 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
1
INTRODUCTORY OUTLINE.
“What do they in the north.”
Richard III.
Richard III.
Of old, when Author's meant to try their skill,
The verse began,—“Come forth my grey-goose quill;”
But now, that each revolving season, brings
New forms, and fashions, for all earthly things;
When sound, and light, and motion, are no more
What sound, and light, and motion were of yore;
When all things vary, shall I summon still
The Goose's raw simplicity of quill?
No, art shall trim, and model it; and then
I cry, “Come forth my Bramah's patent pen.”
The verse began,—“Come forth my grey-goose quill;”
But now, that each revolving season, brings
New forms, and fashions, for all earthly things;
When sound, and light, and motion, are no more
What sound, and light, and motion were of yore;
When all things vary, shall I summon still
The Goose's raw simplicity of quill?
No, art shall trim, and model it; and then
I cry, “Come forth my Bramah's patent pen.”
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Come forth thou little “chronicler of time,”
Thou precious accoucheur of prose, and rhyme;
Dear to the happy, but more dear to those,
Who wile away the memory of their woes;
Who far from all who love them, and the mirth
Which circles ever round a social hearth;
Sigh in their solitudes, where not a word,—
Nor laugh,—nor footstep of a friend, is heard;
And sadly seize thee thus; and scribble rhymes,
To banish thoughts of brighter, happier times.
Thou precious accoucheur of prose, and rhyme;
Dear to the happy, but more dear to those,
Who wile away the memory of their woes;
Who far from all who love them, and the mirth
Which circles ever round a social hearth;
Sigh in their solitudes, where not a word,—
Nor laugh,—nor footstep of a friend, is heard;
And sadly seize thee thus; and scribble rhymes,
To banish thoughts of brighter, happier times.
'Tis thus I court thy aid, and bid thee drink
From yonder chrystal fountain, streams of ink;
From the same fount I'd quaff, could it bestow
Like Lethe's flood,—forgetfulness of woe;
Few months are past, since in my desk you lay
In undistrub'd repose from day to day,
I needed not your aid, for then the hours
Flew swiftly by, Time never rests on flowers,
'Tis now he lingers while my spirit mourns,—
As if 'twere luxury to sit on thorns!
I scribbled not by day,—for then I rov'd
Along the sea-beat shore with one I lov'd;
I scribbled not by night,—for visions came,
And I was busy—dreaming of her name;
Dear was our early walk, when o'er the hill
The grey mists of the morning hover'd still;
Dear was the hour of noon;—our chosen seat
Beneath the trees that shelter'd us from heat;
Where daily I took forth a book, and said
That she should sit and listen, whilst I read;
The page was open'd, and we paus'd to look
Upon each other;—and forgot the book.—
Dear was the hour of sunset, for we knew
To-morrow's sun together we should view:
Dear was our evening song, and dear to me
The feast of muffins and the flow of tea.
From yonder chrystal fountain, streams of ink;
From the same fount I'd quaff, could it bestow
Like Lethe's flood,—forgetfulness of woe;
Few months are past, since in my desk you lay
In undistrub'd repose from day to day,
I needed not your aid, for then the hours
Flew swiftly by, Time never rests on flowers,
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As if 'twere luxury to sit on thorns!
I scribbled not by day,—for then I rov'd
Along the sea-beat shore with one I lov'd;
I scribbled not by night,—for visions came,
And I was busy—dreaming of her name;
Dear was our early walk, when o'er the hill
The grey mists of the morning hover'd still;
Dear was the hour of noon;—our chosen seat
Beneath the trees that shelter'd us from heat;
Where daily I took forth a book, and said
That she should sit and listen, whilst I read;
The page was open'd, and we paus'd to look
Upon each other;—and forgot the book.—
Dear was the hour of sunset, for we knew
To-morrow's sun together we should view:
Dear was our evening song, and dear to me
The feast of muffins and the flow of tea.
4
But this is past, and now I take thee forth,
To sketch the lights and shadows of the north;
For her alone I'll sketch each passing scene,
Alas! with her, how fair they might have been.
“Aid me, ye Nine!” is still the common cant,
All ask the aid which muses seldom grant;
In calling spirits forth the task is small,
But will those spirits come when we do call?
To sketch the lights and shadows of the north;
For her alone I'll sketch each passing scene,
Alas! with her, how fair they might have been.
“Aid me, ye Nine!” is still the common cant,
All ask the aid which muses seldom grant;
In calling spirits forth the task is small,
But will those spirits come when we do call?
Ye cruel Nine! how can ye disregard
The pensive plaint of many a would-be bard,
Who woos ye all en masse, and scorns to choose
A snug flirtation with a single muse?
The pensive plaint of many a would-be bard,
Who woos ye all en masse, and scorns to choose
A snug flirtation with a single muse?
Those midnight votaries, who oft consume
Their ink, their paper, and their youthful bloom;
Who talk of what they call their tuneful Lyre,
Asking (what much they lack) Poetic fire.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The hill, where Poet's meet with thoughts sublime,
How many souls (and bodies we may add)
Have woo'd good fortune, and have wedded bad!
Have warr'd with fate, unable to defeat her,—
(So Beattie said in other words and metre.)
Their ink, their paper, and their youthful bloom;
Who talk of what they call their tuneful Lyre,
Asking (what much they lack) Poetic fire.
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The hill, where Poet's meet with thoughts sublime,
How many souls (and bodies we may add)
Have woo'd good fortune, and have wedded bad!
Have warr'd with fate, unable to defeat her,—
(So Beattie said in other words and metre.)
Some youth reads Pope, and in a little time,
Learns (like a tune) the jingle of the rhyme;
Then rashly puts his Pope upon the shelf,
Buys a blank copy-book, and writes himself;
Counts each line with his fingers, and then hopes
His cold heroics are as good as Pope's!
The jingling rhyme successfully he apes;
The genius of his model all escapes.
Learns (like a tune) the jingle of the rhyme;
Then rashly puts his Pope upon the shelf,
Buys a blank copy-book, and writes himself;
Counts each line with his fingers, and then hopes
His cold heroics are as good as Pope's!
The jingling rhyme successfully he apes;
The genius of his model all escapes.
Thus minor beauties, striving to excel,
Follow the fashions of some reigning belle;
But, when each garment is exactly plac'd
To copy all the frolics of her taste;
They catch the artificial part alone,
The charm remains exclusively her own.
Follow the fashions of some reigning belle;
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To copy all the frolics of her taste;
They catch the artificial part alone,
The charm remains exclusively her own.
Our rhymster, in his lofty cheap abode,
Is parturitious, and brings forth—an ode,
The ode by some admiring friends is seen,
And then is sent to Blackwood's magazine:
“Old North with joy on such an ode will look,
“He cannot fail to put it in his book;
“All men of sense its talent must admire
—North puts it in—He puts it in the fire.
Is parturitious, and brings forth—an ode,
The ode by some admiring friends is seen,
And then is sent to Blackwood's magazine:
“Old North with joy on such an ode will look,
“He cannot fail to put it in his book;
“All men of sense its talent must admire
—North puts it in—He puts it in the fire.
Oh blind injustice! still he writes away;—
Still no rash publisher will print the lay;
In manuscript it sleeps, nor can possess
The type and margin, honors of the press:
Still no rash publisher will print the lay;
In manuscript it sleeps, nor can possess
The type and margin, honors of the press:
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Thus ever doom'd to view—oh worse than all!
His own dear verses, in his own vile scrawl;
He ponders in his garret pale with care,
Wasting his sweetness in the desert air;
And chews the cud of bitter fancy too;
With often very little else to chew.
His own dear verses, in his own vile scrawl;
He ponders in his garret pale with care,
Wasting his sweetness in the desert air;
And chews the cud of bitter fancy too;
With often very little else to chew.
Yet still, though dull contemporaries frown,
He feels secure of posthumous renown,
Thinks the collected remnants of his wit
Will move the earth—when he is under it;
Visions like these his present pangs must heal,
Which e'en if realiz'd, he could not feel;
Will fame, or praise, or honors, comfort him
Whose ears are closed in death—whose eyes are dim!
For men alive he scorns to wield his pen,
He writes for babes unborn, for embryo men.
Whilst many a wild and wayward reverie,
Floats round the station where his brains should be,
And thoughts conceal'd in flimsy flowery clothing,
And many mental flights, that end in nothing.
He feels secure of posthumous renown,
Thinks the collected remnants of his wit
Will move the earth—when he is under it;
Visions like these his present pangs must heal,
Which e'en if realiz'd, he could not feel;
Will fame, or praise, or honors, comfort him
Whose ears are closed in death—whose eyes are dim!
For men alive he scorns to wield his pen,
He writes for babes unborn, for embryo men.
Whilst many a wild and wayward reverie,
Floats round the station where his brains should be,
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And many mental flights, that end in nothing.
But hold, where was I?—I must hasten back
To my own theme, I've wander'd from the track;
Muses, to you I spoke, attend my call,
And hear my invocation, one, and all:
I own that good auld Reekie's charms demand
The mighty touches of a master hand;
And much I hope a master's powerful pen
Will one day draw her picture: but 'till then
Permit a Southron hand to sketch in haste,
A few faint outlines; easily effaced.
To my own theme, I've wander'd from the track;
Muses, to you I spoke, attend my call,
And hear my invocation, one, and all:
I own that good auld Reekie's charms demand
The mighty touches of a master hand;
And much I hope a master's powerful pen
Will one day draw her picture: but 'till then
Permit a Southron hand to sketch in haste,
A few faint outlines; easily effaced.
Besides, the Master Bards appear all busy;
First let us think of Byron—stop, where is he?
Far from his home the noble minstrel strays,
Courting Melpomene; composing plays.—
“Ye breezes waft his tragic treasures o'er,
“The sinking drama may revive once more.”
His plays revive the drama! think not so;
You must not dream of acting them you know:
They're not adapted for the stage in fact;—
(Though faith we've plays enough we cannot act:)
But 'tis his way, and I suspect indeed,
He means to send us books we must not read!
First let us think of Byron—stop, where is he?
Far from his home the noble minstrel strays,
Courting Melpomene; composing plays.—
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“The sinking drama may revive once more.”
His plays revive the drama! think not so;
You must not dream of acting them you know:
They're not adapted for the stage in fact;—
(Though faith we've plays enough we cannot act:)
But 'tis his way, and I suspect indeed,
He means to send us books we must not read!
And Scott, the great enchanter of the north,
Who sent his verse romances crowding forth;
Till suddenly he paus'd; and some one chose
To send romances forth, as good, in prose!
Though known to all, still call'd the great unknown,
We now suspect no magic, but his own;
Methinks his hands must now be full enough,
'Tis said he still is playing blind man's buff.
Who sent his verse romances crowding forth;
Till suddenly he paus'd; and some one chose
To send romances forth, as good, in prose!
Though known to all, still call'd the great unknown,
We now suspect no magic, but his own;
Methinks his hands must now be full enough,
'Tis said he still is playing blind man's buff.
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Scott! thy pure muse may counteract the rhymes
Of Atheist bards who gild the worst of crimes;
Who make their heroes brutal, yet their skill
Can deck them out in fascinations still;
Who give alluring blandishments to evil,
And paint us the flirtations of the Devil!
Oh! still exert thy rare unrivall'd powers,
Still cull Imgination's fairest flowers;
Were life now closing round thee, there is not
A single line that thou couldst wish to blot!
Of Atheist bards who gild the worst of crimes;
Who make their heroes brutal, yet their skill
Can deck them out in fascinations still;
Who give alluring blandishments to evil,
And paint us the flirtations of the Devil!
Oh! still exert thy rare unrivall'd powers,
Still cull Imgination's fairest flowers;
Were life now closing round thee, there is not
A single line that thou couldst wish to blot!
And where is Southey? in himself an host;
Who treads all learning's paths, and shines in most;
The eloquent biographer, who trac'd
Poor Nelson's life with feeling, truth, and taste;
The pure historian, moralist, and sage,
And every inch a bard in Roderick's page;
But his last work! that nightmare of burlesque!
“Visions of judgment hence”—nor haunt my desk.
Who treads all learning's paths, and shines in most;
The eloquent biographer, who trac'd
Poor Nelson's life with feeling, truth, and taste;
The pure historian, moralist, and sage,
And every inch a bard in Roderick's page;
But his last work! that nightmare of burlesque!
“Visions of judgment hence”—nor haunt my desk.
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And where is Moore? the minstrel who can move
Each secret pulse of tenderness, and love;
The son of melody, whose touching words
Float wedded to the music o'er the chords;
Oh! how can one so highly gifted stray
In personality's disgusting way?
In Tommy Brown's ungentlemanlike dress
You show us e'en Tom Little can be less.
Couldst thou feel flatter'd when the vulgar laugh'd
At the foul point of thy envenom'd shaft?
Abandon Fudge;—believe me, such a book
Can never raise the bard of Lalla Rookh:
Cull from thy fancy's rich exhaustless store;
Be great—be all thou hast been—nay, be Moore.
Each secret pulse of tenderness, and love;
The son of melody, whose touching words
Float wedded to the music o'er the chords;
Oh! how can one so highly gifted stray
In personality's disgusting way?
In Tommy Brown's ungentlemanlike dress
You show us e'en Tom Little can be less.
Couldst thou feel flatter'd when the vulgar laugh'd
At the foul point of thy envenom'd shaft?
Abandon Fudge;—believe me, such a book
Can never raise the bard of Lalla Rookh:
Cull from thy fancy's rich exhaustless store;
Be great—be all thou hast been—nay, be Moore.
Campbell when first he gave his talents scope,
In polished numbers taught us how to hope,
But now his angel visits are so few,
That he hath taught us disappointment too:
Say is his new and monthly task so hard,
That in the editor he sinks the bard?
If 'tis for this we taste the bitter cup,
In his own magazine we'll blow him up.
In polished numbers taught us how to hope,
But now his angel visits are so few,
That he hath taught us disappointment too:
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That in the editor he sinks the bard?
If 'tis for this we taste the bitter cup,
In his own magazine we'll blow him up.
And what is Wordsworth doing? He who owns
(At times)—an inspiration, which atones
For much absurdity, and when he chooses
Can make a long “Excursion” with the Muses,
But whose unlucky Betty's, Bobs, and Peters,
Throw into shade his rarer, nobler, metres;
Perhaps e'en now his muse exalts the fame
Of Jemmy Scraggs, or some such classic name;
Or Nancy Dawson may employ his pen,
With sky-blue women, or with small grey men.
(At times)—an inspiration, which atones
For much absurdity, and when he chooses
Can make a long “Excursion” with the Muses,
But whose unlucky Betty's, Bobs, and Peters,
Throw into shade his rarer, nobler, metres;
Perhaps e'en now his muse exalts the fame
Of Jemmy Scraggs, or some such classic name;
Or Nancy Dawson may employ his pen,
With sky-blue women, or with small grey men.
And Crabbe, whose muse is not admir'd the less,
For painting nature in her simplest dress;
Whose thoughts assume not a fantastic form,
Who ne'er attempts to take one's praise by storm,
But reigns supreme in feeling's tenderest scenes,
And wins his readers' hearts by gentlest means.
Leave him to choose his subjects, sure of this,
His taste will never let him choose amiss;
We find in him instead of proud pretence,
Uncommon talents, join'd to common sense.
For painting nature in her simplest dress;
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Who ne'er attempts to take one's praise by storm,
But reigns supreme in feeling's tenderest scenes,
And wins his readers' hearts by gentlest means.
Leave him to choose his subjects, sure of this,
His taste will never let him choose amiss;
We find in him instead of proud pretence,
Uncommon talents, join'd to common sense.
And where is Rogers too? if Memory's Bard
Were unremember'd 'twould indeed be hard;
And Milman, poetry professor too,
Few understand what they profess like you.
And—. But I'll name no more, should I proceed
Through all who write, 'twere difficult indeed.
Were unremember'd 'twould indeed be hard;
And Milman, poetry professor too,
Few understand what they profess like you.
And—. But I'll name no more, should I proceed
Through all who write, 'twere difficult indeed.
For countless Votaries round Parnassus lurk,
And some must find it very up-hill work;
Sick of his briefs, the Lawyer seeks relief
In scribbling cantos—any thing but brief;
Each Parson rhymes in a decorous way,
And every Layman pens a tender lay.
And some must find it very up-hill work;
Sick of his briefs, the Lawyer seeks relief
In scribbling cantos—any thing but brief;
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And every Layman pens a tender lay.
And Woman too predestin'd to excel,
Whose form possesses such a lovely spell;
Man views her, and believes perfection hers,
Or he should veil her error—if she errs:
She mounts the winged steed in triumph too,
And though the vulgar say her hose are blue;
Whilst Baillie, Tighe, and Hemans still possess
So firm a seat, she well may hope success:
And even when ye fail—ye gentle bards,
When on the backs of invitation cards
Ye've written sonnets, and divide your looks
'Twixt last new fashions, and the last new books;
When dulcet lyric measures take the place
Of measur'd tabinets, and lawn, and lace;
When ye have shunn'd the concert and the dance,
And scorn'd your sex's soft bewitching glance,
And caught the poet's frenzy-rolling eye—
(Extremely unbecoming by the bye;)
If then Parnassus seems a hopeless prize,
And, as you struggle, Alps on Alps arise;
If still the Muses prove how rare their aid is,
Remember you've been wooing nine young ladies!
Think not if women often write in vain,
Whilst men the Muses' richest smiles obtain;
Think not their coldness should your spirit vex,
'Tis not your genius fails you, but your sex;
The Nine are female, and each Muse bestows
Her smiles (like other females) on the beaux.
If there's a Muse will not disdain a lay,
In which—sans method—grave is mix'd with gay;
If haply there is one, whose eye prefers
A wild al fresco outline;—I am hers.
Whose form possesses such a lovely spell;
Man views her, and believes perfection hers,
Or he should veil her error—if she errs:
She mounts the winged steed in triumph too,
And though the vulgar say her hose are blue;
Whilst Baillie, Tighe, and Hemans still possess
So firm a seat, she well may hope success:
And even when ye fail—ye gentle bards,
When on the backs of invitation cards
Ye've written sonnets, and divide your looks
'Twixt last new fashions, and the last new books;
When dulcet lyric measures take the place
Of measur'd tabinets, and lawn, and lace;
When ye have shunn'd the concert and the dance,
And scorn'd your sex's soft bewitching glance,
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(Extremely unbecoming by the bye;)
If then Parnassus seems a hopeless prize,
And, as you struggle, Alps on Alps arise;
If still the Muses prove how rare their aid is,
Remember you've been wooing nine young ladies!
Think not if women often write in vain,
Whilst men the Muses' richest smiles obtain;
Think not their coldness should your spirit vex,
'Tis not your genius fails you, but your sex;
The Nine are female, and each Muse bestows
Her smiles (like other females) on the beaux.
If there's a Muse will not disdain a lay,
In which—sans method—grave is mix'd with gay;
If haply there is one, whose eye prefers
A wild al fresco outline;—I am hers.
When sombre shades predominate too much,
I'll change the prospect with a lighter touch;
And when too much of trifling fills the strain,
My own sad thoughts will change the scene again.
My volume thus half earnest and half jest,
Is like a snuff-box of two tunes possest,
One lively and one sad: the same machine
Pours forth each strain in turn from keys unseen.
When either grows fatiguing; we know how
To change the theme at once—As I do now.
I'll change the prospect with a lighter touch;
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My own sad thoughts will change the scene again.
My volume thus half earnest and half jest,
Is like a snuff-box of two tunes possest,
One lively and one sad: the same machine
Pours forth each strain in turn from keys unseen.
When either grows fatiguing; we know how
To change the theme at once—As I do now.
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OUTLINE THE SECOND.
“A certain convocation of politick worms.”
Hamlet.
Hamlet.
Here Politics run vastly high, (indeed where do they not,)
And Politics are dangerous, they make the temper hot;
They play the deuce with men, and call their prejudices forth;
And make them see with jaundic'd eyes, and undervalue worth.
And Politics are dangerous, they make the temper hot;
They play the deuce with men, and call their prejudices forth;
And make them see with jaundic'd eyes, and undervalue worth.
There's a certain old Review, adorn'd with yellow, and with blue,
The people seem'd to make it quite their oracle, when new;
But it prophecied on politics, assuming second sight,
When It said things would all go wrong, alas! things all went right.
And its literary prophecies were unsuccessful too;
The Bards it hated, triumph'd o'er the yellow and the blue!
The mighty We first fix'd upon a work,—no matter what;
We car'd not if the subject was political or not;
Mrs. Rundall upon Cookery, or Allison on Taste,
Or Byron upon Pegasus, upon the page was plac'd;
And then began an article about the coming storm,
And injuries, and Bonaparte, and radical reform;
In fact, the book review'd, was like a wooden peg alone,
On which the sage reviewer hitch'd an essay of his own.
The people seem'd to make it quite their oracle, when new;
But it prophecied on politics, assuming second sight,
When It said things would all go wrong, alas! things all went right.
And its literary prophecies were unsuccessful too;
The Bards it hated, triumph'd o'er the yellow and the blue!
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We car'd not if the subject was political or not;
Mrs. Rundall upon Cookery, or Allison on Taste,
Or Byron upon Pegasus, upon the page was plac'd;
And then began an article about the coming storm,
And injuries, and Bonaparte, and radical reform;
In fact, the book review'd, was like a wooden peg alone,
On which the sage reviewer hitch'd an essay of his own.
It really is astonishing to hear the Whigs profuse
In complaints respecting injuries, and personal abuse!
The Whigs who for so long a time were very hard indeed,
Upon all the Tory gentlefolks who differ'd from their creed;
But when against themselves we turn their weapons, they exclaim,
“What! read John Bull! or Blackwood's Magazine! oh fye, for shame.”
In complaints respecting injuries, and personal abuse!
The Whigs who for so long a time were very hard indeed,
Upon all the Tory gentlefolks who differ'd from their creed;
But when against themselves we turn their weapons, they exclaim,
“What! read John Bull! or Blackwood's Magazine! oh fye, for shame.”
The night it was tempestuous, and very hard it blew,
And those who stirr'd within the street, were probably wet through;
When Mr. Donald Whiglington was sitting at his ease,
With his feet upon the fender, and his elbows on his knees;
His wife was sitting near to him, and whilst her husband doz'd,
Her red morocco reticule she silently unclos'd;
And taking thence a newspaper, its pages wide she spread;
She mov'd the sofa, snuff'd the candles, blew her nose, and read.
And those who stirr'd within the street, were probably wet through;
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With his feet upon the fender, and his elbows on his knees;
His wife was sitting near to him, and whilst her husband doz'd,
Her red morocco reticule she silently unclos'd;
And taking thence a newspaper, its pages wide she spread;
She mov'd the sofa, snuff'd the candles, blew her nose, and read.
Awhile she read it prudently, and quietly she sat,
And smil'd upon this paragraph, and simper'd upon that;
But soon she read another page, and ere she could proceed,
She laugh'd aloud, and leaning back—cry'd, “very good, indeed.”
The exclamation rous'd her spouse, who started at the sound,
And half awake, and half asleep, look'd vacantly around;
And said, “my love, what have you there? my dear, what can it be
“Which makes you laugh this dreary night? my darling, give it me.”
He took it—saw it—dropt it—and he cry'd, with anger full,
“Oh wicked Mrs. Whiglington, how came you by John Bull?”
“John Bull is so notorious, to name it is a sin,
“(And from my soul I execrate all those who take it in;)
“To see it on my tea-table now covers me with shame,
“(Confound you Mrs. Whiglington you're very much to blame.)
“Its pages are so scandalous! and scandal I abhor;
“I cannot think what all our filthy neighbours read it for:
“There's Mr. Whinn, who takes it in 's a nasty dirty beast,
“And Mr. Shore, who lives next door, is mad, to say the least;
“Its female readers all are vile, their characters are loose,
“(I hate its pages—for I hate all scandalous abuse.)
“Its violence is hateful, its expressions are too strong,
“It violently states that we are radically wrong;
“My dear it is too violent; (and violence I dread,)”—
And saying so, he threw the silver teapot at her head.
“Its coarseness is detestable! I think of it with shame!
“Oh! hang you, Mrs. Whiglington, you're very much to blame.”
And smil'd upon this paragraph, and simper'd upon that;
But soon she read another page, and ere she could proceed,
She laugh'd aloud, and leaning back—cry'd, “very good, indeed.”
The exclamation rous'd her spouse, who started at the sound,
And half awake, and half asleep, look'd vacantly around;
And said, “my love, what have you there? my dear, what can it be
“Which makes you laugh this dreary night? my darling, give it me.”
He took it—saw it—dropt it—and he cry'd, with anger full,
“Oh wicked Mrs. Whiglington, how came you by John Bull?”
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“(And from my soul I execrate all those who take it in;)
“To see it on my tea-table now covers me with shame,
“(Confound you Mrs. Whiglington you're very much to blame.)
“Its pages are so scandalous! and scandal I abhor;
“I cannot think what all our filthy neighbours read it for:
“There's Mr. Whinn, who takes it in 's a nasty dirty beast,
“And Mr. Shore, who lives next door, is mad, to say the least;
“Its female readers all are vile, their characters are loose,
“(I hate its pages—for I hate all scandalous abuse.)
“Its violence is hateful, its expressions are too strong,
“It violently states that we are radically wrong;
“My dear it is too violent; (and violence I dread,)”—
And saying so, he threw the silver teapot at her head.
“Its coarseness is detestable! I think of it with shame!
“Oh! hang you, Mrs. Whiglington, you're very much to blame.”
To bed he went in anger, and to bed she went and cried;
And when just warm, a mighty form stept up to his bedside;
In vain he slunk beneath the clothes, and turn'd away his head,
The form was ever visible, and hover'd o'er the bed.
It call'd upon poor Whiglington, and gave his nose a pull,
And said “Be bold, for now behold, the spirit of John Bull;
“But though a spirit, think not that my energy is lost,
“I always have been spirited, I am not yet a ghost.
“How dare you say my pages are calumnious, and coarse?
“Because my pen his potent, and the Whigs have felt its force:
“How dare you say Johannes Bull vents slander in his rhymes,
“You daily read the slanders of the Chronicle and Times:
“You take them in, you know you do, though probably indeed,
“You're one among the many who ne'er pay for what they read,
“Who first take in the newspaper, and more discreetly still,
“They next take in the editor, and never pay his bill!
And when just warm, a mighty form stept up to his bedside;
21
The form was ever visible, and hover'd o'er the bed.
It call'd upon poor Whiglington, and gave his nose a pull,
And said “Be bold, for now behold, the spirit of John Bull;
“But though a spirit, think not that my energy is lost,
“I always have been spirited, I am not yet a ghost.
“How dare you say my pages are calumnious, and coarse?
“Because my pen his potent, and the Whigs have felt its force:
“How dare you say Johannes Bull vents slander in his rhymes,
“You daily read the slanders of the Chronicle and Times:
“You take them in, you know you do, though probably indeed,
“You're one among the many who ne'er pay for what they read,
“Who first take in the newspaper, and more discreetly still,
“They next take in the editor, and never pay his bill!
“Shall I be call'd calumnious—when Perry's page ran o'er,
“With the Post Bag, and Fudge Family of Mr. Thomas M—re,
“Whose humour is not good humour, yet for it we must lose,
“All the beauty, and the brightness, and the feeling of his muse?
“Whose taste, it seems can make him throw aside his laurel crown,
“To wear the Tom Fool's jacket, of Tom Little, or Tom Brown,
“And when the Morning Chronicle became a tasteless cup,
“His fermentations were thrown in to make the Perry up.
“With the Post Bag, and Fudge Family of Mr. Thomas M—re,
“Whose humour is not good humour, yet for it we must lose,
“All the beauty, and the brightness, and the feeling of his muse?
22
“To wear the Tom Fool's jacket, of Tom Little, or Tom Brown,
“And when the Morning Chronicle became a tasteless cup,
“His fermentations were thrown in to make the Perry up.
“How boldly and how long they hurl'd their arrows at the King,
“It galls them now to see their dastard weapons left no sting;
“How oft at female virtue was their slander thrown in vain!
“And now they strive to fix on me the ignominious stain!
“I hurl aside the calumny, and boldly I assert,
“By me the name of innocence has never yet been hurt:
“When guilt assum'd a gilded form, and dar'd to face the day,
“When folly follow'd in her train, I tore the veil away;
“One party made a rough attack, and ev'ry Bully knows,
“A Lamb cannot resist a wolf; blows must be met by blows.
“It galls them now to see their dastard weapons left no sting;
“How oft at female virtue was their slander thrown in vain!
“And now they strive to fix on me the ignominious stain!
“I hurl aside the calumny, and boldly I assert,
“By me the name of innocence has never yet been hurt:
“When guilt assum'd a gilded form, and dar'd to face the day,
“When folly follow'd in her train, I tore the veil away;
“One party made a rough attack, and ev'ry Bully knows,
“A Lamb cannot resist a wolf; blows must be met by blows.
“Now Whiglington, I leave thee to the terrors in thy breast,
“My Printer's devils shall remain to scare away thy rest;
“Know this, if any Radicals have been upon the rack,
“If any Whigs have trembled,—I commenc'd not the attack.
“Immortal and untainted are the pages which I print,
“And ages hence my leaves will bear the true autumnal tint;
“My motives will bear scrutiny when party passions cool,
“For God, the King, and People—is the motto of John Bull.”
“My Printer's devils shall remain to scare away thy rest;
23
“If any Whigs have trembled,—I commenc'd not the attack.
“Immortal and untainted are the pages which I print,
“And ages hence my leaves will bear the true autumnal tint;
“My motives will bear scrutiny when party passions cool,
“For God, the King, and People—is the motto of John Bull.”
And now the vision vanish'd—while poor Whiglington awoke,
(This—unlike other vapour-devils—vanish'd not in smoke;)
He rose up a fair Penitent, and saw the form depart,
And vow'd the words of Bull would be engrav'd upon his heart:
Engrav'd upon his heart, and death should blot it out alone,—
(Engrav'd in Lithographic style—some hearts you know are stone.)
(This—unlike other vapour-devils—vanish'd not in smoke;)
He rose up a fair Penitent, and saw the form depart,
And vow'd the words of Bull would be engrav'd upon his heart:
Engrav'd upon his heart, and death should blot it out alone,—
(Engrav'd in Lithographic style—some hearts you know are stone.)
Next morning Mr. Whiglington begg'd pardon of his wife,
And told her he had now resolv'd on leading a new life;
“Alas! the tide is turn'd,” he cry'd, “there's nothing to be got
“By those who curse the Government,—so I will curse it not;
“John Bull (my worthy visitor) has done his work so well,
“Our weekly papers are become so weak they will not sell;
“My pet review is drifting too, from fortune's fav'ring gale,
“No wonder it drifts down the stream—for it has lost its sale;
“The Champion faints,—and even the Examiner is willing
“To examine us for seven pence, instead of for a shilling!
And told her he had now resolv'd on leading a new life;
“Alas! the tide is turn'd,” he cry'd, “there's nothing to be got
“By those who curse the Government,—so I will curse it not;
24
“Our weekly papers are become so weak they will not sell;
“My pet review is drifting too, from fortune's fav'ring gale,
“No wonder it drifts down the stream—for it has lost its sale;
“The Champion faints,—and even the Examiner is willing
“To examine us for seven pence, instead of for a shilling!
“'Tis useless to abuse the King, we cannot now distress him,
“Where'er he goes the people flock around him and cry, ‘God bless him!’
“In England they delight in him, for loyalty's in vogue,
“And even in Hibernia they bless him in a brogue;
“And should he come to Scotland, wife, the best thing we can do,
“Is to ‘Tak a right good wylie wacht’—and cry, ‘God bless him’ too.”
“Where'er he goes the people flock around him and cry, ‘God bless him!’
“In England they delight in him, for loyalty's in vogue,
“And even in Hibernia they bless him in a brogue;
“And should he come to Scotland, wife, the best thing we can do,
“Is to ‘Tak a right good wylie wacht’—and cry, ‘God bless him’ too.”
25
OUTLINE THE THIRD.
“Oh, heavy lightness! serious vanity!
“Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!”
Romeo and Juliet.
“Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!”
Romeo and Juliet.
'Tis half-past ten, and chairs and coaches hurry
To the assembly rooms in George's Street;
Some fair ones enter in a sort of flurry,
Thinking of Beaus they may—or may not meet;
Gow looks around, and after some demur, he
Seizes his fiddle-stick, and takes his seat.
The Patroness, who in the midst is seen,
Feels (for the evening) every inch a queen.
To the assembly rooms in George's Street;
Some fair ones enter in a sort of flurry,
Thinking of Beaus they may—or may not meet;
Gow looks around, and after some demur, he
Seizes his fiddle-stick, and takes his seat.
The Patroness, who in the midst is seen,
Feels (for the evening) every inch a queen.
26
Here strangers will behold no kind M. C.
No steward successive partners to insure;
The room is fill'd with smiling Belles, but he
Sees each Belle pass him silent, and demure,
As if they all imagin'd him to be
“A low born man, of parentage obscure”—
A hermit in a ball-room, and though not
“The world forgetting;—by the world forgot.”
No steward successive partners to insure;
The room is fill'd with smiling Belles, but he
Sees each Belle pass him silent, and demure,
As if they all imagin'd him to be
“A low born man, of parentage obscure”—
A hermit in a ball-room, and though not
“The world forgetting;—by the world forgot.”
In fact, a stranger's prospects, cash, and rank,
Should (in the style of Norval) be declar'd,
“My Name is (so and so,) my prospects (blank),
“My Father owns (blank) lands, a wealthy laird,
“Whose constant savings hoarded in the bank,
“Will by his only son (myself) be shar'd
“With Her, who my affections can engage;
“I am a single man, and just of age.”
Should (in the style of Norval) be declar'd,
“My Name is (so and so,) my prospects (blank),
“My Father owns (blank) lands, a wealthy laird,
“Whose constant savings hoarded in the bank,
“Will by his only son (myself) be shar'd
“With Her, who my affections can engage;
“I am a single man, and just of age.”
27
At private parties, servants should announce
Our who's, and what's, and whence's, with our names:
And Dowagers might then decide at once,
With small deliberation, on our claims;
'Twould be so ludicrous to see them pounce
Upon the images in gilded frames!
Saying, before the victim dar'd to stir—
“Permit me to present my daughter, Sir.”
Our who's, and what's, and whence's, with our names:
And Dowagers might then decide at once,
With small deliberation, on our claims;
'Twould be so ludicrous to see them pounce
Upon the images in gilded frames!
Saying, before the victim dar'd to stir—
“Permit me to present my daughter, Sir.”
The Ball begins, quadrilles in triumph now
Drive into shade the contre dance, and reel;
Scotch feet forget the strathspey; and Scotch Gow
In foreign airs reluctantly must deal;
Each dancer moves with melancholy brow,
And solemn form, and elephantic heel:
With doleful looks chassezing right or left;
As if of friends and kindred just bereft.
Drive into shade the contre dance, and reel;
Scotch feet forget the strathspey; and Scotch Gow
In foreign airs reluctantly must deal;
Each dancer moves with melancholy brow,
And solemn form, and elephantic heel:
With doleful looks chassezing right or left;
As if of friends and kindred just bereft.
28
But if they lapse into a reel by chance,
Forgetting that quadrilles are thought more right;
The awkward spell forsakes them, and they dance
With life and spirit, and the toe is light
And quite fantastic; and the merry glance
Beams from each Scottish Lassie purely bright,
Whilst hands and voices are uprais'd, to gain
A faster fiddle, or a changing strain.
Forgetting that quadrilles are thought more right;
The awkward spell forsakes them, and they dance
With life and spirit, and the toe is light
And quite fantastic; and the merry glance
Beams from each Scottish Lassie purely bright,
Whilst hands and voices are uprais'd, to gain
A faster fiddle, or a changing strain.
(My gentle reader—do not call for salts,
If waltzing's mention'd, do not faint away;
I cannot understand a waltzer's faults,
I'll argue on that point another day;)
Here they at length have introduc'd the waltz,
At least midst Fashion's votaries, for they
“Can turn, and turn, and yet go on; and turn
“Again”—(like Desdemona) as you'll learn.
If waltzing's mention'd, do not faint away;
I cannot understand a waltzer's faults,
I'll argue on that point another day;)
Here they at length have introduc'd the waltz,
At least midst Fashion's votaries, for they
“Can turn, and turn, and yet go on; and turn
“Again”—(like Desdemona) as you'll learn.
29
If in these places, you would wish to pass
For something very tonish, and uncommon,
Lounge at a door, and looking through your glass,
Say, “'Pon my honour—that's a d—d fine woman;”
Stare rudely at each Caledonian lass,
And pray be careful that you speak to no man,
Unless his coat looks London, and unless
He knows (what few men do know) how to dress.
For something very tonish, and uncommon,
Lounge at a door, and looking through your glass,
Say, “'Pon my honour—that's a d—d fine woman;”
Stare rudely at each Caledonian lass,
And pray be careful that you speak to no man,
Unless his coat looks London, and unless
He knows (what few men do know) how to dress.
If you would pass for something very high,
When your progenitors are rather low;
Pretend to be recherché, and pass by
All unknown persons, whom you ought to know;
I've Ladies—women rather—in my eye,
Who do such things,—and if they serve me so,
Why—let them cut, and welcome, I'll maintain
It never shall be cut and come again.
When your progenitors are rather low;
Pretend to be recherché, and pass by
All unknown persons, whom you ought to know;
I've Ladies—women rather—in my eye,
Who do such things,—and if they serve me so,
Why—let them cut, and welcome, I'll maintain
It never shall be cut and come again.
30
If you would pass for clever, you must gape
When people speak to you, and not reply;
Frown—and seem looking at some unseen shape,
And they will think there's talent in your eye.
When common-place men speak to you, escape
And put yourself in attitudes, and sigh,
Sneer upon those around,—as if you never
Saw such absurdities,—they'll think you clever.
When people speak to you, and not reply;
Frown—and seem looking at some unseen shape,
And they will think there's talent in your eye.
When common-place men speak to you, escape
And put yourself in attitudes, and sigh,
Sneer upon those around,—as if you never
Saw such absurdities,—they'll think you clever.
If you would pass for a delightful man,
Be scandalous, you're certain to succeed;
Some folks there are, who gather all they can
From those who tattle scandal;—if they read
A volume penn'd on a satiric plan,
They all declare 'tis very wrong indeed:
Each shuts the book, exclaiming “I can see
“That filthy character was meant for me.”
Be scandalous, you're certain to succeed;
Some folks there are, who gather all they can
From those who tattle scandal;—if they read
A volume penn'd on a satiric plan,
They all declare 'tis very wrong indeed:
Each shuts the book, exclaiming “I can see
“That filthy character was meant for me.”
31
And what have their employments been, who hate
Him they believe the author? they all quiz
And hint this Lady's origin, and state
Their doubts respecting that, and say it is
Strange t'other looks so pensive, and relate
Tales of her spouse, and say the fault is his.—
The author's wit is some excuse; they sit
Venting the venom unredeem'd by wit.
Him they believe the author? they all quiz
And hint this Lady's origin, and state
Their doubts respecting that, and say it is
Strange t'other looks so pensive, and relate
Tales of her spouse, and say the fault is his.—
The author's wit is some excuse; they sit
Venting the venom unredeem'd by wit.
They have no souls for Music! I declare,
I say it with regret; but in defiance
Of Scotch claymores I positively swear
They have no souls for music as a science;
Their concerts are, alas! extremely rare,
And I must say—(if I'm compell'd to fly hence
For saying so,) 'tis true:—here vocal folks
Soften no rocks, and bend no knotted oaks.
I say it with regret; but in defiance
Of Scotch claymores I positively swear
They have no souls for music as a science;
Their concerts are, alas! extremely rare,
And I must say—(if I'm compell'd to fly hence
For saying so,) 'tis true:—here vocal folks
Soften no rocks, and bend no knotted oaks.
32
I dearly love Scotch songs, when they are sung
By Scottish voices, but the charm is gone,
When English Ladies with an English tongue
Attempt to quaver them; I freely own
These lays to them exclusively belong;
Their simple, touching, tenderness of tone
Is charming, Lewy Gordon is divine,
And nothing moves me more than Auld lang Syne.
By Scottish voices, but the charm is gone,
When English Ladies with an English tongue
Attempt to quaver them; I freely own
These lays to them exclusively belong;
Their simple, touching, tenderness of tone
Is charming, Lewy Gordon is divine,
And nothing moves me more than Auld lang Syne.
But Saint Cecilia they would not admire,
Unless she came in bonnet, and in plaid;
They would not listen to her heavenly lyre,
So she must call the bagpipes to her aid;
Tartans become her well; all I desire
Is to behold the Maid at times array'd
In other garbs; I wish not to new-fashion all,
E'en bagpipes please me here, the noise is national.
Unless she came in bonnet, and in plaid;
They would not listen to her heavenly lyre,
So she must call the bagpipes to her aid;
Tartans become her well; all I desire
Is to behold the Maid at times array'd
In other garbs; I wish not to new-fashion all,
E'en bagpipes please me here, the noise is national.
33
OUTLINE THE FOURTH.
“What do you read, my Lord?
“Words, words, words!
“What is the matter?”
Hamlet.
“Words, words, words!
“What is the matter?”
Hamlet.
A traveller always looks round him, to view
Either persons, or places, or things that are new,
To give a new turn to his thoughts, and secure
A few novel touches to heighten his tour:
I thus look around me, and there may be seen a
Vast number of notable things in Edina.
Either persons, or places, or things that are new,
To give a new turn to his thoughts, and secure
A few novel touches to heighten his tour:
I thus look around me, and there may be seen a
Vast number of notable things in Edina.
The craigs from their towering height, looking down
On the buildings and smoke of the Old and New Town,
Arthur's seat, like a giant, majestic and proud,
Soaring high in the heavens, and crown'd with a cloud.
And below the wild mixture of rock, hill, and dell,
St. Anthony's chapel—St. Anton's pure well;
Where I own that I almost expect to discern
Effie Deans and her lover at every turn:
And then Calton-hill with its exquisite view,
And its lofty and slim Nelson's monument too;
(A singular edifice rais'd for the dead,—
Where the living find dinners at so much a head;
A tavern and monument, strangely combin'd,
Where soups, beef, and porter, are snugly enshrin'd.)
It was lately put up by the taste of the town,
And they're talking already of taking it down;
'Tis so near to the edge, if they leave it alone
It threatens to sport a descent of its own;
They laid out some money in placing it there;
Query—What will it cost them to move it elsewhere?
On the buildings and smoke of the Old and New Town,
34
Soaring high in the heavens, and crown'd with a cloud.
And below the wild mixture of rock, hill, and dell,
St. Anthony's chapel—St. Anton's pure well;
Where I own that I almost expect to discern
Effie Deans and her lover at every turn:
And then Calton-hill with its exquisite view,
And its lofty and slim Nelson's monument too;
(A singular edifice rais'd for the dead,—
Where the living find dinners at so much a head;
A tavern and monument, strangely combin'd,
Where soups, beef, and porter, are snugly enshrin'd.)
It was lately put up by the taste of the town,
And they're talking already of taking it down;
'Tis so near to the edge, if they leave it alone
It threatens to sport a descent of its own;
They laid out some money in placing it there;
Query—What will it cost them to move it elsewhere?
35
On that spot shall the Parthenon proudly arise,
To charm Caledonian classical eyes;
The Parthenon form'd on the model sublime,
Of that Fane which outlives the rough usage of time;
Alike in its structure, stupendous and solemn,
In architrave, basement, frieze, cornice, and column,
But free from pollution of heathenish sin,
Without the vain worship of idols within.
To charm Caledonian classical eyes;
The Parthenon form'd on the model sublime,
Of that Fane which outlives the rough usage of time;
Alike in its structure, stupendous and solemn,
In architrave, basement, frieze, cornice, and column,
But free from pollution of heathenish sin,
Without the vain worship of idols within.
And yet in that National Fane may appear,
Some names to all true Caledonians so dear;
They might kneel on its pavement with pious emotion,
And saints would declare it a blameless devotion;
They would bend to no idols, cold, fragile, and hollow,
No marble Diana,—no golden Apollo;
They would bend to their fathers, whose valour or worth
Had render'd them almost immortals on earth.
Some names to all true Caledonians so dear;
They might kneel on its pavement with pious emotion,
And saints would declare it a blameless devotion;
They would bend to no idols, cold, fragile, and hollow,
No marble Diana,—no golden Apollo;
They would bend to their fathers, whose valour or worth
Had render'd them almost immortals on earth.
36
And then there's the castle which seems to be part
Of the rock which it springs from, for nature and art
Have so closely cemented the rock and the stone,
Time has mingled the whole mighty mass into one:
And then there is Holyrood, once the resort
Of the greatest, the gayest,—the pride of the court.
There Mary—but hold, I leave others to sing
Of what Holyrood was, 'tis an easier thing
To describe what it is, while a sameness of gloom
Spreads o'er the dark pannels of every room;
And even the few regal relics still seen,
But prove what a sad dreary change there has been.
Of the rock which it springs from, for nature and art
Have so closely cemented the rock and the stone,
Time has mingled the whole mighty mass into one:
And then there is Holyrood, once the resort
Of the greatest, the gayest,—the pride of the court.
There Mary—but hold, I leave others to sing
Of what Holyrood was, 'tis an easier thing
To describe what it is, while a sameness of gloom
Spreads o'er the dark pannels of every room;
And even the few regal relics still seen,
But prove what a sad dreary change there has been.
But this will be endless; I'm making my book
A dull catalogue, shewing you where you should look
For the lions;—and guide books will tell where they lye,
And sketch books describe them far better than I.
A dull catalogue, shewing you where you should look
For the lions;—and guide books will tell where they lye,
And sketch books describe them far better than I.
37
When looking for lodgings a stranger will see
Some customs abstruse to a Southron like me.
I saw “Lodgings” put up, and began to explore
A dirty stone staircase; and came to a door,
With a name, and a bell, and a scraper complete,
(Like the doors which in England we have in the street.)
I rung—and was told there were lodgings next door,
So I turn'd, and went down the stone staircase once more;
And I search'd the next house for these lodgings of theirs,
But discover'd at length that next door meant up stairs;
And on the next story I speedily came,
To another street door with bell, scraper, and name;
And if you go up eight or nine stories more,
Each has scraper, and bell, and a perfect street door.
Some customs abstruse to a Southron like me.
I saw “Lodgings” put up, and began to explore
A dirty stone staircase; and came to a door,
With a name, and a bell, and a scraper complete,
(Like the doors which in England we have in the street.)
I rung—and was told there were lodgings next door,
So I turn'd, and went down the stone staircase once more;
And I search'd the next house for these lodgings of theirs,
But discover'd at length that next door meant up stairs;
And on the next story I speedily came,
To another street door with bell, scraper, and name;
And if you go up eight or nine stories more,
Each has scraper, and bell, and a perfect street door.
This custom at first could not fail to create a
Great marvel in me, for they all live in strata!
One over another, from bottom to top,
And beginning below with a stratum of shop!
And the mixture is such that we often may see an
Undoubted pure stratum, 'twixt strata plebeian:
You may call on a friend of some ton, and discover him,
With a shoemaker under, and a staymaker over him!
Great marvel in me, for they all live in strata!
One over another, from bottom to top,
And beginning below with a stratum of shop!
38
Undoubted pure stratum, 'twixt strata plebeian:
You may call on a friend of some ton, and discover him,
With a shoemaker under, and a staymaker over him!
My dwelling begins with a perriwig maker,
I'm under a corncutter, over a baker;
Above the chiropodist, cookery too;
O'er that is a laundress, o'er her is a Jew;
A painter, and tailor, divide the eighth flat,
And a dancing academy thrives over that;
We'll leave higher circles unnam'd:—T'other night
My landlady enter'd my room in a fright,
And cried, half in tears, with a face full of woe,
“Your lumn's in a low, sir, your lumn's in a low.”
I laugh'd in her face, for her hasty oration,
To me, had convey'd very small information;
Indignant she bawl'd, when she saw that I laugh'd,
“You're foolish—your lumn's in a low—the man's daft!”
“The baker! the over!”—I now comprehended,
And join'd in the cry ere the uproar was ended,
“The baker! the oven! oh, oh! is it so?
“My chimney's on fire! my lumn's in a low!”
I'm under a corncutter, over a baker;
Above the chiropodist, cookery too;
O'er that is a laundress, o'er her is a Jew;
A painter, and tailor, divide the eighth flat,
And a dancing academy thrives over that;
We'll leave higher circles unnam'd:—T'other night
My landlady enter'd my room in a fright,
And cried, half in tears, with a face full of woe,
“Your lumn's in a low, sir, your lumn's in a low.”
I laugh'd in her face, for her hasty oration,
To me, had convey'd very small information;
Indignant she bawl'd, when she saw that I laugh'd,
“You're foolish—your lumn's in a low—the man's daft!”
39
And join'd in the cry ere the uproar was ended,
“The baker! the oven! oh, oh! is it so?
“My chimney's on fire! my lumn's in a low!”
The New Town is fine, and 'tis seldom one meets,
With such long, and such spacious, and regular streets;
But if you remain here in March, you will find,
They expressly are built as conductors of wind;
And while a dense cloud along Princes-street flies,
You will peep at the beauties with dust in your eyes;
The gales are tremendous, and every gust,
Sends ashes to ashes, and adds dust to dust.
With such long, and such spacious, and regular streets;
But if you remain here in March, you will find,
They expressly are built as conductors of wind;
And while a dense cloud along Princes-street flies,
You will peep at the beauties with dust in your eyes;
The gales are tremendous, and every gust,
Sends ashes to ashes, and adds dust to dust.
The society here is divided in sets,
And a man should be cautious at first, if he gets
In a set which is doubtful, or not high enough,
He in vain will endeavour to set himself off;
Though he may be a gem, the good people forgetting
The worth of the gem, only think of the setting.
And a man should be cautious at first, if he gets
In a set which is doubtful, or not high enough,
He in vain will endeavour to set himself off;
40
The worth of the gem, only think of the setting.
Few stars of first magnitude shine in this sphere;
Second-rate ones are thought very luminous here;
And if you mark second-rate stars, 'tis their plan
To shine, and to twinkle as much as they can.
And little high people astonish us greatly,
They're vastly more wooden, reserv'd, stiff, and stately,
Than those, who aware that there can be no doubt
Of their sterling pretensions, let you find them out;
Without a display of reserve, which receding
From you—recedes equally far from good breeding.
Second-rate ones are thought very luminous here;
And if you mark second-rate stars, 'tis their plan
To shine, and to twinkle as much as they can.
And little high people astonish us greatly,
They're vastly more wooden, reserv'd, stiff, and stately,
Than those, who aware that there can be no doubt
Of their sterling pretensions, let you find them out;
Without a display of reserve, which receding
From you—recedes equally far from good breeding.
There's a coldness for ever unchangingly cool,
Like the long chilling lapse of a morning at school;
Freezing on—freezing on—by no kind look made pleasing,
Till hopeless of comfort, we fly from the freezing.
These are not the manners, oh, nothing like these,
Which in greatness can make even dignity please,
But the graceful good breeding, which never forgets
Itself—or its guests.—
Like the long chilling lapse of a morning at school;
Freezing on—freezing on—by no kind look made pleasing,
Till hopeless of comfort, we fly from the freezing.
41
Which in greatness can make even dignity please,
But the graceful good breeding, which never forgets
Itself—or its guests.—
—We were speaking of sets;
A belle of one set, if she happens to hear
Of a party or ball given out of her sphere;
Cries, “really—we have not the honor of knowing
“Those people; who are they? of course you're not going.”
The others profess an indifference too,—
“We are not acquainted, oh dear me, are you?
“I never knew any of that set,—but if
“I could go there,—I wou'dn't—you'll find it so stiff.”
A belle of one set, if she happens to hear
Of a party or ball given out of her sphere;
Cries, “really—we have not the honor of knowing
“Those people; who are they? of course you're not going.”
The others profess an indifference too,—
“We are not acquainted, oh dear me, are you?
“I never knew any of that set,—but if
“I could go there,—I wou'dn't—you'll find it so stiff.”
In all other respects, in its cards and quadrilles,
In its “pretty well thank you's”—and “terrible ill's”
In the exquisite near sighted beaus who advance,
All hoping the honor of hands in the dance;
In the Chaperons who patiently sit through a ball,
Like tapestry hangings arrang'd round the wall;
In the very queer fashions which ladies approve,
Though like nothing in earth, nor the heavens above,
In these, folly moves in the regular path,
'Tis “a picture in little” of London or Bath.
In its “pretty well thank you's”—and “terrible ill's”
In the exquisite near sighted beaus who advance,
All hoping the honor of hands in the dance;
42
Like tapestry hangings arrang'd round the wall;
In the very queer fashions which ladies approve,
Though like nothing in earth, nor the heavens above,
In these, folly moves in the regular path,
'Tis “a picture in little” of London or Bath.
But here they've no knockers! there can be no doubt
That this greatly destroys the effect of a rout:
The coachmen, and chairmen, and footmen, may bawl,
They can scarcely disturb your next neighbour at all;
Only think of a Dutchess from London! 'twould shock her
To enter a room unannounc'd by the knocker!
The actors are here much the same as elsewhere;
They've the mothers so fond; and the daughters so fair;
And the heiresses so very rich, its not known
What they really possess,—all securely their own,
And all the flash gentlemen dress'd out for show,
So knowing—('tis hard to describe what they know;)
In their stables they'll show you their nice bits of blood,
As for study—they never get farther than stud.
That this greatly destroys the effect of a rout:
The coachmen, and chairmen, and footmen, may bawl,
They can scarcely disturb your next neighbour at all;
Only think of a Dutchess from London! 'twould shock her
To enter a room unannounc'd by the knocker!
The actors are here much the same as elsewhere;
They've the mothers so fond; and the daughters so fair;
And the heiresses so very rich, its not known
What they really possess,—all securely their own,
43
So knowing—('tis hard to describe what they know;)
In their stables they'll show you their nice bits of blood,
As for study—they never get farther than stud.
Some say, if you wish for hearts open and warm,
Who will welcome a stranger in kindness, not form,
And will give you a share in the homes they possess;
Their homes undeform'd by its company dress;
If you seek hospitality,—not the display
Which receives you in form on a festival day;
But that easy good nature towards strangers who roam
Far—far from their own happy circles at home;
Which so tenderly smiles, that your sadness is o'er,
And the stranger—is nam'd as a stranger no more;
If your heart sighs for kindness so warm, and endearing,
—Take the steam-boat at Glasgow, and sail off to Erin.
Who will welcome a stranger in kindness, not form,
And will give you a share in the homes they possess;
Their homes undeform'd by its company dress;
If you seek hospitality,—not the display
Which receives you in form on a festival day;
But that easy good nature towards strangers who roam
Far—far from their own happy circles at home;
Which so tenderly smiles, that your sadness is o'er,
And the stranger—is nam'd as a stranger no more;
If your heart sighs for kindness so warm, and endearing,
—Take the steam-boat at Glasgow, and sail off to Erin.
44
But hear not the slander, pause ere you depart,
You may leave behind you much goodness of heart;
And if they are fearful of loving too fast,
The compliment's great—if they love you at last.
You may leave behind you much goodness of heart;
And if they are fearful of loving too fast,
The compliment's great—if they love you at last.
45
OUTLINE THE FIFTH.
“This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;
“And to do that well, craves a kind of wit:—
“He must observe their mood on whom he jests.”
Twelfth Night.
“And to do that well, craves a kind of wit:—
“He must observe their mood on whom he jests.”
Twelfth Night.
Walk not in Princes-street, if you would claim,
Among recherchès people, a good name!
Or if one hasty turn you're doom'd to take
'Midst frocks and coats of patriarchal make,
Whose wearers prove to us the sad results
Of lacking aid from Nugee, or from Stultz:
'Midst hats which Andre would think fit for brutes,
'Midst coverings for feet, instead of boots!
Walk with a look of troubled agitation,
As if you greatly fear'd contamination;
If you meet ladies there, they blushing stop,
And vow they're only going to a shop.
Among recherchès people, a good name!
Or if one hasty turn you're doom'd to take
'Midst frocks and coats of patriarchal make,
Whose wearers prove to us the sad results
Of lacking aid from Nugee, or from Stultz:
'Midst hats which Andre would think fit for brutes,
'Midst coverings for feet, instead of boots!
Walk with a look of troubled agitation,
As if you greatly fear'd contamination;
46
And vow they're only going to a shop.
They have no Mall for fashionable feet,
No pure, and unobjectionable street;
No proper lounge for each aspiring spark,
No sweet equivalent for dear Hyde Park.
No pure, and unobjectionable street;
No proper lounge for each aspiring spark,
No sweet equivalent for dear Hyde Park.
One turn in Princes-street, for eating's sake,
One single turn a man of ton may take,
And sip,—displaying his unrivall'd form,
The bounce of cherry, or a jelly warm;
Or eating water ices in the summer, he
May sigh for Grange, and substitute Montgomery.
One single turn a man of ton may take,
And sip,—displaying his unrivall'd form,
The bounce of cherry, or a jelly warm;
Or eating water ices in the summer, he
May sigh for Grange, and substitute Montgomery.
He may peep into Gow's for new quadrilles,
Or buy the Sporting Magazine at Hill's;
Then turn into the club and there remain
Until Gianetti calls him forth again:
Gianetti! man of curls! whose power is such,
That bristles change to ringlets at his touch;
Who gives a graceful wave to straightest hair,
And makes the foppish fit to face the fair!
Or buy the Sporting Magazine at Hill's;
Then turn into the club and there remain
Until Gianetti calls him forth again:
47
That bristles change to ringlets at his touch;
Who gives a graceful wave to straightest hair,
And makes the foppish fit to face the fair!
Methinks I hear some Don of ancient date,
With only some few hairs upon his pate,
Exclaim with scornful shrug, and frowning brow,
“Ah! all the men are empty coxcombs now.”
But hold, my worthy gentleman! not so;—
Do you remember, forty years ago—
When some expert friseur, arrang'd three tiers
Of round and comely curls above your ears?
If they are fools—you once were foolish too,
Be calm—they soon may be as bald as you.
With only some few hairs upon his pate,
Exclaim with scornful shrug, and frowning brow,
“Ah! all the men are empty coxcombs now.”
But hold, my worthy gentleman! not so;—
Do you remember, forty years ago—
When some expert friseur, arrang'd three tiers
Of round and comely curls above your ears?
If they are fools—you once were foolish too,
Be calm—they soon may be as bald as you.
Here dinners duly are receiv'd, and given;
The fed—and feeders keep the balance even;
To (Blank)
The fed—and feeders keep the balance even;
48
A dinner due,
Be pleased to pay
Value receiv'd on (such and such a day).
No niggard hosts on thirsty guests bestow
Their vile “unfriendly melancholy sloe”
But with substantial luxuries, they sport,
Champaign, and claret, and the best of port.
But oh! ere dinner comes! what pen hath power
To paint the horrors of that dull half hour!
Whene'er day closes, ladies sit array'd
In garments which for candle light were made,
And e'er the tables groan with weighty feasts,
With weighty conversation groan the guests,
Between the courses—they must groan again,
Or “drag at each remove a lengthening chain.”
The Theatre is small,—if it succeeded
Better—'twould prove a larger one was needed,
But no!—from ball to ball, from rout to rout,
From feast to feast—the gay ones fly about;
To see the present ball reflect the past,
And every rout a ditto of the last;
Each feast like former feasts—except the room,
The same young ladies, in the same costume;
The same quadrilles, and with the same grimaces,
The same sweet dimples, on the same sweet faces;
The same remarks, and from the self same voices,
The same ice creams, and cakes! yet this their choice is
To be to-night—where nightly they have been,—
While Mrs. Henry Siddons shines unseen!
Value receiv'd on (such and such a day).
No niggard hosts on thirsty guests bestow
Their vile “unfriendly melancholy sloe”
But with substantial luxuries, they sport,
Champaign, and claret, and the best of port.
But oh! ere dinner comes! what pen hath power
To paint the horrors of that dull half hour!
Whene'er day closes, ladies sit array'd
In garments which for candle light were made,
And e'er the tables groan with weighty feasts,
With weighty conversation groan the guests,
Between the courses—they must groan again,
Or “drag at each remove a lengthening chain.”
The Theatre is small,—if it succeeded
Better—'twould prove a larger one was needed,
49
From feast to feast—the gay ones fly about;
To see the present ball reflect the past,
And every rout a ditto of the last;
Each feast like former feasts—except the room,
The same young ladies, in the same costume;
The same quadrilles, and with the same grimaces,
The same sweet dimples, on the same sweet faces;
The same remarks, and from the self same voices,
The same ice creams, and cakes! yet this their choice is
To be to-night—where nightly they have been,—
While Mrs. Henry Siddons shines unseen!
Siddons! whose graceful form assumes at will
A gay or pensive part with equal skill;
In tragic characters she reigns alone,
The gentle Juliets now are all her own:
In Lady Townly,—in the Jealous Wife,
In all the Dames of fashionable life,
Each look, each tone, is lady-like;—in fact
She really is—what others only act.
A gay or pensive part with equal skill;
In tragic characters she reigns alone,
The gentle Juliets now are all her own:
50
In all the Dames of fashionable life,
Each look, each tone, is lady-like;—in fact
She really is—what others only act.
You may go on in London as you please;
You may be queer, yet neighbours never teaze;
They make no memorandums if you roam,
And utter no remarks when you come home;
They do too much to note what others do,
And see too many sights, to think of you.
You may be queer, yet neighbours never teaze;
They make no memorandums if you roam,
And utter no remarks when you come home;
They do too much to note what others do,
And see too many sights, to think of you.
But here the sphere is so confin'd, and small,
That one man's actions are discuss'd by all;
Like cool refreshments at a crowded rout,—
The spirit stirring scandal moves about;
The sly remark—that certain people deem
That certain people are not what they seem;
Adding that certain other people know
They are—or were—or will be—so and so!—
The hint that some fair maid, though still the rage,
Has certainly attain'd a certain age;
The confidential whispers of the day,
Still whisper'd in a confidential way;
Till confidants the whispers wide diffuse
And all the smiling circle shares the news.
That one man's actions are discuss'd by all;
Like cool refreshments at a crowded rout,—
The spirit stirring scandal moves about;
The sly remark—that certain people deem
That certain people are not what they seem;
51
They are—or were—or will be—so and so!—
The hint that some fair maid, though still the rage,
Has certainly attain'd a certain age;
The confidential whispers of the day,
Still whisper'd in a confidential way;
Till confidants the whispers wide diffuse
And all the smiling circle shares the news.
And must all parties then be dull to us
'Till conversation has been season'd thus?
'Till in detraction's pepper we have revell'd,
And half the words we utter have been devill'd?
Their mite of mischief must all guests bestow
With all they've heard—as well as all they know.
'Till conversation has been season'd thus?
'Till in detraction's pepper we have revell'd,
And half the words we utter have been devill'd?
Their mite of mischief must all guests bestow
With all they've heard—as well as all they know.
Is there no cure? yes one: we all should dread,
To wantonly speak evil of the dead!
Yet surely folks defunct could best endure
To be so treated!—This then is the cure:
To say no more than we're convinc'd is true,
Just to the dead and to the living too.
To wantonly speak evil of the dead!
52
To be so treated!—This then is the cure:
To say no more than we're convinc'd is true,
Just to the dead and to the living too.
I'll moralize no more,—I now intend
To bring these hasty outlines to an end.
To bring these hasty outlines to an end.
As some mamma draws forth with glistening eyes
Her child's portfolio of ample size,
And thrusts upon a stranger, one by one,
The paint, or pencil outlines of her son;
Which though all dear to her maternal breast,
Possess but few attractions for her guest;—
So—but I'll veil my simile,—no doubt
If it applies,—the world will find it out.
Her child's portfolio of ample size,
And thrusts upon a stranger, one by one,
The paint, or pencil outlines of her son;
Which though all dear to her maternal breast,
Possess but few attractions for her guest;—
So—but I'll veil my simile,—no doubt
If it applies,—the world will find it out.
THE END.
| Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems | |