IX.
Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aid We all should have gone with short commons to bed; And since he has saved all the fat from the fire, I move that the house be call'd Whitbread's Entire. Tol de rol, &c.
'"A New Halfpenny Ballad," by a Pic-Nic Poet, is a good imitation of what was not worth imitating--that tremendous mixture of vulgarity, nonsense, impudence, and miserable puns, which, under the name of humorous songs, rouses our polite audiences to a far higher pitch of rapture than Garrick or Siddons ever was able to inspire.'--_Edinburgh Review._
ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS.
TRANSLATED BY DR. B.[49]
Lege, Dick, Lege!--JOSEPH ANDREWS.
_To be recited by the Translator's Son_
Away, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore, Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore, Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe! To you I sing not, for I sing of truth, Primeval systems, and creation's youth; Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught, Inspired LUCRETIUS to the Latians taught.
I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb, Encounter'd casual cow-hair, casual lime; How rafters, borne through wondering clouds elate, Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate, Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury, And gave to birth our renovated Drury.
Thee, son of Jove! whose sceptre was confess'd, Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys' breast; Thence on Olympus, mid celestials placed, GOD OF THE WINDS, and Ether's boundless waste-- Thee I invoke! Oh _puff_ my bold design, Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line; Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire With Winsor's[50] patent gas, or wind of fire, In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll'd, The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.
But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun The deprecated prize Ulysses won; Who, sailing homeward from thy breezy shore, The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore. Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy green The azure heights of Ithaca are seen; But while with favouring gales her way she wins, His curious comrades ope the mystic skins; When, lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep, Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep; Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast, Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast. Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides, Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides, While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly, And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.
So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries, Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes; On speeds the smiling suit--'Pleas of our Lord The King' shine sable on the wide record; Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile, And siren jurors flatter to beguile; Till stript--nonsuited--he is doom'd to toss In legal shipwreck and redeemless loss! Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keep His head above the waters of the deep.
Æolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs! We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs; See to thy golden shore promiscuous come Quacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb; Fools are their bankers--a prolific line, And every mortal malady's a mine. Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill, Flies to the printer's devil with his bill, Whose Midas touch can gild his asses' ears, And load a knave with folly's rich arrears. And lo! a second miracle is thine, For sloe-juice water stands transform'd to wine. Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold; Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealth Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth. See Britain's Algerines, the lottery fry, Win annual tribute by the annual lie! Aided by thee--but whither do I stray?-- Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway; An age of puffs an age of gold succeeds, And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.
If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer! Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air; Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist; As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale, Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale-- So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse, Augusta's sons shall patronise my verse.
I sing of ATOMS, whose creative brain, With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane; Not to the labours of subservient man, To no young Wyatt appertains the plan-- We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill, Impassive media of atomic will; Ye stare! then Truth's broad talisman discern-- 'Tis Demonstration speaks--attend, and learn!
From floating elements in chaos hurl'd, Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world: No great _First Cause_ inspired the happy plot, But all was matter--and no matter what. Atoms, attracted by some law occult, Settling in spheres, the globe was the result: Pure child of _Chance_, which still directs the ball, As rotatory atoms rise or fall. In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats, A mass of particles and confluent motes, So nicely poised, that if one atom flings Its weight away, aloft the planet springs, And wings its course through realms of boundless space Outstripping comets in eccentric race. Add but one atom more, it sinks outright Down to the realms of Tartarus and night. What waters melt or scorching fires consume, In different forms their being re-assume: Hence can no change arise, except in name, For weight and substance ever are the same.
Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise Its elements primeval sought the skies; There pendulous to wait the happy hour, When new attractions should restore their power: So, in this procreant theatre elate, Echoes unborn their future life await; Her embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd, Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd. Here many a fœtus laugh and half encore Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor; By puffs concipient some in ether flit, And soar in bravos from the thundering pit; Some forth on ticket-nights[51] from tradesmen break, To mar the actor they design to make; While some this mortal life abortive miss, Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss. So, when 'Dog's-meat' re-echoes through the streets, Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats, Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes, Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries; Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail, Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.
Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined, Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind, Sweet was the hour, when, tempted by your freaks, Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks. Float dulcet serenades upon the ear, Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere, Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil, Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male. The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit, And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit; Then down they rush in amatory race, Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace. Some choose old lovers, some decide for new, But each, when fix'd, is to her station true. Thus various bricks are made, as tastes invite-- The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white.
Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free, To alien beauty bends the lawless knee, But of unhallow'd fascinations sick, Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick; The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain, No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain.
So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps, A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps, Falls on the housemaid's ear: amazed she stands, Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands, And 'Matches' calls. The dustman, bubbled flat, Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat; The milkman, whom her second cries assail, With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail; Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps-- Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps. Sweeps but put out--she wants to raise a flame, And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same. Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true-- If once ye go astray, no _match_ for you!
As atoms in one mass united mix, So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks; Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high, Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie; Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod, Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod; And up the ladder bears the workman, taught To think he bears the bricks--mistaken thought! A proof behold: if near the top they find The nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind, Back to the base, 'resulting with a bound,' They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!
So legends tell along the lofty hill Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill; On trudged the Gemini to reach the rail That shields the well's top from the expectant pail, When, ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear, Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere: Head over heels begins his toppling track, Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack, And at the mountain's base bobs plump against him, whack!
Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit, Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit, For you no Peter opes the fabled door, No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar; Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweep Shall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deep To gorge the greedy elements, and mix With water, marl, and clay, and stones, and sticks; While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones, and clay, Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play.
O happy age! when convert Christians read No sacred writings but the Pagan creed-- O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreams Our poets' sons recite Lucretian themes, Abjure the idle systems of their youth, And turn again to atoms and to truth;-- O happier still! when England's dauntless dames, Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames, The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse, And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!
All hail, Lucretius! renovated sage! Unfold the modest mystics of thy page; Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf, But live, kind bard--that I may live myself!
'In one single point the parodist has failed--there is a certain Dr. Busby, whose supposed address is a translation called "Architectural Atoms, intended to be recited by the translator's son." Unluckily, however, for the wag who had prepared this fun, the _genuine serious absurdity_ of Dr. Busby and his son has cast all his humour into the shade. The doctor from the boxes, and the son from the stage, have actually endeavoured, it seems, to recite addresses, which they call _monologues_ and _unalogues_; and which, for extravagant folly, tumid meanness, and vulgar affectation, set all the powers of parody at utter defiance.'--_Quarterly Review._
'Of "Architectural Atoms," translated by Dr. Busby, we can say very little more than that they appear to us to be far more capable of combining into good poetry than the few lines we were able to read of the learned doctor's genuine address in the newspapers. They might pass, indeed, for a very tolerable imitation of Darwin.'--_Edinburgh Review._
THEATRICAL ALARM-BELL.
BY THE EDITOR OF THE M. P.[52]
Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!--O'HARA.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, As it is now the universally-admitted, and indeed pretty-generally-suspected, aim of Mr. Whitbread and the infamous, bloodthirsty, and, in fact, illiberal faction to which he belongs, to burn to the ground this free and happy Protestant city, and establish himself in St. James's Palace, his fellow committee-men have thought it their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built under his auspices. The information they have received from undoubted authority--particularly from an old fruit-woman who has turned king's evidence, and whose name, for obvious reasons, we forbear to mention, though we have had it some weeks in our possession--has induced them to introduce various reforms--not such reforms as the vile faction clamour for, meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are necessary to preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, happy, and prosperous country now left upon the face of the earth. From the valuable and authentic source above alluded to, we have learnt that a sanguinary plot has been formed by some united Irishmen, combined with a gang of Luddites, and a special committee sent over by the Pope at the instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for destroying all the loyal part of the audience on the anniversary of that deeply-to-be-abhorred and highly-to-be-blamed stratagem, the Gun powder Plot, which falls this year on Thursday the 5th of November. The whole is under the direction of a delegated committee of O. P.'s, whose treasonable exploits at Covent Garden you all recollect, and all of whom would have been hung from the chandeliers at that time, but for the mistaken lenity of government. At a given signal, a well-known O. P. was to cry out from the gallery, 'Nosey! Music!' whereupon all the O. P.'s were to produce from their inside-pockets a long pair of shears, edged with felt, to prevent their making any noise, manufactured expressly by a wretch at Birmingham, one of Mr. Brougham's evidences, and now in custody. With these they were to cut off the heads of all the loyal N. P.'s in the house, without distinction of sex or age. At the signal, similarly given, of 'Throw him over!' which it now appears always alluded to the overthrow of our never-sufficiently-enough-to-be-deeply-and-universally-to-be-venerated constitution, all the heads of the N. P.'s were to be thrown at the fiddlers, to prevent their appearing in evidence, or perhaps as a false and illiberal insinuation that they have no heads of their own. All that we know of the further designs of these incendiaries is, that they are by-a-great-deal-too-much too-horrible-to-be-mentioned.
The Manager has acted with his usual promptitude on this trying occasion. He has contracted for 300 tons of gunpowder, which are at this moment placed in a small barrel under the pit; and a descendant of Guy Faux, assisted by Col. Congreve, has undertaken to blow up the house, when necessary, in so novel and ingenious a manner, that every O. P. shall be annihilated, while not a whisker of the N. P.'s shall be singed. This strikingly displays the advantages of loyalty and attachment to government. Several other hints have been taken from the theatrical regulations of the not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated monster Bonaparte. A park of artillery, provided with chain-shot, is to be stationed on the stage, and play upon the audience, in case of any indication of misplaced applause or popular discontent (which accounts for the large space between the curtain and the lamps); and the public will participate our satisfaction in learning that the indecorous custom of standing up with the hat on is to be abolished, as the Bow-street officers are provided with daggers, and have orders to stab all such persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons' Hall. Gentlemen who cough are only to be slightly wounded. Fruit-women bawling 'Bill of the play!' are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose soldiers will be stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be served out with the lemonade. If any of the spectators happen to sneeze or spit, they are to be transported for life; and any person who is so tall as to prevent another seeing, is to be dragged out and sent on board the tender, or, by an instrument taken out of the pocket of Procrustes, to be forthwith cut shorter, either at the head or foot, according as his own convenience may dictate.
Thus, ladies and gentlemen, have the committee, through my medium, set forth the not-in-a-hurry-to-be-paralleled plan they have adopted for preserving order and decorum within the walls of their magnificent edifice. Nor have they, while attentive to their own concerns, by any means overlooked those of the cities of London and Westminster. Finding, on enumeration, that they have with a with-two-hands-and-one-tongue-to-be-applauded liberality, contracted for more gunpowder than they want, they have parted with the surplus to the mattock-carrying and hustings-hammering high bailiff of Westminster, who has, with his own shovel, dug a large hole in the front of the parish church of St. Paul, Covent Garden, that, upon the least symptom of ill-breeding in the mob at the general election, the whole of the market may be blown into the air. This, ladies and gentlemen, may at first make provisions _rise_, but we pledge the credit of our theatre that they will soon _fall_ again, and people be supplied, as usual, with vegetables, in the in-general-strewed-with-cabbage-stalks-but-on-Saturday-night-lighted- up-with-lamps market of Covent Garden.
I should expatiate more largely on the other advantages of the glorious constitution of these by-the-whole-of-Europe-envied realms, but I am called away to take an account of the ladies, and other artificial flowers, at a fashionable rout, of which a full and particular account will hereafter appear. For the present, my fashionable intelligence is scanty, on account of the opening of Drury Lane; and the ladies and gentlemen who honour me with their attention will not be surprised if they find nothing under my usual head!!
THE THEATRE.
BY THE REV. G. C.[53]
Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poetæ. Neo minimum meruêre decus, vestigia Græca Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta. HORACE.
A PREFACE OF APOLOGIES.
If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the opening address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra, will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments ready tuned, and strike off at once. This would be an accommodation to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who, not being blest with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think the latter concluded before it is begun.
'One fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,'
was originally written 'one hautboy will'; but, having providentially been informed, when this poem was upon the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial indignation from the head of its blower: as it now stands, 'one fiddle' among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection. The story of the flying play-bill is calculated to expose a practice much too common, of pinning play-bills to the cushions insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one play-bill only from the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labour ill employed. The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss, is purposely so crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader in respect to the real owner of any one of them. For, in the satirical view of life and manners which I occasionally present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be, by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked. G. C.
THE THEATRE.
Interior of a Theatre described.--Pit gradually fills.--The Check-taker.--Pit full.--The Orchestra tuned.--One Fiddle rather dilatory.--Is reproved--and repents.--Evolutions of a Playbill.--Its final Settlement on the Spikes.--The Gods taken to task--and why.--Motley Group of Play-goers.--Holywell Street, St. Pancras.--Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice--not in London--and why.--Episode of the Hat.
'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phœbus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.
At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.
Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscall'd _standing room_.
Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks. And bawling 'Pit full!' gives the check he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.
See to their desks Apollo's sons repair-- Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hush'd--but, no, one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go.
Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, 'Hats off!' And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above: Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.
Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who's that calls 'Silence!' with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, 'Silence!' hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.
What various swains our motley walls contain!-- Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five--they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds--we wish they'd mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live-- Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.
Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling Fortune seem'd to threaten woe.
John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin's name--a red-hair'd youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.
Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, 'Take my handkerchief.' 'Thank you,' cries Pat; 'but one won't make a line.' 'Take mine,' cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, 'Take mine.' A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clue, Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band-- Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.
'"The Theatre," by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author; and can hardly be said to be in any respect a caricature of that style or manner--except in the excessive profusion of puns and verbal jingles--which, though undoubtedly to be ranked among his characteristics, are never so thick-sown in his original works as in this admirable imitation. It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description.'--_Edinburgh Review._
TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE OF THE NEW DRURY-LANE THEATRE.[54]
GENTLEMEN, Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of everybody about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants--that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his book-keeper--I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woful crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you enclosed a more detailed specimen of my ease: if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt that I should feel the immediate effects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose. I am, &c., MOMUS MEDLAR.
CASE NO. I.
MACBETH.
[_Enter_ MACBETH, _in a red nightcap_. PAGE _following with a torch_.]
Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell (She knows that my purpose is cruel), I'd thank her to tingle her bell As soon as she's heated my gruel. Go, get thee to bed and repose-- To sit up so late is a scandal; But ere you have ta'en off your clothes, Be sure that you put out that candle. Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.
My stars, in the air here's a knife!-- I'm sure it can not be a hum; I'll catch at the handle, odd's life! And then I shall not cut my thumb. I've got him!--no, at him again! Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes; This must be some blade of the brain-- Those witches are given to hoax.
I've one in my pocket, I know, My wife left on purpose behind her; She bought this of Teddy-high-ho, The poor Caledonian grinder. I see thee again! o'er thy middle Large drops of red blood now are spill'd, Just as much as to say, diddle diddle, Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.
It leads to his chamber, I swear; I tremble and quake every joint-- No dog at the scent of a hare Ever yet made a cleverer point. Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw-- Give me blinkers, to save me from starting; The knife that I thought that I saw Was naught but my eye, Betty Martin.
Now o'er this terrestrial hive A life paralytic is spread; For while the one half is alive, The other is sleepy and dead. King Duncan, in grand majesty, Has got my state-bed for a snooze; I've lent him my slippers, so I May certainly stand in his shoes.
Blow softly, ye murmuring gales! Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking! For though a dead man tells no tales, Dead walls are much given to talking. This knife shall be in at the death-- I'll stick him, then off safely get! Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth, For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet.
Hark, hark! 'tis the signal, by goles! It sounds like a funeral knell; O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls To call thee to heaven or hell. Or if you to heaven won't fly, But rather prefer Pluto's ether, Only wait a few years till I die, And we'll go to the devil together. Ri fol de rol, &c.
CASE NO. II.
THE STRANGER.
Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger, A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan, A husband suspicious--his wife acted Ranger, She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon. Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel, That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin; Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible-- My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in. With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em, And pathos and bathos delightful to see; And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum, And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.
To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough, Where was her plate?--why, 'twas laid on the shelf; Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff-- Dressing the dinner instead of herself. No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle, Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread, With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of charcoal, She lighted the company up to their bed.
Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout, Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon Sat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout. One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid, Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that? 'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide, Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat.
Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear; No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket, Exposed as he was to the count's _son_ and _heir_. Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour, To show that my gratitude is not mere talk You shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller, Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.
Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner, With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball, And, thin as he was, that he might not grow thinner, He made of the Stranger no stranger at all. At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken-- A bird that she never had met with before; But, seeing him, scream'd, and was carried off kicking. And he bang'd his nob 'gainst the opposite door.
To finish my tale without roundaboutation, Young master and missee besieged their papa; They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation-- The Stranger cried, Oh! Mrs. Haller cried, Ah! Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in, I have no good moral to give in exchange; For though she, as a cook, might be given to melting, The Stranger's behaviour was certainly strange, With his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em, And pathos and bathos delightful to see, And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum, And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.
CASE NO. III.
GEORGE BARNWELL.
George Barnwell stood at the shop-door, A customer hoping to find, sir; His apron was hanging before, But the tail of his coat was behind, sir. A lady, so painted and smart, Cried, Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late; I've got nothing left but a groat-- Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate? Rum ti, &c.
Her face was rouged up to the eyes, Which made her look prouder and prouder; His hair stood on end with surprise, And hers with pomatum and powder. The business was soon understood; The lady, who wish'd to be more rich, Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood, And I lodge at the Gunner's in Shoreditch. Rum ti, &c.
Now nightly he stole out, good lack! And into her lodging would pop, sir; And often forgot to come back, Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir. Her beauty his wits did bereave-- Determined to be quite the crack O, He lounged at the Adam and Eve, And call'd for his gin and tobacco. Rum ti, &c.
And now--for the truth must be told, Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill-- He stole from the till all the gold, And ate the lump-sugar and treacle. In vain did his master exclaim, Dear George, don't engage with that dragon; She'll lead you to sorrow and shame, And leave you the devil a rag on Your rum ti, &c.
In vain he entreats and implores The weak and incurable ninny, So kicks him at last out of doors, And Georgy soon spends his last guinea. His uncle, whose generous purse Had often relieved him, as I know, Now finding him grow worse and worse, Refused to come down with the rhino. Rum ti, &c.
Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core Was so flinty that nothing could shock it, If ye mean to come here any more, Pray come with more cash in your pocket: Make nunky surrender his dibs, Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels, Or stick a knife into his ribs-- I'll warrant he'll then show some bowels. Rum ti, &c.
A pistol he got from his love-- 'Twas loaded with powder and bullet; He trudged off to Camberwell Grove, But wanted the courage to pull it. There's nunky as fat as a hog, While I am as lean as a lizard; Here's at you, you stingy old dog!-- And he whips a long knife in his gizzard. Rum ti, &c.
All you who attend to my song, A terrible end of the farce shall see, If you join the inquisitive throng That follow'd poor George to the Marshalsea. If Milwood were here, dash my wigs, Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well; Had I stuck to my pruins and figs, I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell. Rum ti, &c.
Their bodies were never cut down; For granny relates with amazement, A witch bore 'em over the town. And hung them on Thorowgood's casement. The neighbours, I've heard the folks say, The miracle noisily brag on; And the shop is, to this very day, The sign of the George and the Dragon. Rum ti, &c.
PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS.
BY T. H.[55]
Rhymes the rudders are of verses, With which, like ships, they steer their courses. HUDIBRAS.
_Scene draws, and discovers_ PUNCH _on a throne, surrounded by_ LEAR, LADY MACBETH, MACBETH, OTHELLO, GEORGE BARNWELL, HAMLET, GHOST, MACHEATH, JULIET, FRIAR, APOTHECARY, ROMEO, _and_ FALSTAFF.--PUNCH _descends, and addresses them in the following_
RECITATIVE.
As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is, So I with you am master of the ceremonies-- These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em?-- Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E-pi-thalamium. October's tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day, And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday! On this great night 'tis settled by our manager, That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer, Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion, And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion; That every soul, whether or not a cough he has, May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus. So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,[56] Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini;[57] That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses, May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis!
_They dance and sing._
AIR--'_Sure such a day._' TOM THUMB.
LEAR.
Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril-- Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross; Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel, Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse. See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub, And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell's hubbub. They tweak my nose, and round it goes--I fear they'll break the ridge of it, Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.[58]
OMNES.
Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
LADY MACBETH.
_I_ kill'd the king; my husband is a heavy dunce; He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud. One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king's evidence, Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.
MACBETH.
When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery, To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry; With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her, Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.
OMNES.
Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
OTHELLO.
Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did, Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef; Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief.
GEORGE BARNWELL.
Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate? Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late; If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees, Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.
OMNES.
Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
HAMLET.
I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat. I stuck by ill luck, enamour'd of Ophelia, Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, 'Rat, rat!'
GHOST.
Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup--no more I'll be an actor in Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.
MACHEATH.
I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O; But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy O.
OMNES.
Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
JULIET.
I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore-- A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.
FRIAR.
And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore.
APOTHECARY.
And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.
ROMEO.
I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous.
FALSTAFF.
I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous; For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere I Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.
OMNES.
Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
[_Exeunt dancing._
'"Punch's Apotheosis," by G. Colman, junior, is too purely nonsensical to be extracted; and both gives less pleasure to the reader, and does less justice to the ingenious author in whose name it stands, than any other of the poetical imitations.'--_Edinburgh Review._
'We have no conjectures to offer as to the anonymous author of this amusing little volume. He who is such a master of disguises may easily be supposed to have been successful in concealing himself, and, with the power of assuming so many styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his own character--that his natural style was neither very lofty nor very grave--and that he rather indulges a partiality for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets, and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the applause of the country shall induce him to take off his mask.'--_Edinburgh Review._
THE MORNING POST.
_Additional note intended for p. 61._--This journal was, at the period in question, rather remarkable for the use of the figure called by the rhetoricians _catachresis_. The Bard of Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in the mouth of a cannon. _The Morning Post_, in the year 1812, congratulated its readers upon having stripped off Cobbett's mask and discovered his cloven foot; adding, that it was high time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the knuckles!
GEORGE ELLIS.
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COLLEGE LIBRARY.
(GRAY)
The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound, Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires, Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around, And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires.
Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free, The sot's full bottles in quick order move, While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea, And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.
Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns, Save where, the broken battlements among, The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes, And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.
Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight, Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows, In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat, The labours of our ancestors repose.
No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil, The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore; For them no longer blaze the midnight oil, Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.
For them no more shall booksellers contend, Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim; Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend, While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.
Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage, While still they found each meaning but the true; Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page, And give to Virgil words he never knew;
Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scorn Condemn their memory or their toils deride, Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn A waste of words, and learning ill-applied?
Can none remember?--yes, I know all can-- When readings against different readings jarred, While Bentley led the stem scholastic van, And new editions with the old ones warred.
Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed, Unmindful of the graver moral part, Contemn these works, if as you run and read, You find no trophies of th' engraver's art.
Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing power To heavy works the stamp of merit give? Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour, Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?
In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed, Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade, Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood, Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.
With store of barbarous Latin at command, Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might, Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless hand Or save their labours from eternal night.
Full many an elegy has mourned its fate, Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined'; Full many an ode has soared in lofty state, Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.
Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lie The rude memorial of some ancient song, Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy, Once waked to rapture every listening throng.
To trace fair Science through each wildering course, With new ideas to enlarge the mind, With useful lessons drawn from Classic source, At once to polish and instruct mankind,
Their times forbade; nor yet alone represt Their opening fancy; but alike confined The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest, And each low triumph of the vulgar mind;
With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59] Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name, To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe, Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame.
Their humble science never soared so far, In studious trifles pleased to waste their time, Or wage with common-sense eternal war, In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme.
Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame, Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, But still aspired to raise their sinking name, And fondly hoped that name might ever last.
Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye, Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60] Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie, And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.
For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain, Or spent in search of epithets his days, But from his lengthened labours hoped to gain Some present profit, or some future praise?
Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain, Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend, Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain, Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend.
For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme, Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail, If chance (unknowing how to kill the time) Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;
Haply some ancient Fellow may reply-- Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, E'en till the western sun went down the sky, Lounging his lazy, listless hours away.
Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat; At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie, Or from his window looking o'er the street, Would gaze upon the travellers passing by.
At night, encircled with a kindred band, In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away; True as the College clock's unvarying hand, Each morrow was the echo of to-day.
Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife, Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command, A lethargy assailed his harmless life, And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,
Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise, And shed around each soph a deeper gloom, Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies, With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.
THE EPITAPH.
Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man By prudence taught each rude excess to shun; Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan, And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son.
By no eccentric passion led astray, Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend, Calmly through life he steered his quiet way, Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend.
Seek not his faults--his merits--to explore, But quickly drop this uninstructive tale, His works--his faults--his merits--are no more, Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.
GEORGE CRABBE.
INEBRIETY.
(POPE)
The mighty spirit, and its power, which stains The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains, I sing. Say, ye, its fiery vot'ries true, The jovial curate, and the shrill-tongued shrew, Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst, Where bowl the second charms like bowl the first; Say how, and why, the sparkling ill is shed, The heart which hardens, and which rules the head.... Lo! the poor toper whose untutor'd sense, Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense; Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer, Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer; But simple nature can her longing quench, Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench: Some kitchen fire diffusing warmth around, The semi-globe by hieroglyphics crown'd; Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd, Nor waiters rave, nor landlords thirst for gold; Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine, He asks no limpid punch, no rosy wine; But sees, admitted to an equal share, Each faithful swain the heady potion bear: Go wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste, Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest; Call vulgar palates what thou judgest so; Say beer is heavy, windy, cold, and slow; Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence, Yet cry, when tortured, where is Providence?
CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE.
ODE.
(GRAY)
Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng, Fair learning's train, are seen, Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along, And up her benches green. Unfolded to their mental eye Thy awful form, Sublimity! The moral teacher shows-- Sublimity of Silence born, And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn And dimly-vision'd woes; Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great Mocks the malignity of fate. While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound Murmurs the crowded room around, And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions, Exulting hails her new dominions. Oh! both on me your influence shed, Dwell in my heart and deck my head!
Where'er a broader, browner shade The shaggy beaver throws, And with the ample feather's aid O'er-canopies the nose; Where'er with smooth and silken pile, Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile, The crimson velvet glows; From some high bench's giddy brink, Clinton with me begins to think (As bolt upright we sit) That dress, like dogs, should have its day, That beavers are too hot for May, And velvets quite unfit.
Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw From her unerring lip; How light, how simple are the straw, How delicate the chip! Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice, The audience melt away, I fly to fix my final choice And bless th' instructive day.
The milliner officious pours Of hats and caps her ready stores, The unbought elegance of spring; Some wide, disclose the full round face, Some shadowy, lend a modest grace And stretch their sheltering wing.
Here clustering grapes appear to shed Their luscious juices on the head, And cheat the longing eye; So round the Phrygian monarch hung Fair fruits, that from his parched tongue For ever seem'd to fly.
Here early blooms the summer rose; Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows; Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes-- Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes! Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head! Mine be the chip of purest white, Swan-like, and as her feathers light When on the still wave spread; And let it wear the graceful dress Of unadorned simpleness.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought; Ah! hope indulged in vain; Of modest fancy cheaply bought, A stranger yet to Payne.
With undissembled grief I tell,-- For sorrow never comes too late,-- The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall Is sold for £1 8s.
To Calculation's sober view, That searches ev'ry plan, Who keep the old, or buy the new, Shall end where they began.
Alike the shabby and the gay Must meet the sun's meridian ray; The air, the dust, the damp. This, shall the sudden shower despoil; That, slow decay by gradual soil; Those, envious boxes cramp.
Who will, their squander'd gold may pay; Who will, our taste deride; We'll scorn the fashion of the day With philosophic pride.
Methinks we thus, in accents low, Might Sydney Smith address, 'Poor moralist! and what art thou, Who never spoke of dress!
'Thy mental hero never hung Suspended on a tailor's tongue, In agonizing doubt; Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd, Who languish'd for the newest mode, Yet dar'd to live without.'
FRAGMENT.
(WORDSWORTH)
There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there-- It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately stems so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river's brink, And of the living waters drink.
There's little Will, a five years' child-- He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:-- He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose,-- The blue bells are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing.
It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.
A FABLE.
(DRYDEN)
A dingy donkey, formal and unchanged, Browsed in the lane and o'er the common ranged, Proud of his ancient asinine possessions, Free from the panniers of the grave professions, He lived at ease; and chancing once to find A lion's skin, the fancy took his mind To personate the monarch of the wood; And for a time the stratagem held good. He moved with so majestical a pace That bears and wolves and all the savage race Gazed in admiring awe, ranging aloof, Not over-anxious for a clearer proof-- Longer he might have triumph'd--but alas! In an unguarded hour it came to pass He bray'd aloud; and show'd himself an ass!
The moral of this tale I could not guess Till Mr. Landor sent his works to press.
THE COURSE OF TIME.
(ROBERT POLLOK)
Robert Pollok, A.M.! this work of yours Is meant, I do not doubt, extremely well, And the design I deem most laudable, But since I find the book laid on my table, I shall presume (with the fair owner's leave) To note a single slight deficiency: I mean, in short (since it is called a poem), That in the course of ten successive books If something in the shape of poetry Were to be met with, we should like it better; But nothing of the kind is to be found, Nothing, alas! but words of the olden time, Quaint and uncouth, contorted phrase and queer, With the familiar language that befits Tea-drinking parties most unmeetly matched.
GEORGE CANNING AND JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.
INSCRIPTION
_For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg, the 'Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution._
(SOUTHEY)
For one long term, or e'er her trial came, Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She scream'd for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH, AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind Shap'd strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan Goddess he bade flog The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our MILTON, when at college. For this act Did BROWNRIGG swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed!
THE SOLDIERS' FRIEND.
DACTYLICS.
(SOUTHEY)
Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here: I am the soldiers' friend--here are some books for you; Nice clever books by Tom Paine the philanthropist. Here's half-a-crown for you--here are some handbills too; Go to the barracks and give all the soldiers some: Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.
[_Exit Drummer Boy, with Handbills and Half-Crown. --Manet Soldier's Friend._]
Liberty's friends thus all learn to amalgamate, Freedom's volcanic explosion prepares itself, Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty, Reason, philosophy, 'fiddledum diddledum,' Peace and fraternity, higgledy piggledy, Higgledy piggledy, 'fiddledum diddledum.' _Et cætera, et cætera, et cætera._
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE
_Being the Quintessence of all the Dactylics that ever were or ever will be written._
(SOUTHEY AND COLERIDGE)
Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous, Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays-- Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, 'ah! for thy heavy chance!'
Sorely thy Dactylics lag on uneven feet: Slow is the Syllable which thou would'st urge to speed, Lame and o'erburden'd, and 'screaming its wretchedness!'
* * * * *[61]
Ne'er talk of Ears again! look at thy Spelling-book; _Dilworth_ and _Dyche_ are both mad at thy quantities-- DACTYLICS, call'st thou 'em?--'God help thee, silly one!'
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.
_Sapphics._
(SOUTHEY)
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
'Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't So have your breeches!
'Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- -road, what hard work 'tis crying all day "Knives and Scissors to grind O!"
'Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire, or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?
'Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?
'(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.'
KNIFE-GRINDER.
'Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.
'Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- -Stocks for a vagrant.
'I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.'
FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
'_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance; Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!'
[_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._]
JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE, GEORGE CANNING, AND GEORGE ELLIS.
THE LOVES OF THE TRIANGLES.
_A Mathematical and Philosophical Poem._
(ERASMUS DARWIN)
Stay your rude steps, or e'er your feet invade The Muses' haunts, ye sons of War and Trade! Nor you, ye legion fiends of Church and Law, Pollute these pages with unhallow'd paw![62] Debased, corrupted, grovelling, and confin'd, No DEFINITIONS touch _your_ senseless mind; To _you_ no POSTULATES prefer their claim, No ardent AXIOMS _your_ dull souls inflame; For _you_ no TANGENTS touch, no ANGLES meet, No CIRCLES join in osculation[63] sweet!
For _me_, ye CISSOIDS,[64] round my temples bend Your wandering curves; ye CONCHOIDS extend; Let playful PENDULES quick vibration feel, While silent CYCLOIS rests upon her wheel; Let HYDROSTATICS,[65] simpering as they go, Lead the light Naiads on fantastic toe; Let shrill ACOUSTICS tune the tiny lyre; With EUCLID sage fair ALGEBRA conspire; The obedient pulley strong MECHANICS ply, And wanton OPTICS roll the melting eye!
I see the fair fantastic forms appear, The flaunting drapery and the languid leer; Fair sylphish forms[66]--who, tall, erect, and slim, Dart the keen glance, and stretch the length of limb; To viewless harpings weave the meanless dance, Wave the gay wreath, and titter as they prance.
Such rich confusion[67] charms the ravish'd sight, When vernal Sabbaths to the Park invite. Mounts the thick dust, the coaches crowd along, Presses round Grosvenor Gate th' impatient throng; White-muslin'd misses and mammas are seen, Link'd with gay cockneys, glittering o'er the green: The rising breeze unnumber'd charms displays, And the tight ankle strikes th' astonish'd gaze.
But chief, thou NURSE of the DIDACTIC MUSE, Divine NONSENSIA, all thy soul infuse; The charms of _Secants_ and of _Tangents_ tell, How LOVES and GRACES in an _Angle_ dwell; How slow progressive _Points_ protract the _Line_, As pendant spiders spin the filmy twine; How lengthen'd _Lines_, impetuous sweeping round, Spread the wide _Plane_, and mark its circling bound; How _Planes_, their substance with their motion grown, Form the huge _Cube_, the _Cylinder_, the _Cone_.
Lo! where the chimney's sooty tube ascends, The fair TROCHAIS[68] from the corner bends! Her coal-black eyes upturn'd, incessant mark The eddying smoke, quick flame, and volant spark; Mark with quick ken, where flashing in between Her much-loved _Smoke-Jack_ glimmers thro' the scene: Mark how his various parts together tend, Point to one purpose,--in one object end: The spiral _grooves_ in smooth meanders flow, Drags the long _chain_, the polish'd axles glow, While slowly circumvolves the piece of beef below: The conscious fire with bickering radiance burns, Eyes the rich joint, and roasts it as it turns.
So youthful HORNER rolled the roguish eye, Cull'd the dark plum from out his Christmas pie, And cried in self-applause--'How good a boy am I.'
So, the sad victim of domestic spite, Fair CINDERELLA, pass'd the wintry night, In the lone chimney's darksome nook immured, Her form disfigured, and her charms obscured. Sudden her godmother appears in sight, Lifts the charm'd rod, and chants the mystic rite. The chanted rite the maid attentive hears, And feels new ear-rings deck her listening ears; While 'midst her towering tresses, aptly set, Shines bright, with quivering glance, the smart aigrette; Brocaded silks the splendid dress complete, And the Glass Slipper grasps her fairy feet. Six cock-tail'd mice transport her to the ball, And liveried lizards wait upon her call.
Alas! that partial Science should approve The sly RECTANGLE'S[69] too licentious love! For _three_ bright nymphs the wily wizard burns;-- _Three_ bright-ey'd nymphs requite his flame by turns. Strange force of magic skill! combined of yore With PLATO'S science and MENECMUS' lore. In _Afric's_ schools, amid those sultry sands High on its base where POMPEY'S pillar stands, This learnt THE SEER; and learnt, alas! too well, Each scribbled talisman and smoky spell: What mutter'd charms, what soul-subduing arts, Fell ZATANAI[70] to his sons imparts.
Gins![71]--black and huge! who in DOM-DANIEL'S[72] cave Writhe your scorch'd limbs on sulphur's azure wave, Or, shivering, yell amidst eternal snows, Where cloud-capp'd CAF[73] protrudes his granite toes (Bound by _his_ will, _Judæa's_ fabled king,[74] Lord of _Aladdin's_ lamp and mystic ring). Gins! YE remember! for YOUR toil convey'd Whate'er of drugs the powerful charm could aid; Air, earth, and sea ye search'd, and where below Flame embryo lavas, young volcanoes glow-- GINS! ye beheld appall'd th' enchanter's hand Wave in dark air th' _Hypothenusal_ wand: Saw him the mystic _Circle_ trace, and wheel With head erect, and far-extended heel; Saw him, with speed that mock'd the dazzled eye, Self-whirl'd, in quick gyrations eddying fly: Till done the potent spell--behold him grown Fair _Venus'_ emblem--the _Phœnician Cone_.[75]
Triumphs THE SEER, and now secure observes The kindling passions of the _rival_ CURVES.
And first, the fair PARABOLA behold, Her timid arms, with virgin blush, unfold! Though, on one _focus_ fix'd, her eyes betray A heart that glows with love's resistless sway, Though, climbing oft, she strive with bolder grace Round his tall neck to clasp her fond embrace, Still ere she reach it, from his polish'd side Her trembling hands in devious _Tangents_ glide.
Not thus HYPERBOLA:--with subtlest art The blue-eyed wanton plays her changeful part; Quick as her _conjugated axes_ move Through every posture of luxurious love, Her sportive limbs with easiest grace expand; Her charms unveil'd provoke the lover's hand: Unveil'd, except in many a filmy ray, Where light _Asymptotes_ o'er her bosom play, Nor touch her glowing skin, nor intercept the day.
Yet why, ELLIPSIS, at thy fate repine? More lasting bliss, securer joys are thine. Though to each Fair his treach'rous wish may stray, Though each, in turn, may seize a transient sway, 'Tis thine with mild coercion to restrain, Twine round his struggling heart, and bind with endless chain.
Thus, happy FRANCE! in thy regenerate land, Where TASTE with RAPINE saunters hand in hand; Where, nursed in seats of innocence and bliss, REFORM greets TERROR with fraternal kiss; Where mild PHILOSOPHY first taught to scan The _wrongs_ of Providence, and _rights_ of MAN: Where MEMORY broods o'er FREEDOM'S earlier scene, The _Lantern_ bright, and brighter _Guillotine_; _Three_ gentle swains evolve their longing arms, And woo the young REPUBLIC'S virgin charms; And though proud BARRAS with the Fair succeed, Though not in vain th' Attorney REWBELL plead, Oft doth th' impartial nymph their love forgo, To clasp thy crooked shoulders, blest LEPEAUX!
So, with dark dirge athwart the blasted heath, _Three_ SISTER WITCHES hail'd th' appall'd Macbeth.
So, the _Three_ FATES beneath grim _Pluto's_ roof, Strain the dun warp, and weave the murky woof; Till deadly ATROPOS with fatal shears Slits the thin promise of th' expected years, While midst the dungeon's gloom or battle's din, Ambition's victims perish, as they spin.
Thus, the _Three_ GRACES on the _Idalian_ green Bow with deft homage to _Cythera's_ Queen; Her polish'd arms with pearly bracelets deck, Part her light locks, and bare her ivory neck; Round her fair form ethereal odours throw, And teach th' unconscious zephyrs where to blow; Floats the thin gauze, and glittering as they play, The bright folds flutter in phlogistic day.
So, with his daughters _Three_, th' unsceptred LEAR Heaved the loud sigh, and pour'd the glistering tear; His DAUGHTERS _Three_, save one alone, conspire (Rich in _his_ gifts) to spurn their generous sire; Bid the rude storm his hoary tresses drench, Stint the spare meal, the hundred knights retrench; Mock his mad sorrow, and with alter'd mien Renounce the daughter, and assert the queen. A father's griefs his feeble frame convulse, Rack his white head, and fire his feverous pulse; Till kind CORDELIA soothes his soul to rest, And folds the parent-monarch to her breast.
Thus some fair spinster grieves in wild affright, Vex'd with dull megrim, or vertigo light; Pleas'd round the fair _Three_ dawdling doctors stand, Wave the white wig, and stretch the asking hand, State the grave doubt, the nauseous draught decree, And all receive, tho' none deserve, a fee.
So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides The DERBY _dilly_, carrying _Three_ INSIDES. One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease, With folded arms, propt back, and outstretch'd knees; While the press'd _Bodkin_, punch'd and squeez'd to death, Sweats in the mid-most place, and pants for breath.
'Twas thine alone, O youth of giant frame, ISOSCELES! that rebel heart to tame! In vain coy MATHESIS[76] thy presence flies: Still turn her fond hallucinating eyes; Thrills with _Galvanic_ fires each tortuous nerve, Throb her blue veins, and dies her cold reserve. --Yet strives the Fair, till in the giant's breast She sees the mutual passion flame confessed: Where'er he moves, she sees his tall limbs trace _Internal Angles equal at the base_; Again she doubts him: but _produced at will_, She sees _th' external Angles equal still_.
Say, blest Isosceles! what favouring power, Or love, or chance, at night's auspicious hour, While to the _Asses'-Bridge_ entranced you stray'd, Led to the _Asses'-Bridge_ th' enamour'd maid?-- The _Asses'-Bridge_, for ages doom'd to hear The deafening surge assault his wooden ear, With joy repeats sweet sounds of mutual bliss, The soft susurrant sigh, and gently-murmuring kiss.
So thy dark arches, LONDON _Bridge_, bestride Indignant THAMES, and part his angry tide, There oft--returning from those green retreats, Where fair _Vauxhallia_ decks her sylvan seats;-- Where each spruce nymph, from city compters free, Sips the froth'd syllabub, or fragrant tea; While with sliced ham, scraped beef, and burnt champagne, Her 'prentice lover soothes his amorous pain; There oft, in well-trimm'd wherry, glide along Smart beaux and giggling belles, a glittering throng: Smells the tarr'd rope--with undulation fine Flaps the loose sail--the silken awnings shine;
'Shoot we the bridge!' the venturous boatmen cry; 'Shoot we the bridge!' th' exulting fare reply. --Down the steep fall the headlong waters go, Curls the white foam, the breakers roar below. The veering helm the dextrous steersman stops, Shifts the thin oar, the fluttering canvas drops; Then with closed eyes, clench'd hands, and quick-drawn breath, Darts at the central arch, nor heeds the gulf beneath. --Full 'gainst the pier the unsteady timbers knock, The loose planks, starting, own the impetuous shock; The shifted oar, dropp'd sail, and steadied helm, With angry surge the closing waters whelm, --Laughs the glad THAMES, and clasps each fair one's charms, That screams and scrambles in his oozy arms. --Drench'd each smart garb, and clogg'd each struggling limb, Far o'er the stream the Cockneys sink or swim; While each badged boatman, clinging to his oar, Bounds o'er the buoyant wave, and climbs the applauding shore.
So, towering ALP! from thy majestic ridge Young FREEDOM gazed on LODI'S blood-stain'd _Bridge_; Saw, in thick throngs, conflicting armies rush, Ranks close on ranks, and squadrons squadrons crush; Burst in bright radiance through the battle's storm, Waved her broad hands, display'd her awful form; Bade at her feet regenerate nations bow, And twin'd the wreath round Buonaparte's brow. --Quick with new lights, fresh hopes, and alter'd zeal, The slaves of despots dropp'd the blunted steel: Exulting Victory crown'd her favourite child, And freed LIGURIA, clapp'd her hands, and smiled.
Nor long the time ere Britain's shores shall greet The warrior-sage, with gratulation sweet: Eager to grasp the wreath of naval fame, The GREAT REPUBLIC plans the _Floating Frame_! --O'er the huge frame gigantic TERROR stalks, And counts with joy the close-compacted balks: Of young-eyed MASSACRES the Cherub crew Round their grim chief the mimic task pursue; Turn the stiff screw,[77] apply the strengthening clamp, Drive the long bolt, or fix the stubborn cramp, Lash the reluctant beam, the cable splice, Join the firm dove-tail with adjustment nice, Thro' yawning fissures urge the willing wedge, Or give the smoothing adze a sharper edge. --Or group'd in fairy bands, with playful care, The unconscious bullet to the furnace bear;-- Or gaily tittering, tip the match with fire, Prime the big mortar, bid the shell aspire; Applaud, with tiny hands, and laughing eyes, And watch the bright destruction as it flies.
Now the fierce forges gleam with angry glare-- The windmill[78] waves his woven wings in air; Swells the proud sail, the exulting streamers fly, Their nimble fins unnumber'd paddles ply: --Ye soft airs breathe, ye gentle billows waft, And, fraught with Freedom, bear the expected RAFT! Perch'd on her back, behold the Patriot train, MUIR, ASHLEY, BARLOW, BUONAPARTE, PAINE! While ROWAN'S hand directs the blood-empurpled rein.
Ye IMPS of MURDER! guard her angel form, Check the rude surge, and chase the hovering storm; Shield from contusive rocks her timber limbs, And guide the SWEET ENTHUSIAST[79] as she swims;
--And now, with web-foot oars, she gains the land, And foreign footsteps press the yielding sand: --The _Communes_ spread, the gay _Departments_ smile, Fair _Freedom's Plant_ o'ershades the laughing isle: Fired with new hopes, the exulting peasant sees The Gallic streamer woo the British breeze; While, pleased to watch its undulating charms, The smiling infant[80] spreads his little arms.
Ye Sylphs of DEATH! on demon pinions flit Where the tall _Guillotine_ is rais'd for PITT: To the pois'd plank tie fast the monster's back, Close the nice slider, ope the expectant sack; Then twitch, with fairy hands, the frolic pin-- Down falls the impatient axe with deafening din; The liberated head rolls off below, And simpering FREEDOM hails the happy blow!
GEORGE CANNING AND GEORGE ELLIS.
SONG BY ROGERO.
(GERMAN TRAGEDY)
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U- -niversity of Gottingen-- -niversity of Gottingen.
[_Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds._]
Sweet 'kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in, Alas, Matilda _then_ was true, At least I thought so at the U- -niversity of Gottingen-- -niversity of Gottingen.
[_At the repetition of this line_ ROGERO _clanks his chains in cadence_.]
Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-waggon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U- -niversity of Gottingen-- -niversity of Gottingen.
This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in! My years are many--They were few When first I enter'd at the U- -niversity of Gottingen-- -niversity of Gottingen.
There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu- -tor, Law Professor at the U- -niversity of Gottingen-- -niversity of Gottingen.
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water gru- -el never shall I see the U- -niversity of Gottingen!-- -niversity of Gottingen!
[_During the last stanza_ ROGERO _dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops--the music still continuing to play, till it is wholly fallen._]
JAMES HOGG.
WALSINGHAME'S SONG
FROM 'WAT O' THE CLEUCH.'
(SCOTT)
O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch? The lad that has worrying tikes enow, Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch!
Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine With two pint stoups of good red wine; But when he look'd they both were dry; O poverty parts good company! Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch!
Wat o' the Cleuch came down the Tine To woo a maid both gallant and fine; But as he came o'er by Dick o' the Side He smell'd the mutton and left the bride. Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch?
Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal, He wanted milk and he wanted veal; But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow He hough'd the calf and eated the cow! Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch!
Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight, But his whittle was blunt and his nag took fright, And the braggart he did what I dare not tell, But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch!
Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray, He wist not what to do or to say; But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree, A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree. Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch!
But the devil is cunning as I heard say, He knew his right, and haul'd him away; And he's over the Border and over the heuch, And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch!
But of all the wights in poor Scotland, That ever drew bow or Border brand, That ever drove English bullock or ewe, There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch. Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch! Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch!
THE FLYING TAILOR.
FURTHER EXTRACT FROM 'THE RECLUSE,' A POEM.
(WORDSWORTH)
If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead Into that green and flowery burial-ground That compasseth with sweet and mournful smiles The church of Grasmere,--by the eastern gate Enter--and underneath a stunted yew, Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk, On the left-hand side, thou wilt espy a grave, With unelaborate headstone beautified, Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps 'Neath which the children of the valley lie. There pause--and with no common feelings read This short inscription--'Here lies buried The Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!'
Him from his birth unto his death I knew, And many years before he had attain'd The fulness of his fame, I prophesied The triumphs of that youth's agility, And crown'd him with that name which afterwards He nobly justified--and dying left To fame's eternal blazon--read it here-- 'The Flying Tailor!'
It is somewhat strange That his mother was a cripple, and his father Long way declined into the vale of years When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up The sickly wretch, she to the father said, 'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect? The mother being, as I said before, A cripple, and the father of the child Long way declined into the vale of years.
But mark the wondrous change--ere he was put By his mother into breeches, Nature strung The muscular part of his economy To an unusual strength, and he could leap, All unimpeded by his petticoats, Over the stool on which his mother sat When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables, Or meek performing other household tasks. Cunning he watch'd his opportunity, And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence, Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig, More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool. What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frog Over the breech'd and unbreech'd villagers He shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say? Vainly so named. What though in attitude The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race When issuing from the weed-entangled pool, Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields, A jocund people, bouncing to and fro Amid the odorous clover--while amazed The grasshopper sits idle on the stalk With folded pinions and forgets to sing. Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was; But sure his bounds across the village green Seem'd to my soul--(my soul for ever bright With purest beams of sacred poesy)-- Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill, When, close-environed by the tinchels chain, He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky, Then o'er the many-headed multitude Springs belling half in terror, half in rage, And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top.
No more of this--suffice it to narrate, In his tenth year he was apprenticed Unto a Master Tailor by a strong And regular indenture of seven years, Commencing from the date the parchment bore, And ending on a certain day, that made The term complete of seven solar years. Oft have I heard him say, that at this time Of life he was most wretched; for, constrain'd To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board, The natural circulation of the blood Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise Up from his work he could not, but fell back Among the shreds and patches that bestrew'd With various colours, brightening gorgeously, The board all round him--patch of warlike red With which he patched the regimental-suits Of a recruiting military troop, At that time stationed in a market town At no great distance--eke of solemn black Shreds of no little magnitude, with which The parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing, That in the new-roof'd church he might appear With fitting dignity--and gravely fill The sacred seat of pulpit eloquence, Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faith The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit Of atheist drying up each argument, Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn Their point against himself, and overthrow His idols with the very enginery Reared 'gainst the structure of our English Church.
Oft too, when striving all he could to finish The stated daily task, the needle's point, Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch, Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mail In vain defended, and the crimson blood Distain'd the lining of some wedding-suit; A dismal omen! that to mind like his, Apt to perceive in slightest circumstance Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress And feverish perturbation, so that oft He scarce could eat his dinner--nay, one night He swore to run from his apprenticeship, And go on board a first-rate man-of-war, From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool, Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew Composed of many nations, 'mid the roar Of wave and tempest, and the deadlier voice Of battle, he might strive to mitigate The fever that consumed his mighty heart.
But other doom was his. That very night A troop of tumblers came into the village, Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,--on wire, On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intent To please the gaping multitude, and win The coin from labour's pocket--small perhaps Each separate piece of money, but when join'd Making a good round sum, destined ere long All to be melted, (so these lawless folk Name spending coin in loose debauchery) Melted into ale--or haply stouter cheer, Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd, Skulking by night round headland and through bay, Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge Of cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men, And with her sweeps across the foamy waves Moving most beautiful with measured strokes.
It chanced that as he threw a somerset Over three horses (each of larger size Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise Considerably bruised, especially About the loins and back. So he became Useless unto that wandering company, And likely to be felt a sore expense To men just on the eve of bankruptcy, So the master of the troop determined To leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'd That if there was a man among the crowd Willing to fill his place and able too, Now was the time to show himself. Hugh Thwaites Heard the proposal, as he stood apart Striving with his own soul--and with a bound He leapt into the circle, and agreed To supply the place of him who had been hurt. A shout of admiration and surprise Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'd The little field, where near a hundred people Were standing in a circle round and fair. Oft have I striven by meditative power, And reason working 'mid the various forms Of various occupations and professions, To explain the cause of one phenomenon, That, since the birth of science, hath remain'd A bare enunciation, unexplain'd By any theory, or mental light Stream'd on it by the imaginative will, Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine, The Penetralia of the immortal soul. I now allude to that most curious fact, That 'mid a given number, say threescore, Of tailors, more men of agility Will issue out, than from an equal show From any other occupation--say Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like. Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive This subject to illustrate; nor, while I give My meditations to the world, will I Conceal from it, that much I have to say I learnt from one who knows the subject well In theory and practice--need I name him? The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms, Illustrious more for leaping than for song.
First, then, I would lay down this principle, That all excessive action by the law Of nature tends unto repose. This granted, All action not excessive must partake The nature of excessive action--so That in all human beings who keep moving, Unconscious cultivation of repose Is going on in silence. Be it so. Apply to men of sedentary lives This leading principle, and we behold That, active in their inactivity, And unreposing in their long repose, They are, in fact, the sole depositaries Of all the energies by others wasted, And come at last to teem with impulses Of muscular motion, not to be withstood, And either giving vent unto themselves In numerous feats of wild agility, Or terminating in despair and death.
Now, of all sedentary lives, none seems So much so as the tailor's.--Weavers use Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add, Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move Without the body--as the waving branch Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk. Not so the Tailor--for he sits cross-legg'd, Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals, In bed, or when he takes his little walk From shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes, Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere, Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns, Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheel Bruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones.
Here then we pause--and need no farther go, We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail. Now let me trace the effect upon his mind Of this despised profession. Deem not thou, O rashly deem not, that his boyish days Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore With bashful feeling of apprenticeship The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul Derived no genial influence from a life, Which, although haply adverse in the main To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power, Yet in its ordinary forms possessed A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts, Moulded his appetences and his will, And wrought out, by the work of sympathy, Between his bodily and mental form, Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity! Perfect--complete--and fading not away. While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit, Shaping of various garments, to his mind An image rose of every character For whom each special article was framed, Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul Was like a storehouse, filled with images, By musing hours of solitude supplied. Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut Of villager's uncouth habiliments With greater readiness, than did his mind Frame corresponding images of those Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper In many a mystic notch for ay retain'd. Hence, more than any man I ever knew, Did he possess the power intuitive Of diving into character. A pair Of breeches to his philosophic eye Were not what unto other folks they seem, Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw The symbol of the soul--mysterious, high Hieroglyphics! such as Egypt's Priest Adored upon the holy Pyramid, Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old, But raised by wise philosophy, that sought By darkness to illumine, and to spread Knowledge by dim concealment--process high Of man's imaginative, deathless soul. Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life Which stern necessity had made his own, Did he not recognise a genial power Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely, And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees He saw a beauty and a majesty In this despised trade, which warrior's brow Hath rarely circled--so that when he sat Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun, And felt that orb, in all his annual round, Beheld no happier nobler character Than him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy.
Thus I, with no unprofitable song, Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood, Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes Of him the Flying Tailor. Much remains Of highest argument, to lute or lyre Fit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice; And when, by timely supper and by sleep Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task, With lofty hopes,--Reader, do thou expect The final termination of my lay. For, mark my words,--eternally my name Shall last on earth, conspicuous like a star 'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits, Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd, Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews, Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood.
THE CHERUB.
(COLERIDGE)
Was it not lovely to behold A Cherub come down from the sky, A beauteous thing of heavenly mould, With ringlets of the wavy gold, Dancing and floating curiously? To see it come down to the earth This beauteous thing of heavenly birth! Leaving the fields of balm and bliss, To dwell in such a world as this!
I heard a maiden sing the while, A strain so holy, it might beguile An angel from the radiant spheres, That have swum in light ten thousand years; Ten times ten thousand is too few-- Child of heaven, can this be true? And then I saw that beauteous thing Slowly from the clouds descending, Brightness, glory, beauty blending, In the 'mid air hovering. It had a halo round its head, It was not of the rainbow's hue, For in it was no shade of blue, But a beam of amber mixed with red, Like that which mingles in the ray A little after the break of day. Its raiment was the thousand dyes Of flowers in the heavenly paradise; Its track a beam of the sun refined, And its chariot was the southern wind; My heart danced in me with delight, And my spirits mounted at the sight, And I said within me it is well; But where the bower, or peaceful dell, Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell? Then I bethought me of the place, To lodge the messenger of grace; And I chose the ancient sycamore, And the little green by Greta's shore; It is a spot so passing fair, That sainted thing might sojourn there.
Go tell yon stranger artisan, Build as quickly as he can. Heaven shield us from annoy! What shall form this dome of joy? The leaf of the rose would be too rude For a thing that is not flesh and blood; The walls must be of the sunny air, And the roof the silvery gossamer, And all the ceiling, round and round, Wove half of light, and half of sound; The sounds must be the tones that fly From distant harp, just ere they die; And the light the moon's soft midnight ray, When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey. And such a bower of light and love, Of beauty, and of harmonie, In earth below, or heaven above, No mortal thing shall ever see.
The dream is past, it is gone away! The rose is blighted on the spray; I look behind, I look before, The happy vision is no more! But in its room a darker shade Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made; I cannot turn, yet do not know, What I would, or whither go; But I have heard, to heart of sin, A small voice whispering within, 'Tis all I know, and all I trust,-- 'That man is weak, but God is just.'
ISABELLE.
(COLERIDGE)
Can there be a moon in heaven to-night, That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light? The air is whiten'd by some spell, For there is no moon, I know it well; On this third day, the sages say, ('Tis wonderful how well they know,) The moon is journeying far away, Bright somewhere in a heaven below.
It is a strange and lovely night, A greyish pale, but not white! Is it rain, or is it dew, That falls so thick I see its hue? In rays it follows, one, two, three, Down the air so merrily, Said Isabelle, so let it be!
Why does the Lady Isabelle Sit in the damp and dewy dell Counting the racks of drizzly rain, And how often the Rail cries over again? For she's harping, harping in the brake, Craik, craik--Craik, craik. Ten times nine, and thrice eleven;-- That last call was an hundred and seven. Craik, craik--the hour is near-- Let it come, I have no fear! Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis, Such doings in a night like this!
Sounds the river harsh and loud? The stream sounds harsh, but not loud. There is a cloud that seems to hover, By western hill the churchyard over, What is it like?--'Tis like a whale; 'Tis like a shark with half the tail, Not half, but third and more; Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar; Its face is raised--it cometh here; Let it come--there is no fear. There's two for heaven, and ten for hell, Let it come--'tis well--'tis well! Said the Lady Isabelle.
What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp, That it continues to yelp, yelp? Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye Up to the tree and half to the sky, Half to the sky and full to the cloud, And still it whines and barks aloud. Why I should dread I cannot tell; There is a spirit; I know it well! I see it in yon falling beam-- Is it a vision, or a dream? It is no dream, full well I know, I have a woful deed to do! Hush, hush, thou little murmurer; I tell thee hush--the dead are near!
If thou knew'st all, poor tailless whelp, Well might'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp; But thou know'st nothing, hast no part, (Simple and stupid as thou art) Save gratitude and truth of heart. But they are coming by this way That have been dead for a year and a day; Without challenge, without change, They shall have their full revenge! They have been sent to wander in woe In the lands of flame, and the lands of snow; But those that are dead Shall the green sward tread, And those that are living Shall soon be dead! None to pity them, none to help! Thou may'st quake, my cut-tail'd whelp!
There are two from the grave That I fain would save; Full hard is the weird For the young and the brave! Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet, While the passing breezes kiss their feet; And they are dreaming of joy and love!-- Well, let them go--there's room above.
There are three times three, and three to these, Count as you will, by twos or threes! Three for the gallows, and three for the wave, Three to roast behind the stone, And three that shall never see the grave Until the day and the hour are gone! For retribution is mine alone! The cloud is redder in its hue, The hour is near, and vengeance due; It cannot, and it will not fail,-- 'Tis but a step to Borrowdale! Why shouldst thou love and follow me, Poor faithful thing? I pity thee!
Up rose the Lady Isabelle, I may not of her motion tell, Yet thou may'st look upon her frame; Look on it with a passing eye, But think not thou upon the same, Turn away, and ask not why; For if thou darest look again, Mad of heart and seared of brain, Thou shalt never look again!
What can ail that short-tail'd whelp? 'Tis either behind or far before, And it hath changed its whining yelp To a shorten'd yuff--its little core Seems bursting with terror and dismay, Yuff, yuff,--hear how it speeds away. Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing, The very night-wind's slumbering, And thou wilt wake to woe and pain Those that must never wake again.
Meet is its terror and its flight, There's one on the left and two on the right! But save the paleness of the face, All is beauty, and all is grace! The earth and air are tinged with blue; There are no footsteps in the dew; Is this to wandering spirits given, Such stillness on the face of heaven? The fleecy clouds that sleep above, Are like the wing of beauteous dove, And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move! Yet they are coming! and they are three! Jesu! Maria! can it be?
THE CONCLUSION.
Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale! Sleep! O sleep! and do not wake! Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale, And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake; Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland, Thine own fair breast for lover's hand. Thy heart is light as summer breeze, Thy heart is joyous as the day; Man never form of angel sees, But thou art fair as they! So lovers ween, and so they say, So thine shall ween for many a day! The hour's at hand, O woe is me! For they are coming, and they are three!
THE CURSE OF THE LAUREATE.
(SOUTHEY)
CARMEN JUDICIALE.