XIII.

The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair For Born's translation of Kant's book; A world of words, tail foremost, where Right--wrong--false--true--and foul--and fair As in a lottery-wheel are shook.

Five thousand crammed octavo pages Of German psychologics,--he Who his _furor verborum_ assuages Thereon, deserves just seven months' wages More than will e'er be due to me.

I looked on them nine several days, And then I saw that they were bad; A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,-- He never read them;--with amaze I found Sir William Drummond had.

When the book came, the Devil sent It to P. Verbovale[86], Esquire, With a brief note of compliment, By that night's Carlisle mail. It went, And set his soul on fire.

Fire, which _ex luce praebens fumum_, Made him beyond the bottom see Of truth's clear well--when I and you, Ma'am, Go, as we shall do, _subter humum_, We may know more than he.

Now Peter ran to seed in soul Into a walking paradox; For he was neither part nor whole, Nor good, nor bad--nor knave nor fool; --Among the woods and rocks.

Furious he rode, where late he ran, Lashing and spurring his tame hobby; Turned to a formal puritan,-- A solemn and unsexual man,-- He half believed _White Obi_.