nonsense, my dear; clasp me honestly round:—
For the gods love the pleasure you take, 'tis so hearty,
In all sorts of characters, careless of party.”
And now came Miss Hamilton. Phœbus presented
A look to her curtsey so little contented,
It seem'd less for poetess fit than for beldam!
In fact, she provok'd him by writing so seldom.
A look to her curtsey so little contented,
It seem'd less for poetess fit than for beldam!
In fact, she provok'd him by writing so seldom.
Mrs. Hoffland he tenderly welcom'd and styled
“Good motherly soul;” and benignantly smiled
On the close cap of Howitt. These Muse Quakeresses
Are Noes (he said) turn'd to the sweetest of Yesses.
“Good motherly soul;” and benignantly smiled
On the close cap of Howitt. These Muse Quakeresses
Are Noes (he said) turn'd to the sweetest of Yesses.
Lo! Jameson accomplish'd; and Lamb, the fine brain,
(News of Charles in Elysium brought balm to its pain;)
And Landon, whose grief is so dulcet a treasure,
We'd weep to oblige her, but can't for the pleasure.
(News of Charles in Elysium brought balm to its pain;)
And Landon, whose grief is so dulcet a treasure,
We'd weep to oblige her, but can't for the pleasure.
“Ah! welcome home, Martineau, turning statistics
To stories, and puzzling your philogamystics!
I own I can't see, any more than dame Nature,
Why love should await dear good Harriet's dictature!
But great is earth's want of some love-legislature.
To stories, and puzzling your philogamystics!
211
Why love should await dear good Harriet's dictature!
But great is earth's want of some love-legislature.
“And Mitford, all hail! with a head that for green
From your glad village crowners can hardly be seen.”
And with that he shone on it, and set us all blinking:
And yet at her kind heart sat tragedy, thinking.
From your glad village crowners can hardly be seen.”
And with that he shone on it, and set us all blinking:
And yet at her kind heart sat tragedy, thinking.
Then Montagu,—Eleanora Louisa!
Was ever name finer, 'twixt Naples and Pisa?
But not in name only, the lady hath merit;
Her thoughts have an eye, and the right inward spirit.
Was ever name finer, 'twixt Naples and Pisa?
But not in name only, the lady hath merit;
Her thoughts have an eye, and the right inward spirit.
And dear Lady Morgan! Look, look how she comes,
With her pulses all beating for freedom, like drums,—
So Irish, so modish, so mixtish, so wild,
So committing herself, as she talks, like a child,
So trim yet so easy, polite yet big-hearted,
That truth and she, try all she can, won't be parted.
She'll put on your fashions, your latest new air,
And then talk so frankly, she'll make you all stare:—
Mrs. Hall may say “Oh,” and Miss Edgeworth say “Fie,”
But my lady will know all the what and the why.
Her books, a like mixture, are so very clever,
The god himself swore he could read them forever;
Plot, character, freakishness, all are so good;
And the heroine's herself playing tricks in a hood.
So he kiss'd her, and call'd her “eternal good wench;”
But asked, why the devil she spoke so much French?
With her pulses all beating for freedom, like drums,—
So Irish, so modish, so mixtish, so wild,
So committing herself, as she talks, like a child,
So trim yet so easy, polite yet big-hearted,
That truth and she, try all she can, won't be parted.
She'll put on your fashions, your latest new air,
And then talk so frankly, she'll make you all stare:—
Mrs. Hall may say “Oh,” and Miss Edgeworth say “Fie,”
But my lady will know all the what and the why.
Her books, a like mixture, are so very clever,
The god himself swore he could read them forever;
Plot, character, freakishness, all are so good;
And the heroine's herself playing tricks in a hood.
So he kiss'd her, and call'd her “eternal good wench;”
But asked, why the devil she spoke so much French?
“Mrs. Norton.” The god, stepping forward a pace,
Kiss'd her hand in return, with respect in his face,
But said, “Why indulge us with nothing but sighs?
You best prove your merits when cheerful and wise:
Be still so; be just to the depth of your eyes.”
Then he turn'd to us all, and repeated in tones
Of approval so earnest as thrill'd to one's bones,
Some remarks of hers (bidding us learn them all too)
On the art of distinguishing false love from true.
After which, as he seated her near him, he cried,
“'Twas a large heart, and loving, that gave us this guide.”
Kiss'd her hand in return, with respect in his face,
But said, “Why indulge us with nothing but sighs?
You best prove your merits when cheerful and wise:
Be still so; be just to the depth of your eyes.”
Then he turn'd to us all, and repeated in tones
Of approval so earnest as thrill'd to one's bones,
Some remarks of hers (bidding us learn them all too)
On the art of distinguishing false love from true.
212
“'Twas a large heart, and loving, that gave us this guide.”
Well advanc'd, at this juncture, with true loving eyes,
Mrs. Opie, delightful for hating “White Lies.”
“Good Temper,” too, prince of the Lares (God bless him,) owes
Thousands of thanks to her nice duodecimos.
—“What! and you too must turn Quakeress, must you?”
Cried Phœbus;—“well, spite of your costume I'll trust you:
Though truth, you dear goose, as all born Quakeresses
Will tell you has nothing in common with dresses:
Besides, 'tis blaspheming my colours and skies:—
However, it shows you still young, and that's wise;
And since you must needs have no fault let us see
If you can't mend it somehow, betwixt you and me.”
He said; and threw round her a light of such love,
As turn'd her slate hues to the neck of the dove.
Mrs. Opie, delightful for hating “White Lies.”
“Good Temper,” too, prince of the Lares (God bless him,) owes
Thousands of thanks to her nice duodecimos.
—“What! and you too must turn Quakeress, must you?”
Cried Phœbus;—“well, spite of your costume I'll trust you:
Though truth, you dear goose, as all born Quakeresses
Will tell you has nothing in common with dresses:
Besides, 'tis blaspheming my colours and skies:—
However, it shows you still young, and that's wise;
And since you must needs have no fault let us see
If you can't mend it somehow, betwixt you and me.”
He said; and threw round her a light of such love,
As turn'd her slate hues to the neck of the dove.
Enter Pardoe all spirits, and Porter all state,
But sweet ones, like ladies whom knights made elate,
(The latter wore some foreign order, whose name
I forget; but it well graced the chivalrous dame.)
Then hearty good Roberts; and Roche (dear old deathless
Regina, whose lovers my boyhood made breathless,)
And Shelley, four-fam'd,—for her parents, her lord,
And the poor lone impossible monster abhorr'd.
(So sleek and so smiling she came, people stared,
To think such fair clay should so darkly have dared;
But Apollo the very name lov'd so, he turn'd
To a glory all round her, which shook as it burn'd,
And a whirlwind of music came sweet from the spheres);—
Then his shape he resum'd, with a bay round his ears,
And on Sheridan smil'd, name with wit ever found,
And on Somerville, head most surprisingly crown'd;
For instead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges,
Round it, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledges!
Then came young Twamley, nice sensitive thing,
Whose pen and whose pencil give promise like spring;
Then Whitfield,—then Wortley,—and acridly bright
In her eyes, but sweet-lipp'd, the slaves' friend, Fanny Wright.
And now came the dance; for, lo! catching up two,
Since the guests had all come, Phœbus made, as he flew,
A grace and a beauty of waiving decorum
(For wit and warm heart carry all things before 'em)
And leading the way, swept them off to the ball,
Into which he plung'd instantly, music and all;
For the band felt his coming, and gave such a rare
Storm of welcome, as seem'd to blow back his bright hair;
And so he came whirling it, gods! how divinely!
The hearts of the whole room, I warrant, beat finely:
In fact, hadn't he himself kept their wits sound,
The room, the whole evening, had seem'd going round:
But, what was amazing, he so danc'd with all,
He suffic'd for the total male part of the ball!
Not as dancer theatrical, making a show
(Bah!—shocking to think of—Excessively no!)
But gentlemen-god-like, and all comme-il-faut.
Now with one, now with t'other he danc'd, now with ten!
For your god in his dancing is several men.
Fanny Butler he waltz'd with; he jigg'd it with Morgan;
With Hall he developed the rigadoon organ;
To Pardoe he show'd Spain's impassioned velocity;
Norton, the minuet's high reciprocity.
—Then he took Landon, ere she was aware,
Like a dove in a whirlwind, and whisk'd her in air;
Or as Zephyr might catch up some rose-haunting fay,
Or as Mercury once netted Flora, they say.
And then again, stately, like any Sultaùn
With his Queen, he and Blessington trod a pavàun,—
Which meaneth a “peacock dance.” Truly 'twas grand to see
How they came spreading it, pavoneggiàndosi!
—Up, at the sight, rose the oldest at last,
And join'd in a gen'ral dance, “furious and fast,”
With which the god mingled, like fire in a wheel,
Pervading it, golden; till reel after reel,
Bearing sheer off its legs with them giddy three-score,
They spun to the supper-room, clean through the door.
Then quoth Madame d'Arblay, panting much from her journey,
“Well—this beats my father himself, Doctor Burney!!”
But sweet ones, like ladies whom knights made elate,
(The latter wore some foreign order, whose name
I forget; but it well graced the chivalrous dame.)
Then hearty good Roberts; and Roche (dear old deathless
Regina, whose lovers my boyhood made breathless,)
And Shelley, four-fam'd,—for her parents, her lord,
And the poor lone impossible monster abhorr'd.
(So sleek and so smiling she came, people stared,
To think such fair clay should so darkly have dared;
But Apollo the very name lov'd so, he turn'd
To a glory all round her, which shook as it burn'd,
And a whirlwind of music came sweet from the spheres);—
Then his shape he resum'd, with a bay round his ears,
And on Sheridan smil'd, name with wit ever found,
And on Somerville, head most surprisingly crown'd;
For instead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges,
Round it, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledges!
Then came young Twamley, nice sensitive thing,
Whose pen and whose pencil give promise like spring;
Then Whitfield,—then Wortley,—and acridly bright
In her eyes, but sweet-lipp'd, the slaves' friend, Fanny Wright.
213
Since the guests had all come, Phœbus made, as he flew,
A grace and a beauty of waiving decorum
(For wit and warm heart carry all things before 'em)
And leading the way, swept them off to the ball,
Into which he plung'd instantly, music and all;
For the band felt his coming, and gave such a rare
Storm of welcome, as seem'd to blow back his bright hair;
And so he came whirling it, gods! how divinely!
The hearts of the whole room, I warrant, beat finely:
In fact, hadn't he himself kept their wits sound,
The room, the whole evening, had seem'd going round:
But, what was amazing, he so danc'd with all,
He suffic'd for the total male part of the ball!
Not as dancer theatrical, making a show
(Bah!—shocking to think of—Excessively no!)
But gentlemen-god-like, and all comme-il-faut.
Now with one, now with t'other he danc'd, now with ten!
For your god in his dancing is several men.
Fanny Butler he waltz'd with; he jigg'd it with Morgan;
With Hall he developed the rigadoon organ;
To Pardoe he show'd Spain's impassioned velocity;
Norton, the minuet's high reciprocity.
—Then he took Landon, ere she was aware,
Like a dove in a whirlwind, and whisk'd her in air;
Or as Zephyr might catch up some rose-haunting fay,
Or as Mercury once netted Flora, they say.
And then again, stately, like any Sultaùn
With his Queen, he and Blessington trod a pavàun,—
Which meaneth a “peacock dance.” Truly 'twas grand to see
How they came spreading it, pavoneggiàndosi!
—Up, at the sight, rose the oldest at last,
And join'd in a gen'ral dance, “furious and fast,”
With which the god mingled, like fire in a wheel,
Pervading it, golden; till reel after reel,
Bearing sheer off its legs with them giddy three-score,
They spun to the supper-room, clean through the door.
Then quoth Madame d'Arblay, panting much from her journey,
“Well—this beats my father himself, Doctor Burney!!”
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |