University of Virginia Library

CANTO II. THE DINNER.

DEDICATED TO LADY J---Y.

Preserve me! from the shapes that stalk
In memory round a village walk;
The Doctor, with his last year's news,
Tithes, turnpikes, politics, and pews;
Death's deputy, the Æsculapius,
Telling who last has got his capias,
The solemn Chairman of the Sessions,
Doling out knaves' and fools' confessions;
And, bitterest pill of all the three,
That bore of bores, the ex-M.P.
A Cato in his climacteric,
Making my very soul hysteric;
Your genuine Reminiscent, full
Of all that dullest makes the dull;
The stuff that time in pity stifles,—
The trifles—nay, the shade of trifles;
The stalest of the stalest stories,
Of long forgotten Whigs and Tories;
Embalming in his sexton-prose
The colour of their wigs and clothes;
The tedious twaddle of a brain,
Flat as his own homebrew'd champagne.
Oh! woman!—but “of this too much,”
May I be doom'd to hear High Dutch—
Or sit beside a Portuguese,
When summer sets her at her ease;
Or dine in presence of a wit,
In tortures till he makes a hit;
Or meet the T*mpl*s, sons or brothers—
Or see my flirt look soft on others—
Or listen to a H*me oration—
Or travel Sec de la legation.
Le Diplomat, ecstatic fate
Of the fifth cousins of the great:
Blest with a pound a-day for life,
To lacquey Monsieur L'Envoy's wife—
Teach French and figures to the daughters,
See that they swallow their Spa-waters;
Prepared to answer every question
Touching your “sweet eleve's” digestion;
Take passport-pictures of the mob,
Who ramble to be robb'd, or rob;
The length of chin, the tint of nose,
The holes in breeches, and in hose.
Scribble the rout and dinner packs,
Lock up the royal pounce and wax;
Echo his Excellency's jest,
Mend your own stockings like the rest;
Dine how and where il plait aux cieux,
Battle his mongrel household crew;
Cook up his cotelette at a spirt,
Air mi Lor's newspaper and shirt,
Feel laugh'd at by the luckier fribbles,
Till life between your fingers dribbles;
Condemn'd, till its last sands are roll'd,
To fold and frank, and frank and fold;
And envying every wretch in fetters,
Die as you've lived—a man of letters.
May I be doom'd to all: or worse,
Meet Gr*sv*nor without length of purse;
Without a peerage cross thy way,
Patrician of patricians—Gr*y.
Or take on winter days thy hand,
Grim king of kelp, coals, salt, and sand.
Or hear stern G*nv*lle from his chair,
Lash the low time-servers that were;
The slaves, that when their master's bank
Was cashless, with him feebly sank.
Unlike the generous friend of Pitt,
Who scorn'd his ancient Bench to quit,
Through patriot, pure distrust of Fox;
Still grasp'd the nation's money-box,
Stared vulgar scoffers in the face,
And kept his principles—and place.
May I be shot! nay sent to singe a
Conscience and cuticle in India;
Dispute Sir James's dinner dictum,
To die of Scotch and snuff the victim;
Turn from Mt. Ch*rl*s's rosiest oscolo;
Sit out a mortal hour of F*sc*lo,
(With all the prosing post and ante
That prosers ever prosed of Dante)
Nay, be thy rival, Signor Torri—
Ere make a woman sad or sorry!
What! she, whom all my summer days
I've worshipp'd with all sorts of lays;
She, on whose smiles my boyhood hung!
Whose glance alone now tunes my tongue;
Sting her! I could not if I dared,
The thought would all unbard the Bard.
The poison on her soul distil!
My hand at once would lose its skill;
My Cupid moult his purple wing,
My lute instinctive break the string;
And giving to the winds its moan,
Lament its noblest spirit gone.
No!—Let the tribe who daily dabble
In all the stuff call'd—fashionable.
Knowing as much about the matter
As their own shoemaker and hatter;
To raise the laugh of tradesmen's wives,
Discuss, Heaven help us! noble lives—
No! trust my page, a woman's tear
Shall never drop in anguish here:
Rather for life I'd burn my pen,
Than be the man, the shame of men;
The assassin scribbler of a line,
That made the cheek of beauty pine.
'Tis dinner! silence all, and state,
Long footmen, peeresses, and plate,
A sprinkling of the Guards—some lovers,—
My memory fails me in the covers—
I leave them to those—gentlemen,—
Who wield the “fashionable” pen;
Historiographers of pies,
Who lay the carte before your eyes.
Adepts in all the tribes of jelly,
The very toughest names they'll spell ye,
Through all the páté-climax soar,
From poisson up to perigord;
Or stretching still a higher strain,
Touch the rognons a la champagne.
Then, as their loftier genius shines,
Amaze your feelings with the wines!
The St. Peray, La fitte—Lunelle,
You'd think the bouquet meets your smell!
La Rose, Leoville, Latour, Preignac,
You'd swear you had them at your back!
The Sillery, cool, delicious, still,
You feel your whole machinery thrill!
The pink champagne, rich, creamy, sparkling,
You see the room around you darkling!
The king of cups, the grande Bourgogne,
You feel your whole seven senses gone!
Though says the R*g*rs, at his age
He'd like a little Hermitage.
But others, the superior works,
Give you exact the spoons and forks,
So that if spoon or fork be miss'd,
The butler buys them for a list.
Nay others, abler than them both,
Square-inch the table and the cloth;
(Of Algebra the fine appliance,
The modern, mighty march of science!)
Tell you how many off them dined;
How many valets stood behind,
How many buttons on their coats,
How many sauce-and-butter boats;
How many fair ones fill'd their glasses,
Who bumpers it! who sips, who passes!—
Long live!—ye wonder working works,
Where something for all palates lurks,—
For sixpence, where the hungry sinner,
Miss what he may, will find a dinner.
And all, from footmen up to cooks,
Own you the very books of books!
The Chaplain sends his whisper round:
Then follows much more sense than sound;
For who, above an Esquimaux,
Would speak till the Entree's withdraw?
What mortal that pretends to taste,
Would see such moments run to waste?
Till, with the lighter entremets
The business lessens by degrees.
Then whispers wake!—a dropping fire,
That seems to near you, then expire;
A kind of conversation-ague,
That comes at intervals to plague you;
Instalments of a debt of tongue,
You wish the caller for it hung:
A tardy, intermittent talk,
Like watchmen on their midnight walk,
Just venturing from their wooden den,
To growl, and be ensconced again.
Then, as the wine its circuit goes,
We start upon the native prose;
The atmospheric Conversation
Dear to our weather-beaten nation.
“Fine morning,—stormy—sunshine—cloudy—
So cold, scarce gave her grace a how-d'ye;—
The park hot—damp—dry—rainy—fine—
Calm—windy—honor to take wine;
Sharp breeze; Lord Duke—Tokay?”—“With pleasure.”
Till of his neighbour each takes measure;
No doubt we thus escape High Treason,—
In England all things have a reason.
Before he opens—thus the hound
Maps with his cautious nose the ground.
Thus, your established man of jest,
Dreading to lose his very best,
His way by inuendo tries
Before he makes the grand surprize.
Thus, thieves their optics round them dart,
Ere from their holes they make the start.
Thus, N*rm*nby his novel writes,
To set “the matter” in all lights;
Deeming, in rebus yet intactis,
His theory should precede his practice.
Thus soldiers ere they bivouac,
Probe all the corners of attack.
Thus B******** play'd the ultra-tory,
Before he plunged in papist glory.
Thus felons scorn to rest their toes
Upon the rungs by which they rose;
Heroic from the ladder spring,
And take their independent swing.
Thus the spruce scribes of high-life novels
First study fashion in their hovels;
Then licensed of the servant's hall,
Biographize us one and all.
Thus H---, a Greek among the Greeks,
First for his jobbing thousands seeks;
Then to the Greek appends the Jew,
And squeezes out, pounds fifty-two.
Thus D*****, much renown'd for brain,
Talks stuff,—then rises to explain.
Thus B*****, lord of vat and vapour,
Experiments his speech on paper;
Till on the all-important night,
He scrubs the Ethiopian white!
The R*g*rs says, that no man hops,
More pleasantly from psalms to slops;
No Saint that treads this wicked sphere
Thinks more devoutly of his beer.
Thus G****** shows the Irish gag,
Ere G*ulb*rn o'er the coals he drag.
Thus, like a Methodist in pain,
W*rd plays the pious in Tremaine;
Finds out the swallow of the Town,
Then crams the politician down.
Thus patriots are to Newgate sent,
Academy for P*rl---;
The R*g*rs says, “for party war
There's no such training as the bar’
Thus lovers try the Lady's temper,
Before they make her eadem semper.
Thus, when you ballast a balloon,
With its two madmen for the moon,
The pilot-bladder mounts in token,
Which way their necks may best be broken.
Thus, ere he wields the nation's fates,
Lord John shows off on turnpike gates.
Thus one fair S---h, uxorious W---,
Prepares your ring for all the cluster.
Thus Ti*rn*y cautious in his wrath
First tosses Br---m in C*nn*g's path.
Thus Irish rebels flog their cattle,
True patriots, foremost into battle;
And by the sacrifice of pigs,
Save for the world the breed of Whigs.
Thus all your new Administrations
Launch out inaugural orations;
“Grand era—Empire—noble scope—
Wealth—Habeas Corpus—saving hope!”
They never on essentials touch,
Until they have you in their clutch;
Then comes the Budget cent. per cent.,
Perhaps 'twill tell you what they meant.
The ladies gone, those dear removes,
Compote of sugar plums and doves!
The marquis on the throne vacated;
Our anguish partially abated:
For though, I own, the sex's presence
Is of life's essences the essence;
And though the last that leaves the room,
Dips every chandelier in gloom;
Yet, with our souls all cloth'd in sable,
We're bound to rally round the table;
In the most desperate condition,
Renew our claret ammunition;
Mourning our decimated ranks,
Feel up like soldiers, from the flanks;
And try the battle to sustain,
By new discharges of Champagne.
Now comes the hour of English talk,
When no man will his subject balk.
“Return'd from Greece?”—The Capitani
Laughed at them, zany after zany;
In vain our patriots raved and rambled,
In dunghills sank—through thistles scrambled!
Ate cats,—in classic sludge bivouack'd,
Drank ditches,—baretailed rode bareback'd.
At sight or shadow of a Turk,
Felt as if swallowing his dirk!
Were flea-bit, dexter and sinister,
Till the whole patriot was a blister;
Were stript, and whipt, and sconced, and starved;
Too happy to escape uncarved!”
“Still, spite of all their English-Greek,
The Capitani “chewed their leek!”
In vain our very best haranguers,
Still by their hams reposed their hangers:
The blunderbuss still graced the hooks,
Malgrè the Constitution cooks.
Though Bentham sent the sense of ages
Boil'd down into his half-score pages;
The weightiest matter ever shipp'd
Since law first lodged in manuscript;
Though the fierce Colonel on them flung
Conviction in his mother-tongue.”
“When from him roll'd the rights of nations,
Tropes, metaphors, hopes, adjurations;
The true-born Demosthenic thunders,
That do in Palace Yard such wonders!
And with resistless vengeance fall
Upon thy grocer Kings, Leaden Hall:
Still heads and tails alike of clans
Stuck closely to their coffee-cans.
At Monarchs when he gave his wipes,
The Capitani filled their pipes;
And, made of philosophic stuff,
Returned him gravely puff for puff!
Then asked the Embassador of Bentham
What sum in cash his Sovereign sent them?
For, though not very rapid scholars,
They have a genuine sense of dollars;
Then up the whisker'd council broke,
Ending, as it began, in smoke!”
—“A palace?”—“Yes, magnificent!
“Where every sewer bestows its scent!”
“Solid?”—“Foundation in a bog!”
“Wholesome?” “An atmosphere of fog.”
“Landscape?”—“A marshy, miry flat.”
“Canal?”—“A grave of dog and cat.”
“Pure air?” “Where every passing puff
Is Westminster.”—“Enough, enough.”
—“The race—odd business; Daphne shy!
My Lord some thousand pounds too sly;
The partners pocketed the notes—
I'll swear three scoundrels wore their coats.
The Club examined—did their best,
And found it—honest as the rest.”
Yet, spite of all their Worships' ears,
Newmarket, thou'rt the place for Peers.
No Epsom, throng'd with city feeders—
No Doncaster, all brutes and breeders.
There Taste on all things sets her seal;
With elegance the hostlers steal;
The man that pillages your fob
But hoaxes—none would call it, rob;
The Jockey, in his speech and look,
Seems the first cousin to the Duke;
The rogue who tricks you to your face
Looks more than brother to his Grace;
And many a claimant of a cord
Passes for Baronet and Lord.
There, 'tis the etiquette, the winners
Ask the bedevilled to their dinners.
Oh! nights and banquets of the Gods!
What odd discussions of the odds;
What light opinions upon weights—
What cool conceptions upon heats;
What solid talk on drench and mash,
Deep things on which the wisest clash;
What lofty thoughts on hoof and heel,
Round with the brains and bottles wheel!
Claret, true Lethe of all sorrows!
Marchande of sunshines and to-morrows;
Gay doctor of all human evils—
Soft exorciser of blue devils;
Light porter of Life's heaviest loads;
Nurse of a hundred thousand odes;
Fiddle, that makes even dandies dance—
First, best embassador of France;
With more than diplomatic art,
Fixing her interests in the heart;
Lamp, that at midnight brightest glows—
Cosmetic, that tints all with rose;
Mistress, that never jilts our flame—
Beauty, for fifty years the same,
Cheerful without, as with a carriage—
Nay, even bewitching after marriage;
Brush, that Life's spatters out do'st rub—
Long live Queen Regent of the Club.
There Wh*cl*ffe counts no more his bets,
J--- his mortgages forgets;
Sl*g* with “both his hands in mortar,”
Scarce feels himself a shilling shorter;
The C*h*e*l,—S*ft*n,—V*r*l---,
No more take measure of a psalm;
R---d no more, with hair on end,
Hears all the world refuse to lend;
Nay, even the Lord of Donna Clara
Takes comfort with “Che sarà sarà,”
And wishes only hang'd the pack,
From whom no penny will come back.
How oft we've sat 'twixt sun and sun,
Nor felt the hour, my Cl*r*nd*n.
True Tories, telling every hit
That men of Fox e'er got from Pitt;
But keeping under triple locks,
What men of Pitt got back from Fox.
The B*nt*ncks, F*tzr*ys, C*v*nd*shes,
All look like—men that had their wishes;
And all is blood, bone, jest, and song,
Till morning whips the night along.