Tom, Dick, and Will were little known to fame —
No matter;
But to the alehouse oftentimes they came,
To chatter.
It was the custom of these three
To sit up late;
And o'er the embers of the alehouse fire,
When steadier customers retire,
The choice triumviri , d'ye see?
Held a debate.
Held a debate? On politics no doubt.
Not so — they cared not who was in,
No, not a pin —
Nor who was out.
All their discourse on modern poets ran,
For in the Muses was their sole delight;
They talked of such, and such, and such a man,
Of those who could and those who could not write.
It cost them very little pains
To count the modern poets who had brains.
'Twas a small difficulty — 'twasn't any;
They were so few;
But to cast up the scores of men
Who wield a stump they call a pen,
Lord! they had much to do —
There were so many!
Buoy'd on a sea of fancy Genius rises,
And like the rare leviathan surprises;
But the small fry of scribblers! tiny souls!
They wriggle through the mud in shoals.
It would have raised a smile to see the faces
They made, and the ridiculous grimaces,
At many an author, as they overhauled him.
They gave no quarter to a calf,
Blown up with puff and paragraph;
But if they found him bad, they mauled him.
On modern dramatists they fell,
Pounce, vi et armis — tooth and nail — pell mell;
They called them carpenters and smugglers;
Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,
And knocking them together like deal boards,
And jugglers;
Who all the town's attention fix,
By making — plays? No, sir; by making tricks .
The versifiers — Heaven defend us!
They played the very devil with their rhymes;
They hoped Apollo a new set would send us;
And then, invidiously enough,
Placed moodish verse, which they called stuff,
Against the writings of the elder times.
To say the truth, a modern versifier
Clapped cheek by jowl
With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior;
Would look damned scurvily, upon my soul!
For novels, should their critic hints succeed,
The Misses might fare better, when they took 'em;
But it would fare extremely ill indeed
With gentle Messrs. Lane and Hookham.
" A novel now, " says Will, " is nothing more
Than an old castle and a creaking door,
A distant hovel,
Clanking of chains, a gallery, a light,
Old armour, and a phantom all in white,
And there's a novel!
" Scourge me such catch-penny inditers
Out of the land, " quoth Will, rousing in passion,
" And fie upon the readers of such writers,
Who bring them into fashion! "
Will rose in declamation. " 'Tis the bane, "
Says he, " of youth; 'tis the perdition;
It fills a giddy female brain
With vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,
With superstition.
" Were I pastor in a boarding-school,
I'd quash such books in toto; if couldn't,
Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,
I'd flog her soundly damme if I wouldn't. "
" William, 'tis plain, was getting in a rage;
But, Thomas dryly said, for he was cool,
" I think no gentleman would mend the age
By flogging ladies at a boarding-school. "
Dick knocked the ashes from his pipe,
And said, " Friend Will,
You give the novels a fair wipe;
But still
While you, my friend, with passion run 'em down,
They're in the hands of all the town.
" The reason's plain, " proceeded Dick,
" And simply thus,
Taste, over-glutted, grows depraved and sick,
And needs a stimulus .
" Time was (when honest Fielding writ)
Tales full of nature, character, and wit
Were reckoned most delicious boiled and roast;
But stomachs are so cloyed with novel-feeding,
Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,
And want that strong provocative, a ghost.
Or, to come nearer,
And put the case a little clearer;
Minds, just like bodies, suffer enervation
By too much use;
And sink into a state of relaxation,
With long abuse.
" Now a romance, with reading debauchees,
Rouses their torpid powers when nature fails;
And all their legendary tales
Are, to a worn-out mind, cantharides.
But how to cure the evil? you will say:
My recipe is, laughing it away.
" Lay bare the weak farrago of those men
Who fabricate such visionary schemes,
As if the nightmare rode upon their pen,
And troubled all their ink with hideous dreams.
" For instance, when a solemn ghost stalks in,
And through a mystic tale is busy,
Strip me the gentleman into his skin —
What is he?
" Truly, ridiculous enough,
Mere trash: and very childish stuff.
" Draw but a ghost or fiend of low degree ,
And all the bubble's broken. Let us see. "
No matter;
But to the alehouse oftentimes they came,
To chatter.
It was the custom of these three
To sit up late;
And o'er the embers of the alehouse fire,
When steadier customers retire,
The choice triumviri , d'ye see?
Held a debate.
Held a debate? On politics no doubt.
Not so — they cared not who was in,
No, not a pin —
Nor who was out.
All their discourse on modern poets ran,
For in the Muses was their sole delight;
They talked of such, and such, and such a man,
Of those who could and those who could not write.
It cost them very little pains
To count the modern poets who had brains.
'Twas a small difficulty — 'twasn't any;
They were so few;
But to cast up the scores of men
Who wield a stump they call a pen,
Lord! they had much to do —
There were so many!
Buoy'd on a sea of fancy Genius rises,
And like the rare leviathan surprises;
But the small fry of scribblers! tiny souls!
They wriggle through the mud in shoals.
It would have raised a smile to see the faces
They made, and the ridiculous grimaces,
At many an author, as they overhauled him.
They gave no quarter to a calf,
Blown up with puff and paragraph;
But if they found him bad, they mauled him.
On modern dramatists they fell,
Pounce, vi et armis — tooth and nail — pell mell;
They called them carpenters and smugglers;
Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,
And knocking them together like deal boards,
And jugglers;
Who all the town's attention fix,
By making — plays? No, sir; by making tricks .
The versifiers — Heaven defend us!
They played the very devil with their rhymes;
They hoped Apollo a new set would send us;
And then, invidiously enough,
Placed moodish verse, which they called stuff,
Against the writings of the elder times.
To say the truth, a modern versifier
Clapped cheek by jowl
With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior;
Would look damned scurvily, upon my soul!
For novels, should their critic hints succeed,
The Misses might fare better, when they took 'em;
But it would fare extremely ill indeed
With gentle Messrs. Lane and Hookham.
" A novel now, " says Will, " is nothing more
Than an old castle and a creaking door,
A distant hovel,
Clanking of chains, a gallery, a light,
Old armour, and a phantom all in white,
And there's a novel!
" Scourge me such catch-penny inditers
Out of the land, " quoth Will, rousing in passion,
" And fie upon the readers of such writers,
Who bring them into fashion! "
Will rose in declamation. " 'Tis the bane, "
Says he, " of youth; 'tis the perdition;
It fills a giddy female brain
With vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,
With superstition.
" Were I pastor in a boarding-school,
I'd quash such books in toto; if couldn't,
Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,
I'd flog her soundly damme if I wouldn't. "
" William, 'tis plain, was getting in a rage;
But, Thomas dryly said, for he was cool,
" I think no gentleman would mend the age
By flogging ladies at a boarding-school. "
Dick knocked the ashes from his pipe,
And said, " Friend Will,
You give the novels a fair wipe;
But still
While you, my friend, with passion run 'em down,
They're in the hands of all the town.
" The reason's plain, " proceeded Dick,
" And simply thus,
Taste, over-glutted, grows depraved and sick,
And needs a stimulus .
" Time was (when honest Fielding writ)
Tales full of nature, character, and wit
Were reckoned most delicious boiled and roast;
But stomachs are so cloyed with novel-feeding,
Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,
And want that strong provocative, a ghost.
Or, to come nearer,
And put the case a little clearer;
Minds, just like bodies, suffer enervation
By too much use;
And sink into a state of relaxation,
With long abuse.
" Now a romance, with reading debauchees,
Rouses their torpid powers when nature fails;
And all their legendary tales
Are, to a worn-out mind, cantharides.
But how to cure the evil? you will say:
My recipe is, laughing it away.
" Lay bare the weak farrago of those men
Who fabricate such visionary schemes,
As if the nightmare rode upon their pen,
And troubled all their ink with hideous dreams.
" For instance, when a solemn ghost stalks in,
And through a mystic tale is busy,
Strip me the gentleman into his skin —
What is he?
" Truly, ridiculous enough,
Mere trash: and very childish stuff.
" Draw but a ghost or fiend of low degree ,
And all the bubble's broken. Let us see. "
Reviews
No reviews yet.