A serio-comic and admonitory epistle, addressed to a certain priest With a grave, solemn, and sublime epistle, addressed to certain critics. With an amatory ode to Eliza. To which is prefixed, An address to the reader, Respecting some late Conduct of the Rev. C---- B----, Curate of W----;. By Anthony Pasquin |
A serio-comic and admonitory epistle, addressed to a certain priest | ||
Nec in bicipiti somniâsse Parnasso
Memini, ut repentè sic Poëta prodirem.
Heliconidasque, pallidamque Pirenen
Illis remitto, quorum imagines lambunt
Hederæ sequaces. Ipse semipaganus
Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum.”
Persius; Sat. Prolog. I ne'er did on Parnassus take a slumber;
Nor ever tasted of that famous spring,
Which maketh poets so sublimely sing;
By washing from their heads all kinds of lumber.
In short, it does so purge and scour their brains,
That bards, thus favour'd, chaunt with ease their strains.
On me the muses look with bashful mind;
Prudes,—they perhaps want courting to be kind.
I love the girl, who, willing, yields her charms,
And cries, come, Pasquin, come unto my arms.
—Thus then to me no powers of verse belong!
I only sing an humble rustic's song.
Yet touch'd and sham'd by Ridicule alone.”
Pope.
No creature smarts so little as a Fool.”
Id.
A GRAVE, SOLEMN, AND SUBLIME EPISTLE;
ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICS.
THE ARGUMENT OF THE WORK.
The poet begins by paying his respects (as becometh him) to the reverend, sage, and great critics;—to the sapient and well-skilled old maids, &c. &c. which composed the grand council which was summoned by Boram to sit in judgement on two straggling, unfortunate, but inoffensive, letters; which however had given Boram great and terrible alarm.—Equal alarm, gentle reader, as tho' they had been a warrant, or had proclaimed the rough voice of those birds of justice, vulgarly ycleped bum-bailiffs.—He addresseth these mighty personages in a grave, solemn, and sublime epistle, done in the poet's best manner.—He humbly remonstrates with them (who are qualified to sit in the highest chair of criticism), on the demeaning themselves so much as to even deign to look at such little miscarriages—such trifling productions of an author's pen, as private letters.—Such great people attacking these weak things, is like a parcel of crows and hawks devouring the harmless carcase of a poor little wren.—These great censors exhort Boram to take no notice of these things.—Commend their own learning, but don't like to shew it, except on grave and great occasions. “Nec deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus inciderit” says Horace, and so it seems think they.
They desire the priest when he goes to shew Lord---the offending Letters, and to request his interference and chastisement of the daring author, that he would at the same time remind him of B---kl---w living, which the priest thinks very long in coming to him.—The ill-nature of the incumbent noticed in being so long-winded, and not civilly departing this life to please his superiors.—The Pope and the Devil. A new and sure method to hasten the departure of the present possessor of this living, and to ensure it to the man of B--- house.
Next follows an Exordium, in which is given a poetical account of the hero of the
The chief poem then opens with a solemn invocation to the genius of Pindar to assist the bard in this grave undertaking.—He invokes however not the Theban bard of old, who used to mount on the wings of an eagle, and soon get out of people's sight; but the merry Bard of Britain, who rides indeed a prancinge Pgasus, but one with whom we may keep company.
The poet compareth himself to Homer singing of frogs and mice, as his subject may perhaps be deemed equally important. He professeth great respect for priests, when they behave like such. Speaketh angrily, yet with his usual wit, of a new way of robbing the Church or committing sacrilege; namely, by putting on a black coat and becoming a clergyman, as it were, surreptitiously. The poet here supposeth, by the bye, that this practice is not likely to become very general, as the qualifications requisite are not in every common person's possession;—such as an extraordinary degree of impudence, and a great share of—piety! Reader, you understand Rhetoric, and can tell when a poet or an orator makes use of Rhetorical figures.—If a man departs somewhat from plain speech, you'll not therefore mistake his meaning.—The cause of Churches tumbling down, and steeples cracking, sagaciously explained.
The poet proceeds to tell his friend Boram that a little learning might be useful, were it only to make common people think that he was possessed of a great deal. As a cunning man with only a few shillings in his pocket would make people think he had as many guineas. He would have him especially learn to write a letter, as it looks rather aukward in one who has stumbled, through unlucky stars, on ordination, not to be able to return an answer to a letter or note when he receives one.
Pasquin seriously recommends it to him to procure a book called the polite Letter-Writer; or otherwise to permit one of his servants to dictate letters to him.
Boram all at once astonishes his servants with a sudden and miraculous display of the profoundest knowledge, in a learned criticism upon a book written by one of his neighbours.
Pasquin talks of Dawes, Hoogeveen, Bentley, Monboddo, and Burgess.—Likeneth Boram to these great men in Greek literature. Laugheth at their shallowness compared to Boram's profoundity. Wonders how a lord, like Monboddo, can descend to become learned, as learning is by no means fashionable among lords and great men.
The poet returns again to Boram. Discourses with him about pies and tarts, and the best way of making sillabubs.—Boram's vast knowledge in these matters commended.
A dialogue between Boram and a washer-woman in the Brewhouse concerning caps, gowns, and other deep matters. Boram telleth her a melancholy tale how a certain person who sent him a few years ago a printed letter which he could not answer, had like by this to have drove him mad, and made him almost kill his horse by riding him to lawyers and counsellors to punish him. Telleth her how this same man has lately sent him a couple of letters, which he was unable to answer.—She expresseth great surprise at this, as he had lately shewn himself so learned in commenting upon Greek. Boram maketh her his confidant: ingenuously telleth her that he knows no more of Greek and Latin than she does. Always hates in company to hear them mentioned.—Not being able to answer these notes, he tells her, how like a school boy that has been flogged, he runs crying about, and shews them to every one he meets with, in hopes that some one may dictate or write for him an answer.—But no one having done him this kindness, Boram puts to the door, pulls out pen and ink, and begs the good woman to write something for him.—The good lady complies: Scribbles a letter. Boram seals it up as his own.
Here Boram again repeats to the old lady his history. Talks of his vast riches. Proves the ridiculousness and untruth of the saying, ex nihilo nihil fit; for out of nothing he createth a great deal. Boasts of his having been at College. The poet
Boram being full of the irascible fluid, like a cloud, over loaded with the electric, discharges it on the first objects he meets with; which happens, unluckily for the poor man, to be his faithful and honest servant Toby.—He tells Toby he's a bastard. Toby sensibly perceiving that his master was in one of his periodical ravings, calmly replieth, that his mother knew that matter best. That he himself had no hand at all in the operation. And that if his mother had a mind to try the strength of his father's powder, before his father had taken out a certificate for shooting, whatever game they might hit, he could not be answerable for. Or if their appetites were keen, and they could not wait while grace was said, before they fell to, theirs was the blame, and not his. Boram upon this waxeth still more wrath. The poet trembles for the fate of Toby. Gently toucheth the priest's elbow, and reminds him of what philosophy saith respecting anger.— Mentions Epictetus. Boram damneth Epictetus, and before he was aware, says (what indeed was very true!) that he never read a line of him in his life.—He giveth Toby a cuff. This raiseth Toby's anger; and Toby telleth him something about killing a hare of a Sunday.—This giveth occasion to the poet to introduce a most beautiful episode, which Homer might have inserted in his Iliad, containing the life and adventures of the above hare.—This unlucky assertion of Toby, had liked however to have cost Boram very dear; for raising himself suddenly up to give a more than ordinary vent to his anger,—he strikes his head against the mantel-piece.—Fate, or the density of his pericranium; or perhaps fate might have nothing at all to do in the matter, for it is probable that his wig has here all the merit;—saved his head from the dire stroke.—The curls being by this deranged, causeth Boram to depart to put them again in their proper order. This of course puts an end to the story.
The poet desireth the learned and mighty critics, the grave and sage reviewers, not to forget to mention his excellent art in interweaving after the manner of the great poets, his predecessors, Homer and Virgil, the former history of his hero, by way of Episode.— The poet commendeth himself, and then concludes.
How could you on such trifles shew your learning?
Ye that abound;—nay overflow,—with wit,
To criticise such striplings, was it meet?
Nay, gentlemen, I think it was unfit.—
You should have passed them by, as in the street,
When little folks to you pull off their hat,
You notice them with scorn, and proudly say—what dirty thing is that!
Have become your worships to have given advice
To this great man, who's frightenn'd by a letter;
As tho' meer paper could pull off his wig.—
You should have said, good man, be not so nice;
This letter seemeth with no mischief big.
Why then exalt thyself and sit at ease
Amidst an harmless shower of hail and peas.
And we, tho' full of learning of all kinds,
Don't like to shew it on a thing so slight,
Else we could send it out as Æolus does his winds:
And soon o'erwhelm your foe, and drive him far.—
But then we deem the man too cheap a prize,
For men of our vast size,
To enter into any puny war.
We want to engage some lion, or a boar ,
And then you'd hear how we would make him roar;
Perhaps the man is mad; and where's the wonder!
And the next time you go to see my Lord,
Desire him like Jove to launch his thunder
Against this sad and wicked wight,
Who has put us all:—no, you—in such a fright!
To such a man a pardon there's no giving.—
Then add, my Lord,—remember B--- Living.
To us and every one 'tis plain,
That if you do not this said living gain,
You'll never pray him out of purgatory.
And that will be a grievous evil,
For learned men assert 'tis next door to the devil.
That the incumbent won't resign his breath;
He does not as a gentleman by you act;
Else would he civil say, come gentle death,
Come take me, that I may make room,
For a much better man that sadly wants to come.
Wouldbe esteemed e'en now great want of bienseance.
They have rebell'd against the Lords anointed.
Which shew'd of modesty they had great lack,
To dare to throw the saddle off their back.
For we are told that when king's choose to ride,
Upon their subjects back's they ought to get astride.
And if they prick us when we tarry,
As kings have legs like other men,
We ought with patience still to carry
Our heavy load,
Along the bad road;—
Yea, and if they alight, to let them mount agen.
Go, tell him that St. Peter's heir the Pope,
Has lately a license kindly given
To Satan; and he deals in wine and rum;
And if the gentleman will haste to come,
Three bottles in a day shall make his hell a heaven!
But to the Devil soon will speed away.
Three bottles, three, he'll cry, and that of rum!
On earth I seldom more than two do take,
Kind Satan I'm in haste to you to come,
A room in hell I'll have, and so room for me make.
Thinking without doubt of the following lines of the poet,
Virgil. Æneid. iv. V. 159.
POEM.
Virgil.
Whose various, well-tun'd lays
Can mirthful laughter raise.
Whose pleasing, well-form'd, rhyme,
With rugged brow and scowling eye,
Dispels the hagard sprite, and raises us to joy!
To lend thy mighty aid to one,
Who sends his little vessel off from shore,
And sails for that fair mount, ycleped Helicon.
At Pindar's fount of old I love to drink:
And if thou tak'st his name; why pray let me
Attend the band;—at least sit on the brink
Of that clear stream, of which the bard of old
Drank such intoxicating draughts, that he
To most seem'd drunk;—but daring sure and bold!
Of mighty heroes us'd to speak in praise:
Thou bestow'st thy toil and pains
On subjects of less weight; and my weak lays
On subjects yet still less descend to speak.—
Had not his mouth so very nice,
But he his dignity aside would throw,
And sing a pretty tale about the frogs and mice.
By being mention'd in old Homer's story.
So, like this bard, I have a mighty mind,
To sing about a creature of as small a kind.
Did not alone employ old Homer's pen.
To such he would not empty all his rhyme:—
This seemeth thy taste, Peter, and 'tis mine.
Such as are call'd your folks of quality,
We cannot always be among.
Ulysses, as you know, was much inclin'd,
To see the various manners of mankind,
As many poets tell us in their song.
Sometimes with great men; now with less we're seen.
At harmless sport with some kind, yielding, beauty.
A poet's nature is but frail:—alass,
What whip or spur can keep us to our duty!
But to their faults I shew not any love.
Let them be learn'd, possess a generous spirit,
And pious be;—who then will not approve?
And should it have the happy fate,
Thy taste to please; thy future laureat I
Will make thy praise resound beyond the sky.
What royal pension'd poet can do more!
Freely this verse extends thy name,
And mighty fame,
Further than Afric's distant shore,
Or Morven's dreary coast, where mountains high do tow'r.
By every man it then was thought,
That priests, who others taught,
Should be themselves in learning somewhat skill'd.
Who can just read, and cannot write,
O shameful! may the Church invade;
The priesthood's made a farce; religion's made a trade.
And mounts the pulpit;—horrid to behold!
But still more horrid! see the man of wealth,
Who has ordination got by stealth,
Put on the gown, and eager seize the gold!
They'd even sell themselves unto the Devil,
Would he but give a proper price;
And in this thing they'd not be over nice;
But soon a bargain would be made.—
Such dealings are their pleasure;—such their trade!
Yet honest thou compar'd to such a man!
Shame that the wretch, to paltry wealth a slave,
Should, licensed, rob the Church, and glory in the plan!
Who scorning such a crafty part to act;
Nor do the sacred name of priest defile,
To hide their guilt, and clothe their guile,
But openly and boldly do the fact;
And rob the Church, as thieves by night
Break in a house, and rob and steal downright.
Nor do they slily say; don't fear,
My coat is black like yours, and piety brought me here.
Sly rogues! who dare to use religion's name,
That they may rob the Church, and thus may hide their shame.
If those poor rogues are hang'd;—oh! how these want the halter.
Well may the steeples crack, and tumble down.
Well may they in their anger burst asunder,
To see themselves the jest of every clown!
The university I know full well
Was honour'd by thee; and the bell
When hungry students after labour great,
As well as reading, love sometimes to eat,
Was rung by thee, and rung so many times.
We know with these thou never plagu'dst thy skull;
But when the bell was left at ease,
We know among the mighty great,
The cook and scullion of the college,
From whom thou reapest much important knowledge,
Thou us'dst to sit in friendly tête á tête.
A shocking thing it is, and gives me pain,
That naughty scribblers dare to send a letter,
And you, good man, not send them one again.
Who cannot sermons write, and help the lazy,
A 'factory keeps where sermons soon are made;
(Wholesale and retail too's his trade,)
Where any idle parson in the nation,
May suit himself for any occasion;
He'll sermons find, and cut to every fashion.
Who'll teach you how to write your letters?
Thus you'll gain credit for your wit,
And teach all saucy rascals how to know their betters.
To help you out, when you yourself can't write.
Nor need you, like a flogg'd child, puling cry,
See, gentlemen, see, how such a man I
Am served by every wicked creature;—
See what bad letters I receive;—
I know you never will believe,
That I, who live at B--- house,
Am made to tremble every feature,
Just as a cat does terrify a mouse.
And that by any wicked wight,
Who takes his pen, and dares to write.
Rubbing his pate as 'tho' a little muddy,
That like the mountain, as the fables go,
When once in labour great,
Striving to do some mighty feat.
But after all its heavy pains,
Brought forth a tiny creeping mouse.
Thus Boram strove to astonish all the house,
By this unusual and surprising work.
Not even Newton more intent could look;
The wonders of the sky when trying to unravel,
Or following a comet in its travel!
Striving to make a head brass
Speak and be civil:
Only that wicked sprite the Devil
Or fate contrived it, for 'tis said,
He look'd himself much like a brazen-head.
And crowd into the room of state,
And first with low humility they bend.
Obeisance made; with due respect and fear
They sit; the dictates of their lord to hear.
Grimalkin o'er a mouse-hole standing sentry.
With watching eye, and with attentive air
She sits;—so still, she does not move a hair.
Listening of a poor mouse to hear the breath,
Then, cruel, sends it to the realms of death.
To hear the priest begin the great debate.
Fear and attention occupi'd them all;—
Did a pin drop; you'd plainly hear it fall.
He view'd his master, as though dreading evil:
Trembling lest he some monster soon should spy,
Thinking the priest was going to raise the Devil.
That learned men could raise the dead!
They'd make him dance a hornpipe in a ring.
And had he seen the chalk but on the table,
To keep his seat poor Toby 'd not be able!
No wonder than he sat with staring eye;
And scarcely kept his breeches dry.
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A serio-comic and admonitory epistle, addressed to a certain priest | ||