Guy's Porridge Pot A Poem, In Twenty-Four Books. The First Part [by R. E. Landor] |
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| I. | BOOK I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Guy's Porridge Pot |  |
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.
| Guy's Porridge Pot | |