University of Virginia Library

previous section The Flood of Thessaly
next section
207

THE GENEALOGISTS.

A FRAGMENT.

209

TO THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.
211

I

Two China-men, some thousand years ago,
Lived by, on, at, or near the Yellow River:
The name of one was Phang, and t'other's Foh,
And both (but 'twas in China) were deemed clever:
Some said, indeed, that Phang was rather slow,
Yet sure to do his best in each endeavour:
Others averred that Foh was like the sun,
(Not bright, but quick)—you wished?—your wish was done.
212

II

Now, Phang—(the slow man) was by taste and trade
A joiner, making chairs, stools, tools, and all
Those things; and Foh an artist, ready made,
Who painted doors and pictures, great and small,
Signs, symbols, likenesses, both man and maid,
Making the crooked straight, the little tall:
He painted quick, and cheap, and didn't cozen,
And always gave in thirteen to the dozen.

III

Phang had an only child,—a youth—a son;
Not like the Chinese things we see in town,
Poor wandering drones, on whom a frightful sun
Has cast its common kitchen colours down;
But slim, genteel, tho' not averse to fun,
And o'er his back a tail hung half-way down.
He was a beau, in short; his face was fair,
And quite uncopper'd, which is curious there.
213

IV

Copper's an odious colour—for a face:
It courts (but never answers) observation;
Tho' I can't say that it reflects disgrace
As is supposed by some more serious nation:
I only mean, one might supply its place
(Suiting our age, of course, or the occasion)
With white or carmine, or some other hue,
Pink, brown, or anything, in short,—but blue.

V

Blue—but I must not wander from my track:
I left off with, I think, Phang's ‘only child,’
A hero with a tail half down his back,
At which the ladies of his country smiled,
Sighed, furled their fans, unfurled, and made 'em crack:—
(The pretty souls are easily beguiled:
A tail in China, and a sash and sabre
Here, save young gentlemen a world of labour.)
214

VI

The name of this Adonis was—but reader,
You must not think the East and West the same:
There Love is led, and here he is a leader;
Here beauty is a boast, and there a blame;
In England with warm sighs, wild words we feed her;
In China they prefer her cold and tame.
By this, I mean to say—the Chinese notion
Differs from ours on this side of the ocean.

VII

The name of this Adonis was—Chang-ho,
Only sixteen, yet he was quite a man:
He loved the daughter of the painter Foh,
And talk'd—(that is, as well as dandies can;
Their talk at best is trashy, and below
Man's level,—reaching but the blockhead's span.)
He talked as lover should who love discloses,
Likening her neck to snow, her lips to roses.
215

VIII

They met in secret. Through the azure hours
Of night they changed soft vows and kisses sweet;
And swore by all the heavenly (Chinese) powers,
They would, upon the feast of lanthorns, meet:—
(Their lanthorns, by the bye, are not like ours,
But made of paper, oil'd, and very neat:
The feast is like our holy annual dinners,
Frequented equally by saints and sinners.)

IX

They met upon the feast of Lanthorns,—pale
As possible (in China) looked the maid:
Chang-ho, in yellow boots and plaited't ail,
Met her, half-fond and more than half afraid.
The lady who came first began to rail;
(And ladies, as we well know, can upbraid):
On which Chang-ho swore out, by Fum and Fo-am!
He wished to Gad, that he had stayed at home.
216

X

This led to some discussion:—How it ended
I leave all folks who know the sex to guess.
He kissed her,—once; she vowed she was offended:
Another,—she was angry still,—but less.
He then said that he loved; but, if she blended
Such acids with her sweets, why she must bless
Some happier man—(Our phrases are crratic—
Erroneous I should say—when we're emphatic.)

XI

—They met upon the feast of Lanthorns. Love!
In thy dominion are not lovers' eyes
Enough to guide them?—can they elsewhere rove
Save to each others arms?—Old sacrifice!
(Of time and lanthorns) is not Heaven above
'Shamed of its lustre by thy lights and lies,—
Thy scandals,—wonderings,—about Fum and Ho,
And all thy stupid wooden kings below?—
217

XII

I hate all folly,—fuss: I hate pretence
'Bout ‘honour,’ ‘heart,’ and ‘gentlemen,’ and ‘station,’—
And all that sort of thing. I hate that men's
Poor noughts should thus be thrust on observation:—
For me, I don't believe 'em—(no offence!)
Better a bit for all such protestation.
I think that men are bad, and women good,
And both—I mean in China, made of wood.

XIII

Tho' here I may be wrong: the wood may be
But in the head; the body may be pliant,
And flesh,—it must be so, and pretty free,
Else how could Chinese lawyer round his client
Twist (while a ducat 's there) his gripe, and be
Like Hercules about the earth-born giant?
How could they dye cups,—saucers,—or paint stucco?
Or pick our sailors' pockets of tobacco?
218

XIV

Yet now my logic's bad:—the thing is plain:—
I've drawn a false conclusion:—I confess it.
This owning costs me to be sure some pain;
Tho' none perhaps but modest men would guess it;
And yet the fault of which I here complain,
Might have been hidden, had I chose to dress it
In looser words, and made a large conclusion;—
But I forgot the thing in my confusion.

XV

But to return;—and, now I think on't, I
Have quite forgotten to describe the lady:
Her name was Fohi, a brunette, and nigh
A black; her eyelashes were long and shady;
And 'neath them did she peer—prim, shrewish, sly:—
And did Chang-ho know this?—Why I'm afraid he
Did not: for Fohi seemed as she had twice his
Small stock of virtue, but without his vices.
219

XVI

Her little feet, were cabined and confined
In swathes of linen, fine, and white, and thin;
And as her feet were prisoned so her mind,
Her studies ending where our girls' begin.
She knew a few words, such as ‘Men’, ‘Mankind’,
‘Love’, ‘beauty’, ‘tea’, ‘toys’, ‘virtue’, ‘woman’, ‘sin’:
But nothing more. Her looks were human faces:
She read, and put them in their proper places.

XVII

Midst others came Chang-ho's—a blank; without
A single letter upon any page:
And why 'twas ever made might cause some doubt.
I certainly might guess;—I might engage
To give the depth, perhaps, of any lout,
Beau, beast, or blockhead, with unerring guage:
But after all 'twould be like some disaster
Of birth, or wood-cut by a German master.
220

XVIII

And what is that?—what's any night mare worth,
Except by Fuseli?—A leg of veal,
A ham, a pig, a pudding ('neath the girth)
Such things, and better, to our sleep reveal:
Some are of hell, 'tis said, and some of earth,
And some are like—(for why should I conceal
The fact?)—our friends; who ride us in the dark,
And spur us thro' the day with some remark.

XIX

Whate'er Chang-ho and Fohi were, is not
Our task. They loved—or thought—or said they did;
They kissed, and swore to share each other's lot,
And do whatever not their parents bid:
They vowed they wouldn't have a secret thought,
And then, as usual, all their secrets hid.
In fine, Chang-ho declared he'd manage so
As soon to get the full consent from Foh.
221

XX

But Foh, though wild and hasty in some things,
Thought much of birth, as we shall perceive soon;
(Like German barons, or dull Spanish kings,
Who think that high birth is a heavenly boon:)
And—for some folly to the wisest clings—
Traced, as he said, his fathers to the moon;
And much of her bright madness could one trace,—
Tho' really not her beauty, in his face.

XXI

Foh's face was large, coarse, hard, and squarely cut;
His red-brown cheeks like pears that housewives bake;
And through his brow a wrinkle like a rut
Ran, and beneath, two eyes—like what the snake
Shows when its prey is near, half-ope, half-shut,
Twinkled,—or like a young star just awake:
His ears were wide: his beard was long: His tail!—
But no—I wont attempt it—I must fail.
222

XXII

I'll paint his mind—his soul; for I suppose
They have those things in China as in Britain.
They've eyes, ears, mouth, and something like a nose,
And a language bigger than was ever written;
Whether it has much wisdom in't, God knows!
Or freedom,—for no poor wretch e'er was smitten
Enough to learn:—We'll grant 'em wise and free;
Altho' I chiefly know them by—their tea.

XXIII

His mind was like a windmill; round and round
It went—and went—and went, from day to day,
And never reached the sky nor touched the ground,
But folly-blown was tossed about, mid-way,
Or else amid a cloud of projects bound:
And so he lived,—(not wisely, by the way,)—
A bubble, or a blow-ball,—fashion,—fame,
So they were idle all, were all the same.
223

XXIV

Constant to nothing but the moon, and then
Tracking her course—‘his’ course I should say, rather,
For Foh believed the planets all were men,
And that the moon, in fact, was his own father,
Although but little of the ‘where’ and ‘when’
Could possibly be known, by which to gather
So strange a notion,—(but I before said
That he had curious notions on that head.)

XXV

—Thou huntress, who upon cerulean plains
Followest the stars, and with cold arrows bright
Dost pierce the green earth tho' it ne'er complains,
Because it worshippeth thy beauty. Night!
See how a beggar, here, thy sex arraigns.
Are all the poets wrong, and he aright?
Sweet Dian, art thou wronged by painter Foh?
Give me a speedy answer;—‘yes’ or ‘no?’—
224

XXVI

—These goddesses in truth are somewhat odd:—
I waited for an answer full a minute.
I've half a mind to ask her brother god:
He has an ear, if I could hope to win it.
I'm told some poets in his house have trod:
I wonder whether there 's a parlour in it—
I wonder where he dines,—I wonder whether
He sits or stands,—or eats and drinks together:

XXVII

I wonder—no: I'll wonder nothing more
At aught above the moon or aught that 's under;
Unless it be, standing on some wild shore,
To mark the curling billows burst in thunder,
Or hear the burning mountain howl and roar
As though 'twould split its own fierce heart asunder,
While far below the ashes crack and burn,
Precisely where you came,—and must return.
225

XXVIII

That trembling of the ground beneath one's feet,
As tho' 'twould swallow all in its red fury,
Is terrible; 'twould stretch a nerve of steel,
To be thus buried without judge or jury:
The thing is not fictitious, Sir, but real,
A truth, a fact, and this I do assure you:
I learnt it (for I own I'm no unraveller
Of Nature's secrets) from a friend—a traveller.

XXIX

This traveller (whom I know, and know no coward)
A short time since went up the flaming cone,
O'er dust, and lava rocks, and rivers dowered
With death, and on the summit lay alone
Midst the black ashes, whilst the crater showered
Its wrath, and there he heard the mountain groan,
And bellow like a creature racked with pain,
And sigh and moan like one who grieves in vain.
226

XXX

Oh! that Vesuvian beast—whose mouth is full
Of fire, whose breath is like the furnace blast;
What was the Ilian horse, or what the bull
(The brazen horror) that Perillus cast;
What is the kraken's splash, or the strange dull
Cry of the crocodile when Nile has past
By with his floods and left his slimy veins
Bare to the—thing (what is it?) that complains!

XXXI

It utters its red shouts, and all the shores
And hills and plains—the vallies—the tost ocean,
Shake like a wild stag when the lion roars;
And mighty forests totter in their emotion:
The shuddering billow lifts its head and pours
Its white strength out,—as tho' it had no notion
Whither it went, nor care:—the vast noise drowns
The laugh of cities, and the strife of towns.
227

XXXII

Slowly and slowly a bright river runs
Down the dark mountain's side, and takes its way—
Companioned by quick shocks like minute guns,
To where a little village lies,—or lay,
Till at the last, light like a thousand suns
Singes the wind, and bursts abroad like day
Trebled, thrice trebled—a hundred times—In brief
Beyond all calculation or belief.

XXXIII

And still the river runs, and still the ground
Shakes as in travail; and the vineyard leaves
Grow black and wither with a crackling sound,
And here and there some cottage upward heaves
Itself and falls; and nought is heard around
But cries of women, and the curse of thieves,
Who amidst plagues and earthquakes always plunder.
(—How they can pilfer then to me 's a wonder!)
228

XXXIV

Hark! to those noises,—like the rush of cars
And lashing thongs, and countless rattling wheels,
As though deep earth were shook by ruinous wars
Within, while every flaring blast reveals
Bubbles all o'er the sea as thick as stars,
And wide-rent chasms yawn till the sick sense reels,
And rivers are sucked in, and marshes rise,—
And still the cloudless blue is in the skies.

XXXV

But now Ocean begins to roar:—Its deeps
(Hitherto hid) are opened, and light fills
The caverns where the lazy sea-horse sleeps,
Who startled from his trance comes up and swills
Enormous waves in fear,—the dolphin leaps
Out of his element, and from the hills
The beasts run howling, while the darkened sun
Frowns as though Earth had lost and Hell had won.
229

XXXVI

—And still the river runs. At last it stops,
Huddled and massed, against some fence or wall,
Piling its strength until the ruin drops,
And then another, and then others fall,
Then gardens, houses, trees, the blushing crops
Of grapes, and corn; for nothing seems to pall
The appetite of fire, until it hies
Into the hissing sea,—and there it dies.

XXXVII

But to resume—for really after all it
Will never do and cannot be defended,
This—this digressing, or whate'er you call it,
Where foreign stuff with homespun thus is blended;
There may, and will, and must, some ill befall it,
Unless the system be soon dropped and ended:
If it go on there'll soon be, (there the bore is,)
No middle, and what's worse, no end to stories.
230

XXXVIII

So to resume—O beauty! O the light,
The love of women when they 're true—and young!
Their smile 's like morning and their eyes like night!
And that ambrosian bloom about them flung,
Rich as a rosy sunset, when the light
Is passing, and the vesper bell has rung
'Mongst the white Alps!—(the hue I mean is rose,
A blush—but pink, as every body knows.)

XXXIX

What is there like sweet women,—like their bloom,
Their necks outshaming the white dove's in whiteness,
Their small words hallowed by such fine perfume,
And their eyes flashing forth such fearful brightness
As might the heaviest blockhead well illume,
And make him tread like Zephyr in his lightness,
Their look, their lips, their clasp—Oh! thrilling touch,
Soft as—but really, I shall say too much.
231

XL

So I'll return to Foh:—Well, Foh was proud:
Not of his pallets, nor his paintings, no:
Such pride was poor, he said,—(This was aloud,
And therefore somewhat odd that I should know,
For secrets are the things to catch the crowd,
And a whisper travels miles where nought would go,
Save but a lie:—that beats it by some perches:
I've heard it tried in playhouses and churches.)

XLI

Yes, he was proud:—‘My only daughter,’ said he,
‘My Fohi, my sweet darling,’ (here he wept)
‘I hope to Ho’ (which means to Gad) ‘you're steady:
‘For if not,—and some tales have hither crept,—
‘Your friends have whispered—yes, I know they're ready
‘To waken stories that had better slept—
‘I know all that, my darling:—but I know,
‘That if you wed Phang's son my name's not Foh.’
232

[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Oh! Fohi, gentle Fohi,—art thou bowed
By misery,—mad,—distract,—a broken flower?
A China-aster covered by a cloud?
Thy vapours—did they pass in sigh and shower?
Thy anger—was it long and rather loud?
Thy love—a taper lit to last an hour?—
Blown to and fro by sobs, and snuffed by doubt,
And damped by scorn,—it hissed and then went out.

LII

And when 'twas dead, and when her grief was ended,
(Some fifteen minutes, by the Pekin clocks,
It ran away in tears) like one offended
By what had given her heart such shocking shocks,
She turned to spite from sorrow, and so blended
Her self-reprovings with such merry mocks,
That some believed she feigned, and some that strong
Passion had made her mad,—but they were wrong.
233

LIII

She was but (what girls are too often)—fickle;
Easily moved without or with a reason.—
Oh! would ye thrive, ye desperate lovers, tickle
Your mistress' vanity, and in due season
Water your words with tears; but let the sickle
Spare the gaunt folly-heards, and by degrees on
You'll get high as her heart,—that crockery shelf,
And there find fifty figures like yourself:

LIV

A shepherd, with his crook half-bent (through age);
An Alderman in liquor from Portsoken,
A soldier with his breast-plate crack'd;—a Sage
Who turns his leaves in vain for some love-token;
A dandy, ‘formed,’ as bards say, ‘to engage,’
Mending his manners while his bones are broken;
A dwarf, in body under height, and blind;
An officer of sappers—under mind:
234

LV

There may be seen the miser, sad but sly,
Letting his yellow gods at discount go,
(Coin for bare kisses); and the poet shy
Turning his gold to love, his notes to woe;
The high priest with the tenth pig o' the stye;
His amorous notions can no farther go;
If he succeeds, 'tis well—the pig 's forsaken,
And if he fails, at least ‘he saves his bacon.’

LVI

Fohi had lovers, though, ‘she never told
Her love,’ to any, save the joiner's son,
To whom she languished to be joined of old;
And now she called them over, one by one,
How she made sad the gay, and tamed the bold,
And with the gamester played at hearts and won;
And conquered cannoneers with bead-black glances;
And mowed down crops (of fools) at routs and dances.
235

LVII

Which should she choose?—Duke Han she feared had pride,
And though he flattered well, he might not wed:
Old Thong was palsy-struck from side to side,
And clumsy country Ching-ti too ill-bred:
The shaking Ho-ang she could not abide—
That very Mandarin from heel to head,
That thing, patch'd, painted, made of cork and wire,
Old (and almost as ugly) as her sire.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
previous section The Flood of Thessaly
next section