The Age Reviewed A Satire: In two parts: Second edition, revised and corrected [by Robert Montgomery] |
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INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. |
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 | The Age Reviewed |  |
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE.
Neque in bicipiti somniasse Parnaso,
Memini, ut repente sic poeta prodirem.
Pres. Prolog.
MENTOR.
What though severely true, you lash the times,
Who'll feel the force of unbefriended rhymes?
Thus patronless, oh! darest thou hope to please,
Will C--- puff, or M--- purchase these?
In weekly tinkle, or in monthly rage?
Have Campbell's pages wafted forth thy name,
Or jingling J--- pav'd the road to fame?
AUTHOR.
Alas! initial glories are not mine,
No critic pays me twopence for a line;
Or whined love-ditties to the gawky town.
MENTOR.
Thus unsupported, wilt thou weave thy rhymes,
And hope to tickle these bemused times?
Be wise! go look on Longman's dusty shelves,
What rhyme-drug moulders in forgotten twelves!
See psalming Barton's ding-dong whimsies fail,
And Laureate lumber find no friendly sale,—
Hear peevish Pennie grunt poetic woe,
And verse-worn Jackson blubber round the Row.
Yet, still, I'll shrink not from my venturing strain,
And scribble all without a dream of gain!
MENTOR.
Why not a novel hash?—'tis sure to pay,—
Some flashy “Granby,” or insipid “Grey?”
O'er such lascivious beldames wag their plumes,
Hence, talk for Miss, and treasure for the “Rooms.”
But reads tart trumpery in the Novel style:—
Or else to France, and rotten Rome repair,
For two months scrawl, and dig divinely there;
Then bring thy slip-slod journal in thy hand,
And print it, for the tour-bedevilled land;—
Some Irish tales—or else the corn attack,
Do any thing but join the rhyming pack.
AUTHOR.
Let Newman's leaden-pated numskulls scribe,—
Corn, puns, and novels, feed their hungry tribe!
Then try the stage:—some French combustion hash,
Let G--- bedaub—and Kemble gives the cash;
Observe, how bungling B--- garbles plays,
And J--- P--- wears his owlish bays;
For M---'s hum-drum how the house o'erflows,
While P--- his fortress piles on Liston's nose!
AUTHOR.
Remember, though I tag some lines in rhyme,
I'll mew no tender nothings to the time.
If then, despite of all thy friend can say,
In mazy verse thou'lt plod thy dubious way, —
Select some story of romantic kind,
Where pleasing murders linger on the mind;
Neat be the type, and let the “hot-press'd” shine,
While happy prints adorn each limping line.
AUTHOR.
I'm not sublime enough to frame a plot;
Content to pause, and worship peerless Scott.
MENTOR.
Bethink thee well, if satire be thine aim,
What knavish malice will befoul thy fame;
How all the lettered frogs will hop and spit,
And croak “damnation” for each proper hit!
What poets bellow, and what dunces rage;
Besides, our modern times are so impure!—
Too vain to listen, and too vile to cure:
AUTHOR.
Not all these omens will deter my pen,
So, pray, good Mentor, cease to bore again.
MENTOR.
Once more,—then let the thong of satire fall,
Strip their mean backs, and bravely lash them all;
And mind, to please the world, let party spite
Just now and then some tender trash indite;
Let crafty B--- share thy neat applause,—
And dub him bulwark of the people's cause;
Help baby B--- in the Romish cheat,
That precious napkin for the Papal feet!
And sympathize with sweet M---'s rant;
Or else, politely drawl some sugar'd verse,
On vulgar C---'s most tremendous purse!
Then tune thy chords to charm our gracious ears,
And pluck from Midas' head, his ass's ears.
One party take, —or, who will dare to see
Thine object noble, and thy censure free!
Politic tools will damn whate'er they read,
The foe, for hate—the minion, for his meed.
And must I—can I—to secure applause,
Forge venal verse for every venal cause?
Pour out harmonious praise to gild the vile,
Find truth in Hunt, or candour in Carlile—
For all the dung-hill democratic gang,
Praise M---'s rant, or Cobbett's beastly slang—
For Grecian Joey next pretend to feel,
And clinch the thundering lies of sotted S---?
Or, must my creeping verse, in dastard whine,
Deem B---y chaste, and W---y half divine,
Unroll the virtues of degen'rate peers,
And fetter satire with a coward's fears?
No fear shall ever yet my pen entice,
To flatter villains, or purvey for vice,
And buck-skinn'd bullies whip away their rage.
To grub for party, or exhaust his spite,—
Let PATRIOTS deem me worth their hallow'd name;
My country's good, and virtue for my aim,—
Enough for me, if such approve my task,
And freely give what humble hope may ask.
Too high praise cannot be administered to the eminent merits of Mr. C---, for that delectable method he pursues, in introducing an author to the public.—I ought sincerely to lament, that the Fates decreed my volume should not luxuriate under the fostering puffs of his patronage,—but poetry is such a drug!— “Try C---,” says every literary friend to an author, “he'll make your work sell.” It is doubtful to say which will be handed down to posterity, as the greatest master in the history of magnanimous puffing—Charles Wright, or C---, “Arcades ambo.” Let but the smile of C--- suavity illuminate the MS., and your forthcoming prodigy will meander through all the papers in the full tide of paragraphic celebrity; your—never mind—you'll succeed. I earnestly recommend our anti-Newton City Knight to manufacture a few leaves, illustrative of the “Art of Puffing.”
No disrespect is here intended to Mr. Campbell himself. I have too great esteem for his character as a man, and his genius as a poet.
J. F. Pennie is the author of an Epic Poem, entitled, “The Royal Minstrel,” and of another, called “Rogvald;” and he has also written a volume of serious Dramatic Sketches, under the title of “Scenes in Palestine;” but the leading reviewers have, according to his own account, been mysteriously silent about him.
As many of the beloved personages introduced here, are likewise duly noticed in the poem itself, there is little need of present notes to explain allusions.
The novel of “Granby” was certainly superior to the general class of “fashionable novels;” but, as for “Almack's,” &c., how these could meet with approving readers, is indeed a mystery worth the talents of an Œdipus.
It is well known that the first edition of any new novel is immediately swallowed up by those innumerable Reading-Rooms, Societies, &c. &c. which now swarm in every town.
Celebrated personages, and celebrated cities, after their demise, exhibit an analogy in their fates: they are be-rhymed, bewritten; and generally be-praised. To what a number of tour-scrawlers has Rome given birth! How many poets did the death of Byron create!—As for Rome, I begin to fear that all that is left of her will soon be dispersed over the world.
At this time, the Corn Laws and the Roman Catholic Question are become very fashionable topics for abortive politicians, and the matin gabble of reading-room loungers. Thank God, the latter are silenced for awhile.
If Mr. P--- possessed any dramatic gratitude, he would do versified homage to Mr. Liston's comic visage, for the remainder of his career. Had it not been for the spirit of comicality playing round his mouth, and perching on the exquisite tip of his nose, where would that flower of the modern drama—that china-faced, pasteboard preserved character, Paul Pry, be?
Mr. B--- is the most lamb-like controversialist I have ever met with. He prefers glozing his subject with the polish of defective argument, to the rigid, stern statement of unprevaricating truth. Dr. Southey has very properly exposed many of his “genteel” subterfuges. It is highly amusing to observe the pleasing shuttlecock praises Parr and B--- introduce in their letters, lately published.
Mentor means to say, that if the author does not slavishly follow the principles of one party, he will, for that very reason, be considered less liberal: many will alter the title of his book, and call it “The Age Abused,”—this would be a most witty perversion!—but
Nullus addictus jurare in verba magistri.”
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