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215
THE CONVERSAZIONE.
217
THE CONVERSAZIONE.
The cards dispers'd, the guests invited,
The curtains drawn, the candles lighted;
In silver state, the port, the sherry,
The strong bohea, the fragrant berry;
A crowd of Literati rush,
And storm the door of Mr. Brush!
Say, wherefore, Muse, this outward din,
This pomp and circumstance within?
Lo, Brush—who gives to City Madam
As many charms, as if she had 'em;
And tricks out Aldermanic phiz
With sense and meaning—what a quiz!
And makes a form, however queer,
Start forth Apollo Belvidere—
Lo, Brush,—a man of paint and letters—
In imitation of his betters—
Brush—in th' Academy, a star, a
Wit, craniologist, and R. A.—
Must have his little batch of Bards
To conversation, tea, and cards.
Lightly tripping up the stairs,
The motley party mount in pairs,
Economics, from Lombard Street,
And Metaphysics, from the Fleet!
Whitechapel prose, and verse that smacks
Of Ludgate, and St. Mary-Axe!
Yon dapper coxcomb, sprucely drest,
Is one, whose rhyme is in request;
While he, who creeps from loftier stories,
Is one, whose poetry a bore is.
Yet here, like sprites, they mingle may,
The wit, the dunce, the grave, the gay;
The young, the old, the short, the tall;
To Mr. Brush they're welcome, all.
The curtains drawn, the candles lighted;
In silver state, the port, the sherry,
The strong bohea, the fragrant berry;
A crowd of Literati rush,
And storm the door of Mr. Brush!
Say, wherefore, Muse, this outward din,
This pomp and circumstance within?
Lo, Brush—who gives to City Madam
As many charms, as if she had 'em;
And tricks out Aldermanic phiz
With sense and meaning—what a quiz!
And makes a form, however queer,
Start forth Apollo Belvidere—
Lo, Brush,—a man of paint and letters—
In imitation of his betters—
Brush—in th' Academy, a star, a
Wit, craniologist, and R. A.—
Must have his little batch of Bards
To conversation, tea, and cards.
218
The motley party mount in pairs,
Economics, from Lombard Street,
And Metaphysics, from the Fleet!
Whitechapel prose, and verse that smacks
Of Ludgate, and St. Mary-Axe!
Yon dapper coxcomb, sprucely drest,
Is one, whose rhyme is in request;
While he, who creeps from loftier stories,
Is one, whose poetry a bore is.
Yet here, like sprites, they mingle may,
The wit, the dunce, the grave, the gay;
The young, the old, the short, the tall;
To Mr. Brush they're welcome, all.
They reach the drawing-room; where, lo,
Sits Mr. Brush, in statu quo,
Lord of his Tusculum—Soho!
His wife and daughters either side,
Apollo's playthings and his pride!
Around, about, above, beneath,
See “Friendship's Off'ring,” “Winter's Wreath,”
“The Keepsake,” “Amulet,” and “Bijou,”
Brimful of pretty prints to please you!
Smart periodical bouquèts,
That bloom and wither while we gaze,
Then sink in Dulness' lap to rest,
For she takes first what she loves best!
Though in the desart, drear and dry,
A limpid stream conceal'd may lie,
'Tis hardly worth our while to grope
Pandora's box, in search of “Hope.”
Sits Mr. Brush, in statu quo,
Lord of his Tusculum—Soho!
His wife and daughters either side,
Apollo's playthings and his pride!
Around, about, above, beneath,
See “Friendship's Off'ring,” “Winter's Wreath,”
“The Keepsake,” “Amulet,” and “Bijou,”
Brimful of pretty prints to please you!
Smart periodical bouquèts,
That bloom and wither while we gaze,
Then sink in Dulness' lap to rest,
219
Though in the desart, drear and dry,
A limpid stream conceal'd may lie,
'Tis hardly worth our while to grope
Pandora's box, in search of “Hope.”
Now mutual compliments begin,
The weekly critic cocks his chin,
For as a Mag. transcends a journal,
Your seven-days' scribe precedes diurnal.
Where'er he rolls in awkward state,
The smaller wits attendant wait,
Fearing an Informatem fulmen,
For critics are the dread of dull men.
A virgin Muse her off'ring brings,
A tender Ode in leading strings;
A smile intreats, a corner begs,
To set the bantling on its legs.
Bowing and scraping, from his attic,
With humble suit, the bard dramatic,
Beseeches Aristarch to say
A word in favour of his play—
For, now-a-days, a friendly puff,
And Madame Vestris, half in buff,
And Liston's face, are quantum suff,
To make a comedy legitimate,
Say Mr. Mathews and his witty mate.
The weekly critic cocks his chin,
For as a Mag. transcends a journal,
Your seven-days' scribe precedes diurnal.
Where'er he rolls in awkward state,
The smaller wits attendant wait,
Fearing an Informatem fulmen,
For critics are the dread of dull men.
A virgin Muse her off'ring brings,
A tender Ode in leading strings;
A smile intreats, a corner begs,
To set the bantling on its legs.
Bowing and scraping, from his attic,
With humble suit, the bard dramatic,
Beseeches Aristarch to say
A word in favour of his play—
For, now-a-days, a friendly puff,
And Madame Vestris, half in buff,
And Liston's face, are quantum suff,
220
Say Mr. Mathews and his witty mate.
Woman's scorn, and manhood's shame,
A nondescript, without a name,
A pompous gig, it takes its round,
Repulsive, leaden, and profound.
With all its gravity of mien,
It dearly loves a jest obscene,
And if a fool profanely sin,
Good Lord, how horrible its grin!
Ungrateful, selfish, vainly blind,
It cheats itself, and not mankind;
Who pass from theory to fact,
Compare its scribbling, with its act,—
And find the one, as much with sense
At war, as t'other with pretence.
With ambiguity of speech,
Arraigning truths above its reach,
Propounding queries, splitting straws,
Chance, fate, free-will, effect and cause;
Whichever way its humour leans,
The more it talks, the less it means.
A nondescript, without a name,
A pompous gig, it takes its round,
Repulsive, leaden, and profound.
With all its gravity of mien,
It dearly loves a jest obscene,
And if a fool profanely sin,
221
Ungrateful, selfish, vainly blind,
It cheats itself, and not mankind;
Who pass from theory to fact,
Compare its scribbling, with its act,—
And find the one, as much with sense
At war, as t'other with pretence.
With ambiguity of speech,
Arraigning truths above its reach,
Propounding queries, splitting straws,
Chance, fate, free-will, effect and cause;
Whichever way its humour leans,
The more it talks, the less it means.
Sly Reynard left, by odd mishap,
His tail behind him in a trap;
And wishing not to look exclusive,
He tried, by argument conclusive,
To prove to all the Reynards round,
That tails were better lost, than found!
But nought his sophistry avails,
They heard the wag, and wagg'd their tails!
Admiring much the fashion new,
Yet thought it best to keep them too!
And we, who know what orthodox is,
And what, without a tail, a fox is!
Laugh, when the sceptic would persuade us
Out of the Providence that made us.
His tail behind him in a trap;
And wishing not to look exclusive,
He tried, by argument conclusive,
To prove to all the Reynards round,
That tails were better lost, than found!
But nought his sophistry avails,
They heard the wag, and wagg'd their tails!
Admiring much the fashion new,
Yet thought it best to keep them too!
And we, who know what orthodox is,
And what, without a tail, a fox is!
Laugh, when the sceptic would persuade us
Out of the Providence that made us.
222
Lumb'ring, and tugging up the hill
Of modern metaphysics,—Mill,
A heavy proser, dull and futile, he
Th' eternal question puts, “Quid utile?”—
And though no sailor born or bred,
Gramercy! how he heaves the lead!
And then, the northern drone, M`Culloch,
Whose system classes man with bullock,—
That system, (Ethics thrive apace!)
A bull!—perks forth his lacquer'd face.
Each erring in a different school,
How strange the contest, fool with fool!
In science various ways they pull,
Yet still, unanimously dull!
Of modern metaphysics,—Mill,
A heavy proser, dull and futile, he
Th' eternal question puts, “Quid utile?”—
And though no sailor born or bred,
Gramercy! how he heaves the lead!
And then, the northern drone, M`Culloch,
Whose system classes man with bullock,—
That system, (Ethics thrive apace!)
A bull!—perks forth his lacquer'd face.
Each erring in a different school,
How strange the contest, fool with fool!
In science various ways they pull,
Yet still, unanimously dull!
Superlatively queer the cant
Of long-ear'd Puritans that rant,
Of owl-ey'd critics hypercritical,
Of quacks, poetical, political,
Of craniologists, and all
From Spurzheim, down to Dr. Gall;
Or deeper, ay, and deeper still,
From Dr. Gall, to Dan Deville!
But not, the Calvinistic cant
Of long-ear'd Puritans that rant;
The cant of critics hypercritical,
Of quacks, poetical, political,
Of craniologists, and all
From Spurzheim, down to Dr. Gall;
Or deeper, ay, and deeper still,
From Dr. Gall, to Dan Deville!—
Is half so comical, in sooth,
As that queer cant—the cant of Truth,
Which dull philosophers grope out
Of darkness, apathy, and doubt!
Enough for me, the sacred page
(My guide in youth, my hope in age,)
More than Philosophy hath giv'n,
Life, immortality, and heav'n!
A joy that knows nor guilt, nor fear,
A balm for sorrow's bitt'rest tear,
A truth by Sages handed down,
Who bears the cross shall win the crown.
Of long-ear'd Puritans that rant,
Of owl-ey'd critics hypercritical,
Of quacks, poetical, political,
Of craniologists, and all
From Spurzheim, down to Dr. Gall;
Or deeper, ay, and deeper still,
From Dr. Gall, to Dan Deville!
But not, the Calvinistic cant
223
The cant of critics hypercritical,
Of quacks, poetical, political,
Of craniologists, and all
From Spurzheim, down to Dr. Gall;
Or deeper, ay, and deeper still,
From Dr. Gall, to Dan Deville!—
Is half so comical, in sooth,
As that queer cant—the cant of Truth,
Which dull philosophers grope out
Of darkness, apathy, and doubt!
Enough for me, the sacred page
(My guide in youth, my hope in age,)
More than Philosophy hath giv'n,
Life, immortality, and heav'n!
A joy that knows nor guilt, nor fear,
A balm for sorrow's bitt'rest tear,
A truth by Sages handed down,
Who bears the cross shall win the crown.
Mark yon fribbled form of fungus,
How the deuce came she among us?
Quite a negative, I'm told,
Neither very young, nor old,
Dull nor witty, hot nor cold!
Wheresoe'er she turns her eyes,
Cupid claps his wings, and flies;
Venus, and her turtles too,
Scream, and Hymen's torch burns blue!
“Woe,” she croaks, “to man's increase,
Quick let propagation cease;
Malthus' system shall be tried,
And nought but pence be multiplied.”
Were all the world like thee and him,
A quean so scowling, and so grim,
A cynic of so queer a genus,
The merry bells had ne'er (between us,)
Rang “Consummatum est,” my Venus!
How the deuce came she among us?
Quite a negative, I'm told,
Neither very young, nor old,
Dull nor witty, hot nor cold!
224
Cupid claps his wings, and flies;
Venus, and her turtles too,
Scream, and Hymen's torch burns blue!
“Woe,” she croaks, “to man's increase,
Quick let propagation cease;
Malthus' system shall be tried,
And nought but pence be multiplied.”
Were all the world like thee and him,
A quean so scowling, and so grim,
A cynic of so queer a genus,
The merry bells had ne'er (between us,)
Rang “Consummatum est,” my Venus!
The actor mounts his tragic stole,
And makes Macbeth exceeding droll;
Till, in his periwig combustion,
Will. Shakespeare sounds like Irish fustian,
In which Macready tears a cat,
And Shiel, the patriot, writes so pat;
A sort of linsey-woolsey tyrant,
Between low comedy, and high rant.
The monkey-mimic makes essay,
And plays Tom Fool a diff'rent way;
When all the company that pass,
Are seen reflected in his glass,
With air and attitude absurd,
Suiting the action to the word!
The craniologist, the sconces
Feeling alike, of wits and dunces,
A doughty argument he thumps,
Discoursing learnedly on bumps.
Pardieu! if we believe the caitiff,
Mine host has got the bump amative!
Which Mrs. Brush, who loves phrenology,
Says, stands in need of no apology!
But see, yon group of merry faces;
Sure Punch the genius of the place is;
Loud laughter peals, what makes the fun stir?
'Tis Mr. Merryman, the punster.
And makes Macbeth exceeding droll;
Till, in his periwig combustion,
Will. Shakespeare sounds like Irish fustian,
In which Macready tears a cat,
And Shiel, the patriot, writes so pat;
A sort of linsey-woolsey tyrant,
Between low comedy, and high rant.
The monkey-mimic makes essay,
And plays Tom Fool a diff'rent way;
When all the company that pass,
225
With air and attitude absurd,
Suiting the action to the word!
The craniologist, the sconces
Feeling alike, of wits and dunces,
A doughty argument he thumps,
Discoursing learnedly on bumps.
Pardieu! if we believe the caitiff,
Mine host has got the bump amative!
Which Mrs. Brush, who loves phrenology,
Says, stands in need of no apology!
But see, yon group of merry faces;
Sure Punch the genius of the place is;
Loud laughter peals, what makes the fun stir?
'Tis Mr. Merryman, the punster.
To wake the soul with hum'rous strokes,
To crack the sides of honest folks,
To banish care, dispel ennui,
With social merriment and glee,
For this, did Momus, muse of fun,
Ordain that jackanapes, a pun!
Yet Wit, like folks in higher station,
Will sometimes flout this poor relation,
And, more provoking still, pretend
To treat it as an humble friend—
As some proud Fair, neat, trimly dress'd
All in her brilliants and her best,
To heighten beauty's magic pow'r,
Adorns it with the simplest flow'r;
So Wit, from Pun will condescend
To borrow grace, as well as lend—
The Dean, that humourist Cervantic,
One fav'rite had—'twas Pun, the antic!
The which he loved passing well,
His motto, “Vive la Bagatelle!”
To crack the sides of honest folks,
To banish care, dispel ennui,
With social merriment and glee,
For this, did Momus, muse of fun,
Ordain that jackanapes, a pun!
Yet Wit, like folks in higher station,
Will sometimes flout this poor relation,
And, more provoking still, pretend
To treat it as an humble friend—
As some proud Fair, neat, trimly dress'd
226
To heighten beauty's magic pow'r,
Adorns it with the simplest flow'r;
So Wit, from Pun will condescend
To borrow grace, as well as lend—
The Dean, that humourist Cervantic,
One fav'rite had—'twas Pun, the antic!
The which he loved passing well,
His motto, “Vive la Bagatelle!”
In little knots the Party split is,
Frisking, and chatt'ring in committees:
What fidget, fuss, and much ado,
How pass the pronouns, I and You!
Yet here, behold a nation's hopes;
See future Miltons, Drydens, Popes!
For these, alas! in sooth to say,
Have shone, exhal'd, and pass'd away.
Transcending far the ancient school,
Hail, Pocock, Planchè, Peake, and Poole!
All hail, Paul Clifford! mightier Bulwer,
To whom e'en Fielding, Smollett, dull were!
As thou, supreme in verse and prose art,
Lo, Parry outshines Haydn, Mozart!
The treasur'd Lore of ages past,
Grown out of date, is crumbling fast;
Religion, Morals, Party, Sect,
Bow to the March of Intellect!
That march—which, to the right about
Sends Truth—puts Reason to the rout;
Bids Virtue halt—(rare tactics these!)
And cries to Morals—“Stand at ease!”
Frisking, and chatt'ring in committees:
What fidget, fuss, and much ado,
How pass the pronouns, I and You!
Yet here, behold a nation's hopes;
See future Miltons, Drydens, Popes!
For these, alas! in sooth to say,
Have shone, exhal'd, and pass'd away.
Transcending far the ancient school,
Hail, Pocock, Planchè, Peake, and Poole!
All hail, Paul Clifford! mightier Bulwer,
To whom e'en Fielding, Smollett, dull were!
As thou, supreme in verse and prose art,
Lo, Parry outshines Haydn, Mozart!
The treasur'd Lore of ages past,
Grown out of date, is crumbling fast;
Religion, Morals, Party, Sect,
227
That march—which, to the right about
Sends Truth—puts Reason to the rout;
Bids Virtue halt—(rare tactics these!)
And cries to Morals—“Stand at ease!”
Behold a tribe, unknown to Phœbus,
Contributors of rhyme and rebus;
Old Ladies, Misses in their teens,
That warble in the magazines.
And then, the little flock of males,
That flutter, frisk, and cock their tails;
Major Journalists, and minors,
Versemen, Prosemen, Penny-a-liners;
Gentlemen, who live by guess,
Call'd facetiously, “The Press.”
The novelist aristocratic,
That starves the author in his attic,
And takes his manuscript to Colburn,
When he in pity should the whole burn—
Which is the readiest scribe, whose books
Go fastest to the pastry-cook's,
Or quietly give up the ghost,
He best can tell, who prints the most!
Contributors of rhyme and rebus;
Old Ladies, Misses in their teens,
That warble in the magazines.
And then, the little flock of males,
That flutter, frisk, and cock their tails;
Major Journalists, and minors,
Versemen, Prosemen, Penny-a-liners;
Gentlemen, who live by guess,
Call'd facetiously, “The Press.”
The novelist aristocratic,
That starves the author in his attic,
And takes his manuscript to Colburn,
When he in pity should the whole burn—
Which is the readiest scribe, whose books
Go fastest to the pastry-cook's,
Or quietly give up the ghost,
He best can tell, who prints the most!
Now damn'd be he who hears thee puff,
And cries, “Hal Colburn, hold, enough!”
For since the first-born Puffer, down
To Packwood's strops, for half-a-crown;
Rowland's Macassar, Wright's Champagne,
Hunt's patent roasted—(rogue in grain!
Whose Blacking makes our leather soon shine,)
Thou art the very prince of moonshine!
Blest as th' immortal Gods is he,
The lucky scribe, who prints with thee
His waste demy, in volumes three!
For through the town thy trumpet blows
The merits of his verse and prose,
Then how he struts, and frets, and crows!
And shines (where Fame would blush to enter,)
Of ev'ry little group the centre.
And cries, “Hal Colburn, hold, enough!”
228
To Packwood's strops, for half-a-crown;
Rowland's Macassar, Wright's Champagne,
Hunt's patent roasted—(rogue in grain!
Whose Blacking makes our leather soon shine,)
Thou art the very prince of moonshine!
Blest as th' immortal Gods is he,
The lucky scribe, who prints with thee
His waste demy, in volumes three!
For through the town thy trumpet blows
The merits of his verse and prose,
Then how he struts, and frets, and crows!
And shines (where Fame would blush to enter,)
Of ev'ry little group the centre.
Cards, what mortal can resist?
Loo unlimited, and whist—
Shuffle, cut—the man of bumps
Takes the lead; the wit, the trumps!
Laura hopes her Heart to save,
But, how absolute the Knave!
See it falls a glorious prize;
And captive next, her Honour lies!
Thus Fortune, in a pack of cards,
Each diff'rent character regards;
The Tricks she gives to Punster Hood,
And the Philosopher is loo'd!
Loo unlimited, and whist—
Shuffle, cut—the man of bumps
Takes the lead; the wit, the trumps!
Laura hopes her Heart to save,
But, how absolute the Knave!
See it falls a glorious prize;
And captive next, her Honour lies!
Thus Fortune, in a pack of cards,
Each diff'rent character regards;
The Tricks she gives to Punster Hood,
And the Philosopher is loo'd!
229
Hark, the Music! quiv'ring, quaking,
Voices tuning, elbows shaking;
Treble, base—each throws a hum in,
Some folks out of tune, and some in;
How they snuffle, squeak, and snort it,
Duet, Trio, Quintett, Quartett.
Voices tuning, elbows shaking;
Treble, base—each throws a hum in,
Some folks out of tune, and some in;
How they snuffle, squeak, and snort it,
Duet, Trio, Quintett, Quartett.
Supper past—the hour approaches
(Hark! I hear the sound of coaches,)
When the little group must sever,
Cruel fate! but not for ever.
Laura, by the silver moon,
Drops a tear, but wipes it soon;
Edwin writes an ode upon it,
L--- a rebus, E--- a sonnet!
Softly pillow'd, be their slumbers
Sweet and pleasant as their numbers;
Sound, as ev'ry Member's doze
When Joe Hume, or Bowring prose;
Or, when Science, in a panic,
Lulls intelligent Mechanic;
Or, at Presbyterian Synod,
Where the Elders low and high, nod!
Morn appearing—Ladies, Bards,
Welcome Invitation cards—
The Philosopher—no stickler—
In religion not partic'lar—
Hopes on Sunday next to see
All its lib'ral friends to tea!
When 'twill prove beyond denial,
Heav'n and Providence a lie all.
Afterwards 'twill bring to view
Old Society, and New—
In the first, what roguish priestcraft!
In the latter, not the least craft!
Halcyon days! when lusty Hymen
Shall no more to women tie men;
But when each shall choose a dear,
Like an “Annual”—ev'ry year!
Up, disorder! down, decorum!
When the Fair shall mount the Forum;
Pass their judgments, give their votes,
Lycurguses in petticoats!
When—but like the Bear and Fiddle,
We must break off in the middle—
—Sunday next shall solve the riddle.
(Hark! I hear the sound of coaches,)
When the little group must sever,
Cruel fate! but not for ever.
Laura, by the silver moon,
Drops a tear, but wipes it soon;
Edwin writes an ode upon it,
L--- a rebus, E--- a sonnet!
Softly pillow'd, be their slumbers
Sweet and pleasant as their numbers;
Sound, as ev'ry Member's doze
When Joe Hume, or Bowring prose;
Or, when Science, in a panic,
Lulls intelligent Mechanic;
230
Where the Elders low and high, nod!
Morn appearing—Ladies, Bards,
Welcome Invitation cards—
The Philosopher—no stickler—
In religion not partic'lar—
Hopes on Sunday next to see
All its lib'ral friends to tea!
When 'twill prove beyond denial,
Heav'n and Providence a lie all.
Afterwards 'twill bring to view
Old Society, and New—
In the first, what roguish priestcraft!
In the latter, not the least craft!
Halcyon days! when lusty Hymen
Shall no more to women tie men;
But when each shall choose a dear,
Like an “Annual”—ev'ry year!
Up, disorder! down, decorum!
When the Fair shall mount the Forum;
Pass their judgments, give their votes,
Lycurguses in petticoats!
When—but like the Bear and Fiddle,
We must break off in the middle—
—Sunday next shall solve the riddle.
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