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321
FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART
323
THE POET AND THE CRITICS
If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly—Quis custodiet?
'Tis truly—Quis custodiet?
A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by Fourdrinier.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;—
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,—in fine,
A neat and “classical” Design.
But the in-Side?—Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,—more Imitation;—
Some Accidents of Inspiration;—
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;—
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by Fourdrinier.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;—
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,—in fine,
A neat and “classical” Design.
But the in-Side?—Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,—more Imitation;—
Some Accidents of Inspiration;—
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;—
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.
In the less-crowded Age of Anne,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;—
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from Pope!
But now, when Folks are hard to please,
And Poets are as thick as—Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . . No Matter.
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;—
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from Pope!
324
And Poets are as thick as—Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . . No Matter.
The Book, then, had a minor Credit:
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.—These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.—The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.—These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.—The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.
Sorely discomfited, our Bard
Worked for another ten Years—hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!
They tried and tested him, no less,—
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.—The Author may, in Time . . . .
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.—These little Songs display . . . .
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.
Worked for another ten Years—hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!
They tried and tested him, no less,—
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.—The Author may, in Time . . . .
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.—These little Songs display . . . .
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.
There is no Moral to this Tale.
325
THE TOYMAN
With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?Hereon men waste their Eloquence.
“Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.
How can you lend your Theme its Force?
How can you be direct and clear,
Concise, and (best of all) sincere,
If you must pen your Strain sublime
In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?
Who ever heard true Grief relate
Its artless Woes in ‘six’ and ‘eight’?
Or felt his manly Bosom swell
Beneath a French-made Villanelle?
How can your Mens divinior sing
Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring,
Where she must chant her Orphic Tale
In just so many Lines, or fail? . . .”
“Form is the first (the Others bawl);
If not, why write in Verse at all?
Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose
(If Verse be such Restraint) in Prose?
For surely if you speak your Soul
Most freely where there's least Control,
326
By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.
Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,
When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;
And barred no more by Lack of Skill,
The Mob may crowd Parnassus Hill! . .
Just at this Point—for you must know,
All this was but the To-and-fro
Of Matt and Dick who played with Thought,
And lingered longer than they ought
(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box
And trifle round a Paradox!)—
There came—but I forgot to say,
'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May—
There came a Fellow where they sat,
His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,
Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load
He set upon the Ground, and showed
His newest Toy—a Card with Strings.
On this side was a Bird with Wings,
On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!
The Twain were one.
All this was but the To-and-fro
Of Matt and Dick who played with Thought,
And lingered longer than they ought
(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box
And trifle round a Paradox!)—
There came—but I forgot to say,
'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May—
There came a Fellow where they sat,
His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,
Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load
He set upon the Ground, and showed
His newest Toy—a Card with Strings.
On this side was a Bird with Wings,
On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!
The Twain were one.
Said Matt, “E'en so
Here's the Solution in a Word:—
Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.
The Poet twirls them in his Mind,
And wins the Trick with both combined.”
Here's the Solution in a Word:—
Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.
The Poet twirls them in his Mind,
And wins the Trick with both combined.”
327
THE SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR
When Fate presents us with the Bays,
We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.
We scarcely think our Fame eternal
If vouched for by the Farthing Journal;
But when the Craftsman's self has spoken
We take it for a certain Token.
This an Example best will show,
Derived from Dennis Diderot.
We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.
We scarcely think our Fame eternal
If vouched for by the Farthing Journal;
But when the Craftsman's self has spoken
We take it for a certain Token.
This an Example best will show,
Derived from Dennis Diderot.
A hackney Author, who'd essayed
All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;
And failed to live by every Mode,
From Persian Tale to Birthday Ode;
Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,
In Theologic Speculation.
'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen
Had been most orthodox till then;
But oft, as Socrates has said,
The Stomach's stronger than the Head;
And, for a sudden Change of Creed,
There is no Jesuit like Need.
Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,
By force of Habit, from the Gaul.
He showed (the Trick is nowise new)
That Nothing we believe is true;
But chiefly that Mistake is rife
Touching the point of After-Life;
Here all were wrong from Plato down:
His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.
The Thing created quite a Scare:—
He got a Letter from Voltaire,
Naming him Ami and Confrère;
Besides two most attractive Offers
Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.
He fell forthwith his Head to lift,
To talk of “I and Dr. Sw---ft”
And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,
On equal Terms, with Bolingbroke.
But, at the last, a Missive came
That put the Copestone to his Fame.
The Boy who brought it would not wait:
It bore a Covent-Garden Date;—
A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink,
And Air of Bridewell or the Clink.
It ran in this wise:—Learned Sir!
We, whose Subscriptions follow here,
Desire to state our Fellow-feeling
In this Religion you're revealing.
You make it plain that if so be
We 'scape on Earth from Tyburn Tree,
There's nothing left for us to fear
In this—or any other Sphere.
We offer you our Thanks; and hope
Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!
With that came all the Names beneath,
As Blueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath,
Bet Careless, and the Rest—a Score
Of Rogues and Bona Robas more.
All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;
And failed to live by every Mode,
From Persian Tale to Birthday Ode;
Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,
In Theologic Speculation.
'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen
Had been most orthodox till then;
But oft, as Socrates has said,
The Stomach's stronger than the Head;
And, for a sudden Change of Creed,
There is no Jesuit like Need.
Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,
By force of Habit, from the Gaul.
328
That Nothing we believe is true;
But chiefly that Mistake is rife
Touching the point of After-Life;
Here all were wrong from Plato down:
His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.
The Thing created quite a Scare:—
He got a Letter from Voltaire,
Naming him Ami and Confrère;
Besides two most attractive Offers
Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.
He fell forthwith his Head to lift,
To talk of “I and Dr. Sw---ft”
And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,
On equal Terms, with Bolingbroke.
But, at the last, a Missive came
That put the Copestone to his Fame.
The Boy who brought it would not wait:
It bore a Covent-Garden Date;—
A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink,
And Air of Bridewell or the Clink.
It ran in this wise:—Learned Sir!
We, whose Subscriptions follow here,
Desire to state our Fellow-feeling
In this Religion you're revealing.
You make it plain that if so be
We 'scape on Earth from Tyburn Tree,
There's nothing left for us to fear
In this—or any other Sphere.
We offer you our Thanks; and hope
Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!
With that came all the Names beneath,
As Blueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath,
329
Of Rogues and Bona Robas more.
This Newgate Calendar he read:
'Tis not recorded what he said.
'Tis not recorded what he said.
330
THE DILETTANT
The most oppressive Form of Cant
Is that of your Art-Dilettant:—
Or rather “was.” The Race, I own,
To-day is, happily, unknown.
Is that of your Art-Dilettant:—
Or rather “was.” The Race, I own,
To-day is, happily, unknown.
A Painter, now by Fame forgot,
Had painted—'tis no matter what;
Enough that he resolved to try
The Verdict of a critic Eye.
The Friend he sought made no Pretence
To more than candid Common-sense,
Nor held himself from Fault exempt.
He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.
Then, pausing long, showed here and there
That Parts required a nicer Care,—
A closer Thought. The Artist heard,
Expostulated, chafed, demurred.
Had painted—'tis no matter what;
Enough that he resolved to try
The Verdict of a critic Eye.
The Friend he sought made no Pretence
To more than candid Common-sense,
Nor held himself from Fault exempt.
He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.
Then, pausing long, showed here and there
That Parts required a nicer Care,—
A closer Thought. The Artist heard,
Expostulated, chafed, demurred.
Just then popped in a passing Beau,
Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—
One of those Mushroom Growths that spring
From Grand Tours and from Tailoring;—
And dealing much in terms of Art
Picked up at Sale and auction Mart.
Straight to the Masterpiece he ran
With lifted Glass, and thus began,
Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—
“Sublime!—prodigious!—truly Greek!
That ‘Air of Head’ is just divine;
That contour Guido, every line;
That Forearm, too, has quite the Gusto
Of the third Manner of Robusto . . . .”
Then, with a Simper and a Cough,
He skipped a little farther off:—
“The middle Distance, too, is placed
Quite in the best Italian Taste;
And Nothing could be more effective
Than the Ordonnance and Perspective . . .
You've sold it?—No?—Then take my word,
I shall speak of it to My Lord.
What!—I insist. Don't stir, I beg.
Adieu!” With that he made a Leg,
Offered on either Side his Box,—
So took his Virtú off to Cock's.
Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—
One of those Mushroom Growths that spring
From Grand Tours and from Tailoring;—
And dealing much in terms of Art
Picked up at Sale and auction Mart.
331
With lifted Glass, and thus began,
Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—
“Sublime!—prodigious!—truly Greek!
That ‘Air of Head’ is just divine;
That contour Guido, every line;
That Forearm, too, has quite the Gusto
Of the third Manner of Robusto . . . .”
Then, with a Simper and a Cough,
He skipped a little farther off:—
“The middle Distance, too, is placed
Quite in the best Italian Taste;
And Nothing could be more effective
Than the Ordonnance and Perspective . . .
You've sold it?—No?—Then take my word,
I shall speak of it to My Lord.
What!—I insist. Don't stir, I beg.
Adieu!” With that he made a Leg,
Offered on either Side his Box,—
So took his Virtú off to Cock's.
The Critic, with a Shrug, once more
Turned to the Canvas as before.
“Nay,”—said the Painter—“I allow
The Worst that you can tell me now.
'Tis plain my Art must go to School,
To win such Praises—from a Fool!”
Turned to the Canvas as before.
“Nay,”—said the Painter—“I allow
The Worst that you can tell me now.
'Tis plain my Art must go to School,
To win such Praises—from a Fool!”
332
THE TWO PAINTERS
In Art some hold Themselves content
If they but compass what they meant;
Others prefer, their Purpose gained,
Still to find Something unattained—
Something whereto they vaguely grope
With no more Aid than that of Hope.
Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!
The prudent Follower of Gay
Declines to speak for either View,
But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.
If they but compass what they meant;
Others prefer, their Purpose gained,
Still to find Something unattained—
Something whereto they vaguely grope
With no more Aid than that of Hope.
Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!
The prudent Follower of Gay
Declines to speak for either View,
But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.
Once—'twas in good Queen Anna's Time—
While yet in this benighted Clime
The Genius of the Arts (now known
On mouldy Pediments alone)
Protected all the Men of Mark,
Two Painters met Her in the Park.
Whether She wore the Robe of Air
Portrayed by Verrio and Laguerre;
Or, like Belinda, trod this Earth,
Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,
And armed at every Point for Slaughter
With Essences and Orange-water,
I know not: but it seems that then,
After some talk of Brush and Pen,—
Some chat of Art both High and Low,
Of Van's “Goose-Pie” and Kneller's “Mot,”—
The Lady, as a Goddess should,
Bade Them ask of Her what They would.
“Then, Madam, my request,” says Brisk,
Giving his Ramillie a whisk,
“Is that your Majesty will crown
My humble Efforts with Renown.
Let me, I beg it—Thanks to You—
Be praised for Everything I do,
Whether I paint a Man of Note,
Or only plan a Petticoat.”
“Nay,” quoth the other, “I confess”
(This One was plainer in his Dress,
And even poorly clad), “for me,
I scorn Your Popularity.
Why should I care to catch at once
The Point of View of every Dunce?
Let me do well, indeed, but find
The Fancy first, the Work behind;
Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted . . .”
The Goddess both Petitions granted.
While yet in this benighted Clime
The Genius of the Arts (now known
On mouldy Pediments alone)
Protected all the Men of Mark,
Two Painters met Her in the Park.
Whether She wore the Robe of Air
Portrayed by Verrio and Laguerre;
Or, like Belinda, trod this Earth,
Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,
And armed at every Point for Slaughter
With Essences and Orange-water,
I know not: but it seems that then,
After some talk of Brush and Pen,—
333
Of Van's “Goose-Pie” and Kneller's “Mot,”—
The Lady, as a Goddess should,
Bade Them ask of Her what They would.
“Then, Madam, my request,” says Brisk,
Giving his Ramillie a whisk,
“Is that your Majesty will crown
My humble Efforts with Renown.
Let me, I beg it—Thanks to You—
Be praised for Everything I do,
Whether I paint a Man of Note,
Or only plan a Petticoat.”
“Nay,” quoth the other, “I confess”
(This One was plainer in his Dress,
And even poorly clad), “for me,
I scorn Your Popularity.
Why should I care to catch at once
The Point of View of every Dunce?
Let me do well, indeed, but find
The Fancy first, the Work behind;
Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted . . .”
The Goddess both Petitions granted.
Each in his Way, achieved Success;
But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.
But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.
334
THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE
Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame
Beneath some simple-sounding Name!
So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,
Will call Display but Proper Pride;
So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,
Curse not their Folly but the Jews;
So Madam, when her Roses faint,
Resorts to . . . anything but Paint.
Beneath some simple-sounding Name!
So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,
Will call Display but Proper Pride;
So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,
Curse not their Folly but the Jews;
So Madam, when her Roses faint,
Resorts to . . . anything but Paint.
An honest Uncle, who had plied
His Trade of Mercer in Cheapside,
Until his Name on 'Change was found
Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound,
Was burdened with an Heir inclined
To thoughts of quite a different Kind.
His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse
From Morn to Night, and, what was worse,
He quitted all at length to follow
That “sneaking, whey-faced God, Apollo.”
In plainer Words, he ran up Bills
At Child's, at Batson's, and at Will's;
Discussed the Claims of rival Bards
At Midnight,—with a Pack of Cards;
Or made excuse for “t'other Bottle”
Over a point in Aristotle.
This could not last, and like his Betters
He found, too soon, the Cost of Letters.
Back to his Uncle's House he flew,
Confessing that he'd not a Sou.
'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,
Were more poetical than clear:
“Alas!” he said, “I name no Names:
The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse has claims.”
His Uncle, who, behind his Till,
Knew less of Pindus than Snow-Hill,
Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)
That Youth but once can have its Day,
Equipped anew his Pride and Hope
To frisk it on Parnassus Slope.
In one short Month he sought the Door
More shorn and ragged than before.
This Time he showed but small Contrition,
And gloried in his mean Condition.
“The greatest of our Race,” he said,
“Through Asian Cities begged his Bread.
The Muse—the Muse delights to see
Not Broadcloth but Philosophy!
Who doubts of this her Honour shames,
But (as you know) she has her Claims . . . .”
“Friend,” quoth his Uncle then, “I doubt
This scurvy Craft that you're about
Will lead your philosophic Feet
Either to Bedlam or the Fleet.
Still, as I would not have you lack,
Go get some Broadcloth to your Back,
And—if it please this precious Muse—
'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes.
Though harkye, Sir . . . .” The Youth was gone,
Before the good Man could go on.
And yet ere long again was seen
That Votary of Hippocrene.
As along Cheap his Way he took,
His Uncle spied him by a Brook,
Not such as Nymphs Castalian pour,—
'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.
His Plight was plain by every Sign
Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.
He strove to rise, and wagged his Head—
“The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse—” he said.
“Muse!” quoth the Other, in a Fury,
“The Muse shan't serve you, I assure ye.
She's just some wanton, idle Jade
That makes young Fools forget their Trade,—
Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,
From Charing Cross to Ludgate Hill.
She's just . . . .” But he began to stutter,
So left Sir Graceless in the Gutter.
His Trade of Mercer in Cheapside,
Until his Name on 'Change was found
Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound,
Was burdened with an Heir inclined
To thoughts of quite a different Kind.
His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse
From Morn to Night, and, what was worse,
He quitted all at length to follow
That “sneaking, whey-faced God, Apollo.”
In plainer Words, he ran up Bills
At Child's, at Batson's, and at Will's;
Discussed the Claims of rival Bards
At Midnight,—with a Pack of Cards;
Or made excuse for “t'other Bottle”
Over a point in Aristotle.
This could not last, and like his Betters
335
Back to his Uncle's House he flew,
Confessing that he'd not a Sou.
'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,
Were more poetical than clear:
“Alas!” he said, “I name no Names:
The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse has claims.”
His Uncle, who, behind his Till,
Knew less of Pindus than Snow-Hill,
Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)
That Youth but once can have its Day,
Equipped anew his Pride and Hope
To frisk it on Parnassus Slope.
In one short Month he sought the Door
More shorn and ragged than before.
This Time he showed but small Contrition,
And gloried in his mean Condition.
“The greatest of our Race,” he said,
“Through Asian Cities begged his Bread.
The Muse—the Muse delights to see
Not Broadcloth but Philosophy!
Who doubts of this her Honour shames,
But (as you know) she has her Claims . . . .”
“Friend,” quoth his Uncle then, “I doubt
This scurvy Craft that you're about
Will lead your philosophic Feet
Either to Bedlam or the Fleet.
Still, as I would not have you lack,
Go get some Broadcloth to your Back,
And—if it please this precious Muse—
'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes.
Though harkye, Sir . . . .” The Youth was gone,
Before the good Man could go on.
336
That Votary of Hippocrene.
As along Cheap his Way he took,
His Uncle spied him by a Brook,
Not such as Nymphs Castalian pour,—
'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.
His Plight was plain by every Sign
Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.
He strove to rise, and wagged his Head—
“The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse—” he said.
“Muse!” quoth the Other, in a Fury,
“The Muse shan't serve you, I assure ye.
She's just some wanton, idle Jade
That makes young Fools forget their Trade,—
Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,
From Charing Cross to Ludgate Hill.
She's just . . . .” But he began to stutter,
So left Sir Graceless in the Gutter.
337
THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL
Nothing so idle as to waste
This Life disputing upon Taste;
And most—let that sad Truth be written—
In this contentious Land of Britain,
Where each one holds “it seems to me”
Equivalent to Q. E. D.,
And if you dare to doubt his Word
Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd.
And then, too often, the Debate
Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate,
Some narrow Issue, where a Touch
Of more or less can't matter much,
But, and this makes the Case so sad,
Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad.
Nay,—there are some so strangely wrought,—
So warped and twisted in their Thought,—
That, if the Fact be but confest,
They like the baser Thing the best.
Take Bottom, who for one, 'tis clear,
Possessed a “reasonable Ear”;
He might have had at his Command
The Symphonies of Fairy-Land;
Well, our immortal Shakespear owns
The Oaf preferred the “Tongs and Bones”!
'Squire Homespun from Clod-Hall rode down,
As the Phrase is—“to see the Town”;
(The Town, in those Days, mostly lay
Between the Tavern and the Play.)
Like all their Worships the J. P.'s,
He put up at the Hercules;
Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,
Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—
A curst, new-fangled Little-Ease,
That knocks your Nose against your Knees.
For the good 'Squire was Country-bred,
And had strange Notions in his Head,
Which made him see in every Cur
The starveling Breed of Hanover;
He classed your Kickshaws and Ragoos
With Popery and Wooden Shoes;
Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,
And sighed o'er Chaos Wine for Stingo.
This Life disputing upon Taste;
And most—let that sad Truth be written—
In this contentious Land of Britain,
Where each one holds “it seems to me”
Equivalent to Q. E. D.,
And if you dare to doubt his Word
Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd.
And then, too often, the Debate
Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate,
Some narrow Issue, where a Touch
Of more or less can't matter much,
But, and this makes the Case so sad,
Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad.
Nay,—there are some so strangely wrought,—
So warped and twisted in their Thought,—
That, if the Fact be but confest,
They like the baser Thing the best.
Take Bottom, who for one, 'tis clear,
Possessed a “reasonable Ear”;
He might have had at his Command
The Symphonies of Fairy-Land;
Well, our immortal Shakespear owns
The Oaf preferred the “Tongs and Bones”!
338
As the Phrase is—“to see the Town”;
(The Town, in those Days, mostly lay
Between the Tavern and the Play.)
Like all their Worships the J. P.'s,
He put up at the Hercules;
Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,
Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—
A curst, new-fangled Little-Ease,
That knocks your Nose against your Knees.
For the good 'Squire was Country-bred,
And had strange Notions in his Head,
Which made him see in every Cur
The starveling Breed of Hanover;
He classed your Kickshaws and Ragoos
With Popery and Wooden Shoes;
Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,
And sighed o'er Chaos Wine for Stingo.
Hence, as he wandered to and fro,
Nothing could please him, high or low.
As Savages at Ships of War
He looked unawed on Temple-Bar;
Scarce could conceal his Discontent
With Fish-Street and the Monument;
And might (except at Feeding-Hour)
Have scorned the Lion in the Tower,
But that the Lion's Race was run,
And—for the Moment—there was none.
Nothing could please him, high or low.
As Savages at Ships of War
He looked unawed on Temple-Bar;
Scarce could conceal his Discontent
With Fish-Street and the Monument;
And might (except at Feeding-Hour)
Have scorned the Lion in the Tower,
But that the Lion's Race was run,
And—for the Moment—there was none.
At length, blind Fate, that drives us all,
Brought him at Even to Vauxhall,
What Time the eager Matron jerks
Her slow Spouse to the Water-Works,
And the coy Spinster, half-afraid,
Consults the Hermit in the Shade.
Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire
Sank in a Seat before the Choir.
The Faustinetta, fair and showy,
Warbled an Air from Arsinoë,
Playing her Bosom and her Eyes
As Swans do when they agonize.
Alas! to some a Mug of Ale
Is better than an Orphic Tale!
The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored;
His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored.
Then, straying thro' the “poppied Reign,”
He dreamed him at Clod-Hall again;
He heard once more the well-known Sounds,
The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.
He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo!
A Change had come upon the Show.
Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow,
Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow,
Was mimicking a Cock that crew.
Then came the Cry of Hounds anew,
Yoicks! Stole Away! and harking back;
Then Ringwood leading up the Pack.
The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee
At this most hugeous Pleasantry.
The sawn Wood followed; last of all
The Man brought something in a Shawl,—
Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked
As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.
Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sit,
So excellent he thought the Wit.
But when Sir Wag drew off the Sheath
And showed there was no Pig beneath,
His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,
Exploded in a long Guffaw:
And, to his dying Day, he'd swear
That Naught in Town the Bell could bear
From “Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat
That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!”
Brought him at Even to Vauxhall,
339
Her slow Spouse to the Water-Works,
And the coy Spinster, half-afraid,
Consults the Hermit in the Shade.
Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire
Sank in a Seat before the Choir.
The Faustinetta, fair and showy,
Warbled an Air from Arsinoë,
Playing her Bosom and her Eyes
As Swans do when they agonize.
Alas! to some a Mug of Ale
Is better than an Orphic Tale!
The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored;
His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored.
Then, straying thro' the “poppied Reign,”
He dreamed him at Clod-Hall again;
He heard once more the well-known Sounds,
The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.
He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo!
A Change had come upon the Show.
Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow,
Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow,
Was mimicking a Cock that crew.
Then came the Cry of Hounds anew,
Yoicks! Stole Away! and harking back;
Then Ringwood leading up the Pack.
The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee
At this most hugeous Pleasantry.
The sawn Wood followed; last of all
The Man brought something in a Shawl,—
Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked
As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.
340
So excellent he thought the Wit.
But when Sir Wag drew off the Sheath
And showed there was no Pig beneath,
His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,
Exploded in a long Guffaw:
And, to his dying Day, he'd swear
That Naught in Town the Bell could bear
From “Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat
That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!”
Moral the First you may discover:
The 'Squire was like Titania's lover;
He put a squeaking Pig before
The Harmony of Clayton's Score.
The 'Squire was like Titania's lover;
He put a squeaking Pig before
The Harmony of Clayton's Score.
Moral the Second—not so clear;
But still it shall be added here:
He praised the Thing he understood;
'Twere well if every Critic would.
But still it shall be added here:
He praised the Thing he understood;
'Twere well if every Critic would.
341
THE CLIMACTERIC
When do the reasoning Powers decline?
The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.
At Forty-Nine behoves it then
To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,
Since Aristotle so decreed.
Premising thus, we now proceed.
The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.
At Forty-Nine behoves it then
To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,
Since Aristotle so decreed.
Premising thus, we now proceed.
In that thrice-favoured Northern Land,
Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,
And all things nebulous grow clear
Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,
There lived, at Dumpelsheim the Lesser,
A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.
Than Grotius more alert and quick,
More logical than Burgersdyck,
His Lectures both so much transcended,
That far and wide his Fame extended,
Proclaiming him to every clime
Within a Mile of Dumpelsheim.
But chief he taught, by Day and Night,
The Doctrine of the Stagirite,
Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,
In Ways that none could well refute;
For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men
O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,
He'd show unanswerably still
Either that all they did was “Nil,”
Or else 'twas marked by Indication
Of grievous mental Degradation:
Nay—he could even trace, they say,
That Degradation to a Day.
Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,
And all things nebulous grow clear
Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,
There lived, at Dumpelsheim the Lesser,
A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.
Than Grotius more alert and quick,
More logical than Burgersdyck,
His Lectures both so much transcended,
That far and wide his Fame extended,
Proclaiming him to every clime
Within a Mile of Dumpelsheim.
But chief he taught, by Day and Night,
The Doctrine of the Stagirite,
Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,
In Ways that none could well refute;
For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men
O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,
342
Either that all they did was “Nil,”
Or else 'twas marked by Indication
Of grievous mental Degradation:
Nay—he could even trace, they say,
That Degradation to a Day.
The Years rolled on, and as they flew,
More famed the Herr Professor grew,
His “Locus of the Pineal Gland”
(A Masterpiece he long had planned)
Had reached the End of Book Eleven,
And he was nearing Forty-Seven.
Admirers had not long to wait;
The last Book came at Forty-Eight,
And should have been the Heart and Soul—
The Crown and Summit—of the whole.
But now the oddest Thing ensued;
'Twas so insufferably crude,
So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain
The Writer's Mind was on the wane.
Nothing could possibly be said;
E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,
While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,
Denounced it openly as “Drivel.”
Never was such Collapse. In brief,
The poor Professor died of Grief.
More famed the Herr Professor grew,
His “Locus of the Pineal Gland”
(A Masterpiece he long had planned)
Had reached the End of Book Eleven,
And he was nearing Forty-Seven.
Admirers had not long to wait;
The last Book came at Forty-Eight,
And should have been the Heart and Soul—
The Crown and Summit—of the whole.
But now the oddest Thing ensued;
'Twas so insufferably crude,
So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain
The Writer's Mind was on the wane.
Nothing could possibly be said;
E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,
While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,
Denounced it openly as “Drivel.”
Never was such Collapse. In brief,
The poor Professor died of Grief.
With fitting mortuary Rhyme
They buried him at Dumpelsheim,
And as they sorrowing set about
A “Short Memoir,” the Truth came out.
He had been older than he knew.
The Parish Clerk had put a “2”
In place of “Nought,” and made his Date
Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.
When he had written Book the Last,
His true Climacteric had past!
Moral.—To estimate your Worth,
They buried him at Dumpelsheim,
And as they sorrowing set about
A “Short Memoir,” the Truth came out.
343
The Parish Clerk had put a “2”
In place of “Nought,” and made his Date
Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.
When he had written Book the Last,
His true Climacteric had past!
Be certain as to date of Birth.
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