Guy's Porridge Pot A Poem, In Twenty-Four Books. The First Part [by R. E. Landor] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Guy's Porridge Pot |  |
Guy's Porridge Pot
ARGUMENT.
APPEAL to the reader's feelings—disadvantages under which modern poets must labour—evil spirits of literature.—The author's security and courage—he defies and threatens them.— Poetical impediments removed in the usual manner—Hints at the subject.—Why the evil spirits cannot interfere.—Cautions given them not to transgress their proper limits.—Address to the reader—Author's prudence—that prudence necessary.—Hints— Allusion to an important subject—Hints again—The scene of this Poem discovered—distinguishing peculiarities of it—Great natural phenomenon—Learned allusion in explanation—A beautiful contrast in the characteristic description of some very good, and some very wise people.—Preparations for the conclusion— Reader's impatience—Author's prudence—Illuminati—Conclusion.
BOOK I.
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.”
His case who must be, will be witty,
Who sweats with labor, shakes with doubt,
And writes a line to scratch it out.
The time is past since folk beginning
Had got a muse to set them spinning.
And when their first, their only prayer
Was said to her, and she was there—
Now hungry, cross-grained, grim reviewer,
Sticks man with pen, as hare with skewer:
No force withstands, no tear appeases,
He does, and will do what he pleases;
He turns, he bastes, he roasts, he eats him.
With brimstone brush my fire-proof jacket—
When fierce, I'm wrath—when sharp, uncivil,
Saint Dunstan I, if he the devil.
My metaphor gets plaguy brittle:
Better go slowly, better stay
Till sure to find the straightest way.)
If culprit I, if justice he
His warrant cannot reach to me;
All armed in brass, like stout knight-errant,
Care I for justice or for warrant?
And when I laugh at men or flatter,
Is he a judge of praise or satire?
Can he decide the cause between
The author me, and those I mean
Both sides unknown, unheard, unseen?
These metaphors are awkward things;
Use all the caution that he may
They get for ever in his way:
Though changed, alas! mine is not plain
So now I change it back again.
Far off, live round provincial steeple.
Who interferes while I am firking
With all my might a neighbour's jerkin?
What prudent man would risk his own?
Goblin avaunt; I give thee warning
To hang thy tail, and draw thy horn in!
Our road is plain while I am leader,
In spite of critic, wind, or weather,
We chit-chat jog along together,
If that be chit-chat tete-a-tete
Where you must listen, I must prate.
Cause why, place where, with whom, you travel.
“You dare not?”
(Author)
Hush! I give the reason
Still one is bold, the other pressing,
And no great secret learnt by guessing;
I tell my tale about the people—
“What people?”
(Author)
Guess, and guess what steeple.
(Reader)
“They prove, who dread a want of vittle
Great Britain to be very little:
Take Scotland from it, he who searches
May yet find room for many churches!”
(Author)
Take Scotland then, and solve my riddle,
This place stands somewhere near the middle.
“I cannot guess.”
(Author)
Alas! poor Yorick!
Thy scull had brains!
(Reader)
“What is it—?
(Author)
Has there reversed the laws of nature.
Fire, air, and water lose in force
The more, the farther from their source,
As any man or child can tell us
Who squirts with squib, or blows with bellows.
But there, so freakish is the dame,
The beams shine brighter than the flame:
However strange my tale my sound
Clouds rest within, and light around.
Wisdom hath placed her sons without.
As once philosophers, we know,
Declared the sun was ice or snow.
The people laughed, the dog-days came,
They sought the shade, but held the same:
What can be done? at last they venture
To prove its rays unlike its centre.
Dwell civil, quiet, decent folk—
But all the learned, wise, and bright
Live further off, live out of sight.
They eat through hunger, drink through thirst:
And not alone from wants like these,
They eat and drink just when they please—
Like me, and, possibly, like you,
They do what other people do—
And, as I hinted, drink and eat
Just what they have, or what they get.
Virtues, thank God! not yet uncommon
To English-man or English-woman.
An empty belly genders strife,
But peace reigns here 'twixt man and wife.
Without a pistol, gun, or sabre,
Each lives in quiet by his neighbour.
Conclude the wonders of my story.
“Conclude! whatever may be in it,
Before you end, you should begin it.”
(Author)
Assuage your wrath, your haste assuage,
What follows, comes another stage.
In tale so very delicate I
Acted like wise Illuminati,
Who leading, checking, watching, trying,
Knew convert fit, from convert prying.
To learn, learns wonders for his pains.
Before I tell, I make you follow
Through brake and fen, o'er steep and hollow.
Come on, if still resolved to roam,
If weary, prithee Sir go home.
The guide is paid—averse or willing—
You have your choice, and I the shilling.
The golden age of literature was antecedent to criticism. The silver, when it was scarce. This is the iron, brazen, and leaden age. How happily would poor persecuted authors go on, if it were not for critical torments! I wish sincerely—and not on my own account—that Reviewers would give them a jubilee year, and pass an act of indemnity; an act of oblivion would be useless presently, for all offences therein committed.
I shall dwell longer on this part of my subject hereafter. There are, notwithstanding this general character which I have given, many individuals resident among the crowd, who deserve to be elevated above their neighbours. It is usual indeed to pay this compliment twice in every year, but much too partially. In the second part of my poem, if I have sufficient encouragement to continue it, I will do what I can for them. Neither have I any apprehensions but that sufficient encouragement will be given me. Some of those whom I am now describing, will be grateful enough to return the compliment, as well as they can, either by themselves or their friends. I expect every acknowledgment which critical modesty can offer me. And if my readers should meet in the different Reviews, notwithstanding my caution, with such words as these, fool, ass, knave, monster, &c. let them remember how to read and construe all and each into the most delicate and refined expressions of approbation.
This should not have been said perhaps, without some few honourable exceptions. Even here there are certain little insects in literature who differ as much from the hero of my poem as a butterfly from an eagle; or as the hyssop on the wall, from the cedar of Lebanon. A love of reputation may burn as intensely in dwarfs as in giants, in the people of Lilliput as in the people of Brobdingnag. Numberless pretty little namby-pamby verses almost every week, which have no other essential fault but a want of sense and poetry, are from this origin. One unfortunate pygmy, who is lost, rashly launched into the literary ocean with a cockle-shell tragedy: others have more prudently confined themselves to the republication of their neighbours works, in a newspaper, with three or four introductory lines written by themselves. There are little Betty's in scribbling here who dispute the laurel with their two Reverend Instructors, and carry it away. In fact, authors which criticism must examine with the same microscopic minuteness as naturalists would do mites in a cheese, abound; but I, who am speaking of the cheese itself, may give a distinct and appropriate character, notwithstanding these its insignificant and almost imperceptible inhabitants.
But still, as I said before, there are some few honourable exceptions, some few instances of an ambitious spirit. I shall relate other particulars hereafter, at present I must content myself with the following.—One good citizen—alas! I am forced to acknowledge he was an adventitious citizen—fell before the mayor upon his knees, passionately implored the reasonable loan of an alderman's gown, and permission, when invested in that dignified garb, to congratulate his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence on their happy arrival. It is to be lamented that a request so laudable as this was refused him—not only because the princely guests have lost such an extraordinary specimen of wisdom and eloquence, but also because the disappointed citizen in question has become a victim to that timid and bashful sensibility which generally preys upon repulsed and neglected genius!
It must be confessed that this happy repose is occasionally disturbed by a tremendous foe to borough serenity called “Contested Election.” Still, however, there is some strong, though secret, influence, similar to that of gravitation or magnetism which keeps almost every thing here in its proper place. Foolish people, who were ignorant of this influence, might have wondered, perhaps, when they beheld one good man, whose loss is universally regretted, change and re-change his party seven times in less than a month. But it was found, on diligent enquiry, that he had received three different promises of a long lease from Pro, and four invitations to dinner from Con. As Con had also a house to dispose of, Con succeeded. On another occasion, there were silly, childish, half-witted mortals, so totally unacquainted with the world, as to shudder with horror or disgust, on hearing a Reverend Orator publicly attack the son of his former friend and his exhausted patron, though he knew that the accusation was false, and though he saw that the calumny must be refuted! Fortunately, indeed, there are very few who are so squeamish as this: and philosophers, like myself, may trace the power or influence of this same principle, called interest, in its operations, while we are totally ignorant of its nature.
BOOK II.
ARGUMENT.
A SOLEMN address to the Spirits by whom I am inspired. Their office—power—dignity—and origin. Why preferable to Apollo and the Muses. Vows of perfect and perpetual devotion to them.—The story, according to Aristotle, abruptly commenced. News—of what—by whom carried—to whom brought—The Hero of the Poem—The elbow chair—The speech—Prediction—Preparations—A beautiful allusion to Homer. The Hero superior, in some respects, to Agamemnon—His predictions accomplished. Conclusion.
Macbeth.
Scene—The same till it shifts. Time—The same till it changes.
That nightly loose my stammering tongue;
That fire my brain, and fill my soul
With visions dim, with nothing whole;
That bid misshapen forms arise
And stand revealed before mine eyes;
That multiply this candle here
To girandole or chandelier!
All hail! ye powers of every sort
Whether ye boast your birth from port,
Or, bound to let the truth appear,
Blushing confess ye sprang from beer!
Thrice I invoke your sacred line
Spirits all hail! of beer and wine!
Address Apollo and the muses;
Inspired by you, I scorn to follow
Either the muses or Apollo.
And Pindus' tops, and Zephyr's wings,
With lists, which poets must remember,
Seem out of season in December;
And all the rocks and woods together
May sleep, for me, till warmer weather;
Besides I said (prim. vide Tom.)
Though called and called they never come.
Sweet red-nosed spirits of my barrel,
But neither he nor Aristotle
Parts me from you, or Baby Bottle!
That Fox is chosen secretary!
Post-office, shambles, bank, and fish-shop,
Resound prophetic of a bishop.
Happy the man who first arrives
To tell the doctor how he thrives,
What people say, how sure they are
That none stand half the chance of—
So firm a friend, so fine a writer,
His wig so suited to a mitre,
And many pretty things beside,
Feigned just as fast as he could ride.
The doctor takes his elbow chair.
To ask the cook if Jane is gone
Through garden, orchard, field, and house,
In search of daughter and of spouse.
He thus begins from elbow chair.
“ Our brother tells us that the weight
Of fearful things in church and state,
Ecclesiastical and civil—
Press sorely on, in short, demand
Some wiser head, and firmer hand;
And thus, as fit for seals and see,
The people look to Fox and me.
From East to West, from North to South,
With anxious eyes and gaping mouth,
Congratulation sallies forth—
The roads are covered with the cloth,
And fortune, as she used before,
Will bring them in while clock strikes four.
Lay down the spit, the kettle put on
For turkey, chicken, beef, and mutton;
Ralph take this key, you know the sort,
Some sherry, and my oldest port.”
Ralph takes the key with “yes my Lord”—
Low courtesying cook and Jane retire
To realms below of smoke and fire.
Forsook the radiant realms of love,
Then sought the tent, where slept the king.
And stood before Atrides' eyes
To tell—so Jove commanded—lies—
To call him lazy, bid him move,
Since all the gods shook hands above,
And swear those gods assembled will his
Success in war to vex Achilles:
Thus sent by none, divine or mortal,
This brother seeks the doctor's portal.
You must have seen, or heard, or read,
Feathers in swiftness yield to lead;
He mounts, he flies, he cuts the air,
For want of wings upon a mare,
And fills with vain and empty words
The doctor's scull like—House of Lords.
That what he whispered was not true;
Who hears the modern Somnus vows, he
Is twice as marvellous and drowsy.
Up stairs to dress in Sunday clothes:
Erect he sits beside the bed
As barber shaves his learned head—
Behold that head, like cloud-capt tower,
Adorned with monstrous cauliflower!
Still sounds the news, the ear still itches,
While shirt is air'd, and changed are breeches:
Next waistcoat smooth as e'er was worn,
The stuff is silk, the buttons horn:
With long loose skirts a well-brushed coat,
A stock stiff starched about his throat,
And polished shoes to grace his feet,—
So all is comely, all is neat.
Than Agamemnon king of men;
Who dressed and hurried from the place,
Nor washed his hands, nor washed his face.
How true is what the doctor told
“From East to West, from North to South,
With anxious eyes, and gaping mouth,
The roads are covered with the cloth,
And fortune brings them to his door
Just as he said, while clock strikes four!”
Let not my candid reader imagine that I intend to gratify his malevolence by exposing the defects alone of this extraordinary character. There are enough of those who wish to elevate themselves, by depressing their neighbours. It is however possible to laugh at the foibles of a man, without detracting from his worth: besides this man stands in the very middle of my canvass, and how could he be omitted. (If this be a bull, so much the better for Reviewer, but to return.) My uncle Toby is not the less amiable for his whims. They endear him to the reader, and he gains almost as much by eccentricity as by benevolence. But this is only the case where eccentricity and benevolence are united. The person of whom I am speaking, is not inferior to my uncle Toby in whims and simplicity, or to any man in information and νους. Learning and eloquence are the most remarkable parts of his character, but the least estimable. True, there is much in it offensive to the prudish, ridiculous to the cunning, abominable to the hypocritical: but amends are made by the candid and enlightened—by a consciousness, which arises from experience, that those men who have known him the longest, must reverence him the most. You perceive, perhaps, that the subject has made me dull and serious—perhaps you perceived the former before. Now supposing that he has dared to follow me so far, I have anticipated the critic—But to return a second time. I may tickle, but I would not sting the doctor. I gather my nettles for the asses which surround him, and not for himself or his friends.
Aristotle says that Homer was accused of impiety for making Jupiter tell lies. Macrobius says it was not a lie, but a trick, and that Jupiter was not a knave but a conjurer. Mad. Dacier saw the distinction and stole it for herself. I use some one, as she used him: I show my learning, but do not tell from whom I had it. To see this subject in all its different lights consult Dacier, Macrob.—Strabo, 1. 8.—Aul. Gell.—Arist. Topic.—Politian Præf. in Hom.—Maxim. Tyr. Diss. 17.—Plut. Schol.—Pind. in Nem.— Proclus de Tim.—Plat. Tim.—Plut.—Plac. Phil.—Arist. de Anim.—Trag. Œdip.—Hyde, Rel. Ant. Pers.—Vita Pyth. Por. —Athæn. Kirch.—Justin B. I.—Plac. Phil.—Paley Mor. Phil.— Grot.
If you know any thing about Homer, you must know that six or seven hundred commentators have considered the want of similitude in his similies as their greatest perfection. I too, in the beginning of mine, have cautiously avoided any unpoetical resemblance.
I have spoken with great admiration of the Doctor's dress, but others have declared that formerly he could raise mustard and cress upon his hat crown.
Had these same prophetic tidings been true, and I wish indeed that they had, there is one great episcopal duty in which the Doctor would have yielded to none of his brethren. He has been qualifying himself most assiduously in the exercise of hospitality for a great many years; and if, as I have hinted in another place, his own morning calls are occasionally a little later than custom prescribes, it is accordant with that universal and unerring rule which instructs us to do as we would that others should do unto us.
BOOK III.
ARGUMENT.
INVOCATION according to custom.—Description of a future Doctor, who had been described before under the character of Somnus.—Second character.—The shadow of a shade.—The Author's caution to his reader respeeting some metaphorical language on this pair.—Extraordinary instances of laudable ambition —Pathetical address to them—A third character—The great man—surprising instance of his early attainments—His prudence—Good advice from the author—Description of jealousy. And improvement on Esop—The author moralises and concludes.
And these are of them.”
Macbetm.
Since none know half as much as you
Of guests and feasts—removes and courses—
Arrived in gigs, on foot, or horses?
I wretched mortal! lost in doubts
But hear of dinners, guess at routs:
For all I learn is learnt from you,
Tell, pretty maidens! tell me who?
That νους less, neutral, negative,
That shapeless substance, pursy ghost,
Ambitious sluggard, walking post,
That sediment of silly things,
That Somnus but for lack of wings?
How shall I name, or how be mute on,
That rival of Sir Isaac Newton,
That planeless flat, that pointless angle,
That disputant too dull to wrangle,
That philosophic butt for laughter,
That doctor “that shall be hereafter.”
Diverging lines from parallel,
Make ladies wonder while he passes
Triumphant o'er the bridge of asses;
And clowns admire his fruitful brain
With “well done Doctor try again!”
He brought the news—to him belong
The earliest tributes of my song.
The shadow of a shade behind!
Not less in zeal, he would pursue
As close as other shadows do;
But lean the poney which he sat on,
Far was his house, O! far from —
And Fortune, stale capricious whore
Told rival shade an hour before.
Ah! think not reader, when I made
This simile about a shade
That then I meant, that now I mean
To call him bloodless, boneless, lean!
Hard were the task, yea passing hard
For any frail and earthly bard,
To make some similies that do
In one point well, fit others too.
This is a shade, a shadow that,
Though both are fair, and one is fat:
The same their haste, the same their way,
That rides a white, and this a grey;
And every man who passes hoots
Why! sure he stole the Doctor's boots!
The closest copy of his dress,
To talk of Greek, or to display
His manner on a market day:
To judge of books they never read;
Begin a tale, forget the joke,
Resume their pipes, and end in smoke:
Once more to rise, cry hush, and then
Sit very gravely down again—
Ambition haunts their curtain'd sleep;
They dream to covet—wake to weep:
Dim scarf or shovel hat appears,
And thunders Doctor in their ears—
Cries “eighty pounds, nay less the price is,
Go thou to Cam, and thou to Isis,
Then both may rank as high as he,
Both sign their names with LL.D.!”
Farewell! if aught my muse can do
In stuffing owls, or painting you—
Farewell if aught that muse avail
In fixing lanthorns to a tail!
Half grinning, frowning, pleased, and vext;
As if he cried “now! mind me now!?”
Did ever awe-struck mortals eyes
View one so great, or one so wise?
So sharp in wit, in sense so sound,
So quick, so bright, yet so profound?
Did ever laughing mortal see
One half so pleased with self as he?
'Tis said that scarce a fortnight old,
I only tell what I was told—
With mimic gestures, varying faces,
He studied attitudes and graces,
And even then, that he would teach
His nurse to rhyme, his doll to preach!
Frown on, frown on a great divine!
While prudence shelters—and you,
A very little Greek will do:
Let Greek alone! and e'er you chatter
On any other learned matter,
Never forget this cautious plan,
If not your subject, know your man.
To brother parsons talk of war,
Of fiddlesticks to Doctor—
To beauties trace the roots of words,
Prove Christianity to Lords,
To clowns deal politics, and preach
On all, but what he knows, to each!
To heal the wound, or hide the pain;
In every twitch and jerk we see
That green-eyed monster jealousy:
Congratulation hails the host,
And lo! like murder'd Banquo's Ghost,
In scorn, a little loathsome beast
Usurps the stool, and mocks the feast!
For envy plays us slippery tricks
In smaller things than bishoprics:
“Be great,” exclaims the restless fagot,
“A frog an ox—a mite a maggot;”
And thus she fires thy sapient pate
To rival, not to imitate.
But never mind! the truly wise
Can talk at least and moralize.
What means a crosier but a crook?
And what is mitre, what is Lord,
But name profane, but thing abhor'd?
So wisdom taught me—reader so
Teach Seneca and Cicero.
And now to prove how much he wanted
The consolation that I granted,
Come leave with me the beaten road
And listen to an episode.
Pope says that “it is hard to conceive any address more solemn, any opening to a poem more noble and magnificent than Homer's invocation before his catalogue.” I am sorry that Pope has not lived to read mine. If I only equal Homer in solemnity and magnificence, I far surpass him in elegance and propriety. What do the muses know of ships and soldiers? Why should Homer suppose that they had more brass about them, or, individually, more tongues in their heads, than himself?—Now my pretty maidens, as they are described in the second book, can easily be imagined to relate what went on at a feast, and to tell who were the guests. If I had been sure of as many commentators as Homer was blessed with, I should have left these discoveries to them and my readers: but the former are alas! no more: and the latter may be, nay ten to one are, most lamentable blockheads.
I have not done with this character yet: but it will save both time and trouble, to couple him with the next. They may run on together, like two of his own hounds. If they do not exactly agree, they cannot part: one pulls a little this way, and the other that, but still they go together.
Now which of these truly learned and sagacious admirers it was that wrote the Doctor's life, I pretend not to determine. But his life is written among the public characters, and evidently by an admirer. As a composition, it is rather too good for the first on my list, and, I should hope, rather too bad for any of the rest. The Doctor's style is vilely caricatured in all its defects, an infallible consequence of stupid imitation. His great stumbling-block is a climax, and now behold a climax which in any other work would have broken the writer's neck. “The riots in Birmingham, which happened in 1791, will be remembered by the latest posterity, not more for the numerous and diffusive mischiefs which they occasioned, than for the meanness of spirit”— very good—“blindness of rage”—very good again, hold up! “and intemperance of zeal”—O! lack a day!!!—“with which the mob attacked the peaceful abode of Dr. Priestley,” &c. The shadow may have volunteered this life now, having been appointed or retained to write another hereafter. Let us hope, however, that the Doctor will live long enough “to do for him as much.” This will be a new and desirable method to the world, of repaying his kind intentions. It will reward an humble and patient successor to Boswell, and ruin an ancient axiom for ever. The book of which I have spoken, the public characters, is a very useful national work. Like some of the Reviews and other periodical publications, it employs those who either could or would do nothing else. Numbers gain their bread honestly, no doubt, now, that might otherwise be very burdensome to their parishes, or dangerous in a moral and well-regulated bridewell. The reviews, and the work under our consideration, are conducted upon very different plans, and thus they become suitable to very different capacities. Some men are better qualified for flattery than abuse, some can write and spell a little, who do not like the trouble of reading at all, and who foolishly fancy that reading is necessary; and lastly some, whose excessive stupidity would disqualify them for critics of any sort, possess abundant wisdom for biographers like these. This book excites our compassion, and it will be patronised by the humane. They will say to each of those who conduct it, like the good natured Lord Lafeu to Parolles, “Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat.” But the book has other advantages besides these. It contains the lives of many, who, till now, were never known to have existed. It is of infinite service to such as are admired by none but themselves, and this is the case with ninety and nine men out of a hundred. We shall have the lives, most likely, of all those whom I am now celebrating, since they too, were it not for me, would be in a similar predicament. It is my business, however, if their ambition be not very immoderate, to save them the trouble of writing their own characters. The work is also exceedingly useful to those authors who fancy that others are not half so well qualified for this employment as themselves. See Mr. Pratt's Life, and two thirds of every Vol. Some, who were rather dissatisfied with the praises of their friends in a first life, have very obligingly consented to praise themselves in a second. See the second life of Miss Seward, 6th Vol. But allowances should be made for the vanities of a second life, when we reflect upon the weaknesses of a second childhood. And weakness would have served for an a pology thirty years ago.
These great moralists instruct us to conquer envy by lessening the object envied, or the enjoyment of those whom we envy. If you see a rich man, say they, recollect his cares, and anticipate his losses. But this is encouraging as bad a passion as the one that it is intended to remove. It teaches us to rejoice in the calamities of another, and to consider ourselves as really unfortunate while our neighbour is happier. We must reduce his felicity before we can rest! See on this subject the following authors whom I have now overthrown. Cicero—Seneca—Plat. Banq.—Hierocl. Com. in Carm. Aur. Pyth.—Hor. passim—Stob, —Œdip. Tyr.—Justin, B. 2.—Suid.
BOOK IV.
AN EPISODE.
ARGUMENT.
THE story—Portrait painting—The Doctor's picture. Lamentable consequences which it produced—Effects of envy—A dissertation on beards—their design—use—short catalogue of human calamities—The thrift and foresight of our ancestors—Improvident disposition and habits of the present age—The origin of swearing. Distressing situation in which the great man was involved by this very want of a beard—The soliloquy—The effects of grief—The poetical address of his melodious friend to him—The confession —Wings and herse, a simile—The artist comes—The picture— Quotation from Propria quæ maribus—Greatness of soul—Conclusion.
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye shew.
Shak.
Papa's sweet face for Misses sake,
And Miss, although she hates to sit,
Of course does what Papa thinks fit.
Thus youth with age, with sinner saint,
Throng round this mighty man of paint:
Hard is the task, and long the labour,
Where each looks fairer than her neighbour,
And wrinkled Squires, and virgin quizzes
Lay claim to sleek, arch, modern phyzzes!
Yea, long he labours, much he works
On men like maids, and maids like Turks!
Looks either stiff or maidenly—
Was pleased to sit, and all declare
The canvass breathes, they see him there.
His hand was raised to tear his beard—
For he, poor man! had read and knew
What wisdom once was used to do!
“To tear his beard! and did he tear?”
(Author)
The beard escaped, for none was there.
Fools that we are! to soap and shave
Those hairs indulgent nature gave,
That beard she hung around the throat
Of lordly man, and lordly goat!
Now why in goats she placed it there,
I neither say, nor know, nor care;
But men, since all are doomed to groan
With cares and sorrows of their own—
She kindly meant to pull and scatter
When vexed by any cross-grained matter,
As hopeless courtship, blighted corn,
Ricks fired, roosts robb'd, or aching horn—
Aching while spightful gossips gibe
The wanderings of a wanton Rib—
Streams overflowing, cattle drowned,
Colts lamed, ewes cast, pigs put in pound
That vex'd them once, or vexes still.
Preserved their chins for floods and fires.
Thus armed against the worst of woes,
They tore their beards to save their clothes!
But now, forsooth, as if despair
Scorned such a brittle hold as hair—
Or else as if the barber's lather
Could take them both away togather —
The fearless, senseless, beardless fops,
Wear costly clothes, and close-clipt tops,
And for the sake of smoother joles
Damn both their own and neighbour's souls!
But sorrow taught him what to do—
Like Hassan, thrice, the afflicted man
Sighed, smote his breast, and thus began!
In cassoc, band, and frame of gold,
The Doctor smiling from a wall,
Whilst I must never hang at all,
Or sus. per Coll.! and shall he grace
The exhibition with his face,
Mine quite unknown! though formed with care
Year after year, to figure there?”
Go wretched man! ah! go and die!
Grief filled the house, his wife related
Not why, but how, he mourned to
The poet flies with friendship's wings,
And softly says, or sweetly sings,
Sullen sorrow dims your eye,
Care contracts your clouded brow
Tell me sometime! tell me now,
What misfortune thus can move,
Broken friendship, faithless love?
Wherefore suffer, as he flies,
Time to number only sighs?”
He raised his head, and told his pain—
But should it prove that thou canst see
No magic in this poesy,
Reader I let the secret loose
He's less a swan than thou a goose.
And told the painter what to do.
Yea on those very wings which bore
That mighty burden there before;
The wings of friendship—not of verse,
On those he travels like a herse,
With vast solemnity and state
When lifeless figures load his pate;
Move on with more celerity.
The men drew back! the women fainted!
The children screamed! the bats gan wail!
The dogs clapt close the timid tail!
All looked with fear and wild amaze on
This “Gorgon, Icon, et Amazon!”
All but the wonderous man, and far
From him who rivals Doctor—
Be childish hopes with form or dress,
And outward shows of comeliness,
To make the foolish world admire
Sleek-visaged charms, and rich attire!
He fairly cut the Doctor out,
And all the other sons of men
From Fe Fo Fum to Saracen!
—Βλεπω γαρ αυτον Ταχα, κηρε, και λαλησεις.
Alas! it is in vain that I would exclaim with the same author
Στολισον το λοιπον αυτην υποπορφυροισι π=επλοις.
How much more frequently is this wish in the intermediate ones gratified.
Διαφαινετω δε σαρκων.
Diod. Sic.—Plat Banq.—Athæn. Kirch.—Orig. Com. Cel.— Strom. 1. 5.—Jamb. de Myst.—Lucan.—Hierocl. Com. in Carm. Aur. Pyth.—Hes. de Sæcl. Aur. Orph.—Procl.—Plut. de Anim. Form.—Argon. apud Steph. edit. Fuegger.—Pocock Specim.
The apt alliteration of Churchill is deplorable. There is a gap between every two words. Instead of an aid it is an impediment. Poor Tom Warton's “Clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,” is ten times worse. This exquisite specimen is sufficient to place the author above all his brethren. There is something like fortune in the effusions of genius. To produce this they were united. Critics may cavil, but that which excites their malevolence, ensures my immortality.
BOOK V.
ARGUMENT.
A very pretty invocation. A short and an uncommon character—A shorter, and a still more uncommon one—Ambitious Jack—his imitations and originality—Good advice from the author—The Della Cruscan Poet's absence accounted for— Another Episode began, and the fifth book concluded.
And health on both!”
Macbeth.
That scorns the tea-pot and the tea!
That wisely wishes, when he sings,
To tune his pipe with better things,
And that extol'd, in strains divine,
The wonderous powers of beer and wine!
Should poets talk of chastity?
Come! be ye fair, or black ye be,
For what the plague is that to me?
Like Venus come, or Mother Bunch,
Daughters of beer, and wine, and punch!
Let statesmen growl, and heroes bristle,
And let the wise man wet his whistle!
The next that came was faithful —
None hail'd in joy with greater glee,
None felt in sorrow more than he:
The feast he shared, and he would share
A fast, if grief had kept one there.
Approached facetious, polished —
A witty man, a wise one too,
Who, knowing much, hid half he knew.
Terrestrial Jack—thou man of earth!
Though last, not least in weight and girth,
From distant climes, the land of eating,
Whipping, spurring, puffing, sweating;
On foaming horse, with frantic haste
Hail! king of suet! prince of paste!
A strange variety of meat!
Men feed on flesh, and beasts on grass,
But zeal must have a taste for brass!
Ten words, or more, of useless Greek;
If thou can'st jabber right or wrong,
In place or out, words ten feet long,
If thou can'st lisp and sputter faster
Than any man besides thy master:
Then run the race which he has ran,
And scorn to live like mortal man!
Then wear no waistcoat if it reaches
Within a foot above thy breeches—
Let breeches fall, and waistcoat rise!
Were braces made to bind the wise?
How many travellers have shown
That Zephyrs cool the torrid zone—
So follow nature—where's the hurt
In two or three square feet of shirt?
And what he does or thinks is right.
But ways there are in which we own
Cool easy Jack proceeds alone:
Why lisp thy scorn when ladies talk?
Why pick thy teeth with neighbour's fork?
Why clap thine elbow in his plate?
Why scrape thy nails, and scratch thy pate?
But still whate'er thy sense or breeding,
Thy width of shirt, or depth of reading,
Thy lisping Latin, loosened braces,
Untoward tricks, and strange grimaces,
Thou wilt do well, in one thing more,
To follow him who walks before—
For men, like sheep, must go astray,
Who follow any other way.
Mock thou his heart, since all declare
Nothing is very faulty there.
So Jack came last, and no one waited
The rap of Della Cruscan — —
For, like Achilles, swoln with ire,
He shun'd, as hell, the Doctor's fire,
Nor deigned to choak or drown his wrath
With beef and mutton, soup and broth!
Thus, gentle reader, thus began
The rage which burst this mighty man.
Tell, as Æneas told to Dido;
So stretch your jaws to catch my story.
One Doctor went to see another.
“Pray stay and dine.”
(1st Doctor)
“I dine at home.”
(2nd Doctor)
“The dishes cool! poo! nonsense! come.”
(1st Doctor)
“Lead on then! march!”
Said grace, sat down, and eat his dinner:
As chance had snapt the horse's crupper,
He staid to tea, he staid to supper,
While drunken saddler fail'd to come
How could the Doctor journey home?
The brawn was fine, well boil'd the tripe,
Tobacco fresh, and clean the pipe,
So many causes all combined
To check his haste, and change his mind.
But they who are right hospitable
Give not alone a place at table,
The host and hostess therefore said
“Doctor you better take a bed:”
He thanks them both, and dare aver
That none can answer no to her.
He stays—the bed is soon prepared
The night-cap warmed—the sheets are air'd,
And you may tell, as if you'd seen,
How soon the Doctor slipt between.
Virgil.
My readers may depend upon the authenticity of this story in all its parts.
BOOK VI.
ARGUMENT.
AFTER a display of no common learning, the narrative continued. The Doctor's extraordinary escape—Reflections and soliloquy—He moralises in vain—a proof of it.—The effects of his example on Somnus—The soliloquy related to the Della Cruscan Poet—and thus the Della Cruscan Poet's absence accounted for—A very old simile but a very good one—quite original in its application.—The author shews some astronomical knowledge— The Della Cruscan Poet's accomplishments—The surprising perverseness of many people during the representation of his tragedy, accounted for.
Fire burn; and cauldron bubble!
Cool it with a Baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good!”
Macbetm.
The wanderings of thy humble bard on
So very high a theme as this is—
Who hears not, knows not what he misses.
Are cross'd, not stopp'd, by Episodes.
If grave Quintilian somewhere teaches
How books resemble people's breeches,
In this that breeches were designed
To shew the shape, as books the mind—
And thence infers, when hanging loose,
The more the stuff, the less the use.
Would he in buck-skin case confine us?
Or if he would grave Longinus?
Who rides on Pegasus, may ride
With him and Homer by his side
Both fast and slow, both far and wide.
A man's a noodle if he aims
To square his work by rules from Kaims,
His muse for sake of Aristotle.
Reader, by this, you see my learning—
That fairly known and duly rated,
I turn again to—and—
Or frightful dreams of fleeting lawn—
Whatever caused, the Doctor fled
But just in time to save his bed.
Perchance of what might hap aware,
Before he bent his knees in prayer,
He sought and found a seat-less chair.
So well contrived, one less discerning,
Less used than he to midnight learning;
I say an uninstructed mind
Might never know for what designed.
Of those whose caution placed it there;
He sits not thanklessly—lo! he
Is heard in this soliloquy!
'Twas well I knew the corner where—
Man, wretched man! by dangers warned,
May learn to prize what late he scorned!
How short his views! how often fated
To wish for what he scorned or hated!
O! were the Regent in my pocket!
What would one page be worth to me
Of Della Cruscan poetry!
And was, forsooth, their only use
To light a candle, singe a goose,
Or curl the long lank hair of Molly?
Wise men may live to curse their folly!
I never dreamt, till doomed to lose them,
This was the properest way to use them!
Thou chattering, pompous, empty-pated,
Half-reasoning, rhyming, prosing — —
I'll bait thee as thou should'st be baited!”
But moralized and searched in vain!
In vain alas! for this is certain
That Doctor used the other's curtain.
That Somnus, stuffed with tripe and ale,
Cried “ho! my boots! the grey must gallop—
A sixpence for an ounce of jalap!”
How strong in man is lust of fame,
He goes to bed, and does the same!
But to return—enough is stated
To shew why Della Cruscan — —
Who heard of all the Doctor said
From vexed and listening chamber-maid.
“Et concione se” absented.
For light and heat around the sun:
(Alas! how plain it is to see
As many know my simile!
I must go on since I began it)
And little worlds attend a planet:
Far off indeed, tho' nearest, far,
His beams came straight from Doctor —
Now some astronomers have found
The nearest planet turns not round,
While one side roasts, they boldly tax his
Unequal light for want of axis:
But to apply what they remark,
There may be moons though in the dark;
And pictured Gorgon's pretty son
Is just exactly such an one!
Italian, German, French, and
“Greek!”
(Author)
No, Sir, he scorns both Greek and Latin!
But to make up, there is none better
At senses, organs, and at meta-
Physics in every different branch
From Aristotle to Malbranche!
He dwells on Hume and Hobbs and Clarke,
Till clear grows dim, and light grows dark.
He can convince by dint of bother
Whatever silly men suppose
Though pinch'd and pull'd that no one knows
Whether he have or not a nose.
But not confined to reason, he
Indulged his vein for poetry.
Shakspeare his model, and as like
As sign-post painter to Vandyke.
Though blushing Siddons kindly strain'd
To save the play, and serve her friend—
It happened most surprisingly
That folk would laugh, when folk should cry!
But wonder ceases when I tell ye
His Regent has got Falstaff's belly.
Sometimes in verse, sometimes in prose,
He stamps, he raves, he sweats, he blows,
And nothing surely can be worse
Than verse half prose, but prose half verse!
Mysterious vase of mighty Guy!
But soon their panting lungs shall strain
To make thee smoke and boil again!
Conveniet Satyros—ita vertere seria ludo.”
Hor. de Art. Poet.
And now, gentle Reader, I take my leave of you for the present. When we meet again, I will relate the remainder of my story. It is full of the most surprising matter; but I was impatient to make you acquainted with so many illustrious characters first. Having effected that, I shall communicate the rest— not only all they did, but all they said. In the mean time let me invite you to study diligently that which is in your hands. You are as yet only in the porch of this magnificent edifice which I am erecting to learning: but every other part, yea even to the closets and chambers, shall be thrown open. With all due humility, I earnestly and modestly believe that there is no one better calculated for your guide than myself. Is there any man who possesses either more fancy or more learning? I can let you into the secrets of literature better than most other persons, because I am far more candid, and thoroughly acquainted with them. I can tell you things of wise and learned men, and of men who are neither wise nor learned, which will harrow up your very soul, and make their bristles “like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”
For the present, most gentle Reader, FAREWELL. | Guy's Porridge Pot | |