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diff --git a/5203-0.txt b/5203-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a8ae836 --- /dev/null +++ b/5203-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1124 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 5203 *** +The Village and The Newspaper by George Crabbe (1754-1832) + + + + +Contents + The Village + Book 1 + Book 2 + The Newspaper + + + + +THE VILLAGE + + + + +BOOK I.--THE ARGUMENT. + + + +The Subject proposed--Remarks upon Pastoral Poetry--A Tract of +Country near the Coast described--An Impoverished Borough--Smugglers +and their Assistants--Rude Manners of the Inhabitants--Ruinous +Effects of the High Tide--The Village Life more generally +considered: Evils of it--The Youthful Labourer--The Old Man: his +Soliloquy--The Parish Workhouse: its Inhabitants--The sick Poor: +their Apothecary--The dying Pauper--The Village Priest. + + +The Village Life, and every care that reigns +O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; +What labour yields, and what, that labour past, +Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; +What form the real Picture of the Poor, +Demand a song--the Muse can give no more. + Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains, +The rustic poet praised his native plains: +No Shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, +Their country's beauty or their nymphs rehearse; +Yet still for these we frame the tender strain, +Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, +And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal, +The only pains, alas! they never feel. + On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, +If Tityrus found the Golden Age again, +Must sleepy bards the nattering dream prolong, +Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? +From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, +Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way? + Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains, +Because the Muses never knew their pains: +They boast their peasant's pipes; but peasants now +Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough; +And few, amid the rural tribe, have time +To number syllables and play with rhyme; +Save honest DUCK, what son of verse could share +The poet's rapture and the peasant's care? +Or the great labours of the field degrade, +With the new peril of a poorer trade? + From this chief cause these idle praises spring, +That themes so easy few forbear to sing; +For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask; +To sing of shepherds is an easy task: +The happy youth assumes the common strain, +A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain; +With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer, +But all, to look like her, is painted fair. + I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms +For him that grazes or for him that farms; +But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace +The poor laborious natives of the place, +And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray, +On their bare heads and dewy temples play; +While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts, +Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts +Then shall I dare these real ills to hide +In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? + No; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, +Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; +Where other cares than those the Muse relates, +And other shepherds dwell with other mates; +By such examples taught, I paint the Cot, +As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not: +Nor you, ye Poor, of letter'd scorn complain, +To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; +O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time, +Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? +Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, +By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? +Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower, +Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? + Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, +Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor; +From thence a length of burning sand appears, +Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears; +Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, +Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye. +There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, +And to the ragged infant threaten war; +There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil, +There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; +Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, +The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; +O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, +And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade. +With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, +And a sad splendour vainly shines around. +So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, +Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn; +Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, +While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; +Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, +Exposing most, when most it gilds distress. + Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, +With sullen woe display'd in every face; +Who, far from civil arts and social fly, +And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. + Here too the lawless merchant of the main +Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain; +Want only claim'd the labour of the day, +But vice now steals his nightly rest away. + Where are the swains, who, daily labour done, +With rural games play'd down the setting sun; +Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball, +Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall; +While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, +Engaged some artful stripling of the throng. +And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around +Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound? +Where now are these?--Beneath yon cliff they stand, +To show the freighted pinnace where to land; +To load the ready steed with guilty haste, +To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste, +Or, when detected, in their straggling course, +To foil their foes by cunning or by force; +Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand), +To gain a lawless passport through the land. + Here, wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields, +I sought the simple life that Nature yields; +Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place, +And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; +Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe, +The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, +Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, +On the tost vessel bend their eager eye, +Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way; +Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. + As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, +And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; +While still for flight the ready wing is spread: +So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; +Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, +And cried, Ah! hapless they who still remain; +Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, +Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; +Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway, +Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; +When the sad tenant weeps from door to door; +And begs a poor protection from the poor! + But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand +Gave a spare portion to the famish'd land; +Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain +Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain; +But yet in other scenes more fair in view, +When Plenty smiles--alas! she smiles for few - +And those who taste not, yet behold her store, +Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore - +The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. +Or will you deem them amply paid in health, +Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? +Go then! and see them rising with the sun, +Through a long course of daily toil to run; +See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat, +When the knees tremble and the temples beat; +Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er +The labour past, and toils to come explore; +See them alternate suns and showers engage, +And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; +Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, +When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; +Then own that labour may as fatal be +To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. + Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride +Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; +There may you see the youth of slender frame +Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; +Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield, +He strives to join his fellows of the field: +Till long-contending nature droops at last, +Declining health rejects his poor repast, +His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, +And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. + Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, +Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; +Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, +Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share? +Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, +Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; +Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such +As you who praise would never deign to touch. + Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, +Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; +Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share, +Go look within, and ask if peace be there; +If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; +Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; +Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand +Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand! + Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these +Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; +For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age +Can with no cares except its own engage; +Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to see +The bare arms broken from the withering tree, +On which, a boy, he climb'd the loftiest bough, +Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. + He once was chief in all the rustic trade; +His steady hand the straightest furrow made; +Full many a prize he won, and still is proud +To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd; +A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, +He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs: +For now he journeys to his grave in pain; +The rich disdain him; nay the poor disdain: +Alternate masters now their slave command, +Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, +And, when his age attempts its task in vain, +With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. + Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep, +His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; +Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow +O'er his white locks and bury them in snow, +When, rous'd by rage and muttering in the morn, +He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn: - + "Why do I live, when I desire to be +At once from life and life's long labour free? +Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, +Without the sorrows of a slow decay; +I, like yon withered leaf remain behind, +Nipt by the frost, and shivering in the wind; +There it abides till younger buds come on +As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone, +Then from the rising generation thrust, +It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. + "These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, +Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; +To me the children of my youth are lords, +Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: +Wants of their own demand their care; and who +Feels his own want and succours others too? +A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, +None need my help, and none relieve my woe; +Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, +And men forget the wretch they would not aid." + Thus groan the old, till by disease oppress'd, +They taste a final woe, and then they rest. + Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor, +Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; +There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, +And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;- +There children dwell who know no parents' care; +Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! +Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, +Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; +Dejected widows with unheeded tears, +And crippled age with more than childhood fears; +The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! +The moping idiot, and the madman gay. + Here too the sick their final doom receive, +Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, +Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, +Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below; +Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, +And the cold charities of man to man: +Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, +And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; +But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, +And pride embitters what it can't deny. +Say, ye, opprest by some fantastic woes, +Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; +Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance +With timid eye to read the distant glance; +Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, +To name the nameless ever new disease; +Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, +Which real pain and that alone can cure; +How would ye bear in real pain to lie, +Despised, neglected, left alone to die? +How would ye bear to draw your latest breath +Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? + Such is that room which one rude beam divides, +And naked rafters form the sloping sides; +Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, +And lath and mud are all that lie between; +Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way +To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: +Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, +The drooping wretch reclines his languid head; +For him no hand the cordial cup applies, +Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes; +No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, +Or promise hope, till sickness wears a smile. + But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, +Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls; +Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, +All pride and business, bustle and conceit; +With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe, +With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, +He bids the gazing throng around him fly, +And carries fate and physic in his eye: +A potent quack, long versed in human ills, +Who first insults the victim whom he kills; +Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect, +And whose most tender mercy is neglect. + Paid by the parish for attendance here, +He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; +In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies, +Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes; +And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, +Without reply, he rushes on the door: +His drooping patient, long inured to pain, +And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; +He ceases now the feeble help to crave +Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. + But ere his death some pious doubts arise, +Some simple fears, which "bold bad" men despise; +Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove +His title certain to the joys above: +For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls +The holy stranger to these dismal walls: +And doth not he, the pious man, appear, +He, "passing rich, with forty pounds a year?" +Ah!no; a shepherd of a different stock, +And far unlike him, feeds this little flock: +A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task +As much as God or man can fairly ask; +The rest he gives to loves and labours light, +To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; +None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide, +To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide; +A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, +And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play: +Then, while such honours bloom around his head, +Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed, +To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal +To combat fears that e'en the pious, feel? + Now once again the gloomy scene explore, +Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, +The man of many sorrows sighs no more. - +Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow +The bier moves winding from the vale below: +There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, +And the glad parish pays the frugal fee: +No more, O Death! thy victim starts to hear +Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer; +No more the farmer claims his humble bow, +Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou! + Now to the church behold the mourners come, +Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb; +The village children now their games suspend, +To see the bier that bears their ancient friend: +For he was one in all their idle sport, +And like a monarch ruled their little court; +The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball, +The bat, the wicket, were his labours all; +Him now they follow to his grave, and stand, +Silent and sad, and gazing hand in hand; +While bending low, their eager eyes explore +The mingled relics of the parish poor. +The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round, +Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; +The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care, +Defers his duty till the day of prayer; +And, waiting long, the crowd retire distrest, +To think a poor man's bones should lie unblest. + + + +BOOK II--THE ARGUMENT. + + + +There are found, amid the Evils of a laborious Life, some Views of +Tranquillity and Happiness--The Repose and Pleasure of a Summer +Sabbath: interrupted by Intoxication and Dispute--Village +Detraction--Complaints of the 'Squire--The Evening Riots--Justice-- +Reasons for this unpleasant View of Rustic Life: the Effect it +should have upon the Lower Classes; and the Higher--These last have +their peculiar Distresses: Exemplified in the Life and heroic Death +of Lord Robert Manners--Concluding Address to His Grace the Duke of +Rutland. + +No longer truth, though shown in verse, disdain, +But own the Village Life a life of pain: +I too must yield, that oft amid those woes +Are gleams of transient mirth and hours of sweet repose, +Such as you find on yonder sportive Green, +The 'squire's tall gate and churchway-walk between; +Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends, +On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends: +Then rural beaux their best attire put on, +To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won: +While those long wed go plain, and by degrees, +Like other husbands, quit their care to please. +Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd, +And loudly praise, if it were preach'd aloud; +Some on the labours of the week look round, +Feel their own worth, and think their toil renown'd; +While some, whose hopes to no renown extend, +Are only pleased to find their labours end. + Thus, as their hours glide on, with pleasure fraught +Their careful masters brood the painful thought; +Much in their mind they murmur and lament, +That one fair day should be so idly spent; +And think that Heaven deals hard, to tithe their store +And tax their time for preachers and the poor. + Yet still, ye humbler friends, enjoy your hour, +This is your portion, yet unclaim'd of power; +This is Heaven's gift to weary men oppress'd, +And seems the type of their expected rest: +But yours, alas! are joys that soon decay; +Frail joys, begun and ended with the day; +Or yet, while day permits those joys to reign, +The village vices drive them from the plain. + See the stout churl, in drunken fury great, +Strike the bare bosom of his teeming mate! +His naked vices, rude and unrefined, +Exert their open empire o'er the mind; +But can we less the senseless rage despise, +Because the savage acts without disguise? + Yet here Disguise, the city's vice, is seen, +And Slander steals along and taints the Green: +At her approach domestic peace is gone, +Domestic broils at her approach come on; +She to the wife the husband's crime conveys, +She tells the husband when his consort strays; +Her busy tongue, through all the little state, +Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate; +Peace, tim'rous goddess! quits her old domain, +In sentiment and song content to reign. + Nor are the nymphs that breathe the rural air +So fair as Cynthia's, nor so chaste as fair: +These to the town afford each fresher face, +And the clown's trull receives the peer's embrace; +From whom, should chance again convey her down, +The peer's disease in turn attacks the clown. + Here too the 'squire, or 'squire-like farmer, talk, +How round their regions nightly pilferers walk; +How from their ponds the fish are borne, and all +The rip'ning treasures from their lofty wall; +How meaner rivals in their sports delight, +Just right enough to claim a doubtful right; +Who take a licence round their fields to stray, +A mongrel race! the poachers of the day. + And hark! the riots of the Green begin, +That sprang at first from yonder noisy inn; +What time the weekly pay was vanish'd all, +And the slow hostess scored the threat'ning wall; +What time they ask'd, their friendly feast to close, +A final cup, and that will make them foes; +When blows ensue that break the arm of toil, +And rustic battle ends the boobies' broil. + Save when to yonder Hall they bend their way, +Where the grave Justice ends the grievous fray; +He who recites, to keep the poor in awe, +The law's vast volume--for he knows the law: - +To him with anger or with shame repair +The injured peasant and deluded fair. + Lo! at his throne the silent nymph appears, +Frail by her shape, but modest in her tears; +And while she stands abash'd, with conscious eye, +Some favourite female of her judge glides by, +Who views with scornful glance the strumpet's fate, +And thanks the stars that made her keeper great: +Near her the swain, about to bear for life +One certain evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife; +But, while the faltering damsel takes her oath, +Consents to wed, and so secures them both. + Yet why, you ask, these humble crimes relate, +Why make the Poor as guilty as the Great? +To show the great, those mightier sons of pride, +How near in vice the lowest are allied; +Such are their natures and their passions such, +But these disguise too little, those too much: +So shall the man of power and pleasure see +In his own slave as vile a wretch as he; +In his luxurious lord the servant find +His own low pleasures and degenerate mind: +And each in all the kindred vices trace, +Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd erring race, +Who, a short time in varied fortune past, +Die, and are equal in the dust at last. + And you, ye Poor, who still lament your fate, +Forbear to envy those you call the Great; +And know, amid those blessings they possess, +They are, like you, the victims of distress; +While Sloth, with many a pang torments her slave, +Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes the brave. + Oh! if in life one noble chief appears, +Great in his name, while blooming in his years; +Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind, +And yet to all you feel or fear resign'd; +Who gave up joys and hopes to you unknown, +For pains and dangers greater than your own: +If such there be, then let your murmurs cease, +Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace. +And such there was:--Oh! grief, that checks our pride, +Weeping we say there was, for MANNERS {1} died: +Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive +That sing of Thee, and thus aspire to live. + As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form +An ample shade, and brave the wildest storm, +High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow, +The guard and glory of the trees below; +Till on its head the fiery bolt descends, +And o'er the plain the shattered trunk extends; +Yet then it lies, all wond'rous as before, +And still the glory, though the guard no more: + So THOU, when every virtue, every grace, +Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face; +When, though the son of GRANBY, thou wert known +Less by thy father's glory than thy own; +When Honour loved and gave thee every charm, +Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm; +Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes, +Fate and thy virtues call'd thee to the skies; +Yet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame, +And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name. + Oh! ever honour'd, ever valued! say, +What verse can praise thee, or what work repay? +Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays, +Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days: - +Honours for thee thy country shall prepare, +Thee in their hearts, the good, the brave shall bear; +To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire, +The Muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire. + In future times, when smit with Glory's charms, +The untried youth first quits a father's arms; - +"Oh! be like him," the weeping sire shall say; +"Like MANNERS walk, who walk'd in Honour's way; +In danger foremost, yet in death sedate, +Oh! be like him in all things, but his fate!" + If for that fate such public tears be shed, +That Victory seems to die now THOU art dead; +How shall a friend his nearer hope resign, +That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine? +By what bold lines shall we his grief express, +Or by what soothing numbers make it less? + 'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song, +Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong, +Words aptly cull'd, and meaning well express'd, +Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast; +But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains, +Shall heal that bosom, RUTLAND, where she reigns. + Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart, +To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart, +Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh, +And curb rebellious passion, with reply; +Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before, +And yet to know that all shall please no more; - +Oh! glorious labour of the soul, to save +Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave. + To such these thoughts will lasting comfort give - +Life is not measured by the time we live: +'Tis not an even course of threescore years, - +A life of narrow views and paltry fears, +Gray hairs and wrinkles, and the cares they bring, +That take from Death the terrors or the sting; +But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high +Above the world, that native of the sky; +The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave +Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave: - +Such MANNERS was, so he resign'd his breath, +If in a glorious, then a timely death. + Cease, then, that grief, and let those tears subside; +If Passion rule us, be that passion pride; +If Reason, reason bids us strive to raise +Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise; +Or if Affection still the soul subdue, +Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view, +And let Affection find its comfort too: +For how can Grief so deeply wound the heart, +When Admiration claims so large a part? + Grief is a foe--expel him then thy soul; +Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control! +Oh! make the age to come thy better care, +See other RUTLANDS, other GRANBYS there! +And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide, +See other heroes die as MANNERS died: +And from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow, +As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below; +Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, +Sees his young streams run warbling at his side; +Though some, by art cut off, no longer run, +And some are lost beneath the summer sun - +Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves, +Its power increases and its use improves; +While plenty round its spacious waves bestow, +Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow. + + + + + +THE NEWSPAPER + + + +E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures: +Hi narrata ferunt alio; mensuraque ficti +Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor: +Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Error, +Vanaque Laetitia est, consternatique Timores, +Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri. + OVID, Metamorphoses + + +THE ARGUMENT + +This not a Time favourable to Poetical Composition: and why-- +Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general Influence--Their +Numbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general Character--Their Effect +upon Individuals--upon Society--in the Country--The Village +Freeholder--What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is; and the +Amusement it affords--Of what Parts it is chiefly composed--Articles +of Intelligence: Advertisements: The Stage: Quacks: Puffing--The +Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and poetical--Advice to the +latter--Conclusion. + +A time like this, a busy, bustling time, +Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme: +Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong, +And mightier madness checks the flowing song: +Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield +Her feeble arms amid the furious field, +Where party-pens a wordy war maintain, +Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain; +And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine, +Till serious vengeance pays an idle line: +For party-poets are like wasps, who dart +Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart. + Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose, +Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse; +Or should we sing the subject of the day, +To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away. +More blest the bards of that poetic time, +When all found readers who could find a rhyme; +Green grew the bays on every teeming head, +And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read. +Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline; +Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine? +Alas! new charms the wavering many gain, +And rival sheets the reader's eye detain; +A daily swarm, that banish every Muse, +Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS: +For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie; +For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die; +Unbought, unblest, the virgin copies wait +In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate. + Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes, +The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose; +Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride, +And sing our rivals with a rival's pride. + Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain +That foul neglect is all your labours gain; +That pity only checks your growing spite +To erring man, and prompts you still to write; +That your choice works on humble stalls are laid, +Or vainly grace the windows of the trade; +Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm +Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm; +Think of the common cause wherein we go, +Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe; +Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame, +Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame; +And let us join our forces to subdue +This bold assuming but successful crew. + I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheets +The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets; +Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly, +Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye: +For soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue, +The HERALD of the morn arises too; +POST after POST succeeds, and, all day long, +GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throng. +When evening comes, she comes with all her train; +Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and POSTS again. +Like bats, appearing when the sun goes down, +From holes obscure and corners of the town. +Of all these triflers, all like these, I write; +Oh! like my subject could my song delight, +The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise, +And all the Alley echo to his praise. + In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring, +Like insects waking to th' advancing spring; +Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lie +In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky: +Such are these base ephemeras, so born +To die before the next revolving morn. +Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lost +In the first visit of a winters frost; +While these remain, a base but constant breed, +Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires succeed; +No changing season makes their number less, +Nor Sunday shines a sabbath on the press! + Then lo! the sainted MONITOR is born, +Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn: +As artful sinners cloak the secret sin, +To veil with seeming grace the guile within; +So moral Essays on his front appear, +But all is carnal business in the rear; +The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last, +And all the gleanings of the six days past. + With these retired through half the Sabbath-day, +The London lounger yawns his hours away: +Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly, +Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy; +But let the decent maid and sober clown +Pray for these idlers of the sinful town: +This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow, +Nor give to WOODFALL, or the world below. + But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then, +What wondrous labours of the press and pen; +Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords, +Some only once,--O avarice of words! +When thousand starving minds such manna seek, +To drop the precious food but once a week. + Endless it were to sing the powers of all, +Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall: +Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize, +Rush to the head, and poison where they please: +Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train, +They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain: +That genia soil receives the fruitful store, +And there they grow, and breed a thousand more. + Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose +A cause and party, as the bard his Muse; +Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry, +And through the town their dreams and omens fly; +So the Sibylline leaves were blown about, +Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt; +So idle dreams, the journals of the night, +Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right.- +Some champions for the rights that prop the crown, +Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down; +Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught, +Wishing for war, but willing to be bought: +While some to every side and party go, +Shift every friend, and join with every foe; +Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike +This side and that, the foes of both alike; +A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times, +Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes. + Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail, +Fickle and false, they veer with every gale; +As birds that migrate from a freezing shore +In search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er, +Some bold adventurers first prepare to try +The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky; +But soon the growing Summer's certain sun +Wins more and more, till all at last are won: +So, on the early prospect of disgrace, +Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race; +Instinctive tribes! their failing food they dread, +And buy, with timely change, their future bread. + Such are our guides; how many a peaceful head, +Born to be still, have they to wrangling led! +How many an honest zealot stol'n from trade, +And factious tools of pious pastors made! +With clews like these they thread the maze of state, +These oracles explore, to learn our fate; +Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive, +Who cannot lie so fast as they believe. + Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an ear, +(For we who will not speak are doom'd to hear); +While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought, +Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught, +Or idiot hope; for each his mind assails, +As LLOYD'S court-light or STOCKDALE'S gloom prevails. +Yet stand I patient while but one declaims, +Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims: +But oh! ye Muses, keep your votary's feet +From tavern-haunts where politicians meet; +Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause, +First on each parish, then each public cause: +Indited roads, and rates that still increase; +The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace; +Election zeal and friendship, since declined; +A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind; +The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife; +Dull port and poachers vile; the serious ills of life. + Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleased to guide +His little club, and in the chair preside. +In private business his commands prevail, +On public themes his reasoning turns the scale; +Assenting silence soothes his happy ear, +And, in or out, his party triumphs here. + Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops, +But flits along from palaces to shops; +Our weekly journals o'er the land abound, +And spread their plague and influenzas round; +The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain, +Breeds the Whig farmer and the Tory swain; +Brookes' and St Alban's boasts not, but, instead, +Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney's Head:- +Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he +Who owns the little hut that makes him free; +Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile +Of mightier men, and never waste the while; +Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate, +A little prop and pillar of the state. + Here he delights the weekly news to con, +And mingle comments as he blunders on; +To swallow all their varying authors teach, +To spell a title, and confound a speech: +Till with a muddled mind he quits the news, +And claims his nation's licence to abuse; +Then joins the cry, "That all the courtly race +Are venal candidates for power and place;" +Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice, +That his own vote will bring its wonted price. + These are the ills the teeming Press supplies, +The pois'nous springs from learning's fountain rise; +Not there the wise alone their entrance find, +Imparting useful light to mortals blind; +But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold out +Alluring lights to lead us far about; +Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets her quill, +Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will; +Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive, +And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe. +Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust; +So wise their counsel, their reports so just!- +Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure, +Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure; +Merit they have to mightier works unknown, +A style, a manner, and a fate their own. + We, who for longer fame with labour strive, +Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive; +Studious we toil, with patient care refine, +Nor let our love protect one languid line. +Severe ourselves, at last our works appear, +When, ah! we find our readers more severe; +For, after all our care and pains, how few +Acquire applause, or keep it if they do! +Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate, +Praised through their day, and but that day their date; +Their careless authors only strive to join +As many words as make an even line; +As many lines as fill a row complete; +As many rows as furnish up a sheet: +From side to side, with ready types they run, +The measure's ended, and the work is done; +Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest! +Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest, +To you all readers turn, and they can look +Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book; +Those who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse, +Would think it hard to be denied their News; +Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak, +Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek; +This, like the public inn, provides a treat, +Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat; +And such this mental food, as we may call +Something to all men, and to some men all. + Next, in what rare production shall we trace +Such various subjects in so small a space? +As the first ship upon the waters bore +Incongruous kinds who never met before; +Or as some curious virtuoso joins +In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins, +Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses place +To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race; +So here compress'd within a single sheet, +Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet. +'Tis this which makes all Europe's business known, +Yet here a private man may place his own: +And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he +May tell their honours that he sells rappee. + Add next th' amusement which the motley page +Affords to either sex and every age: +Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire,- +Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire +(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew), +Ere we can read the wonders that ensue: +Then eager every eye surveys the part +That brings its favourite subject to the heart; +Grave politicians look for facts alone, +And gravely add conjectures of their own: +The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest +For tottering crowns or mighty lands oppress'd, +Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all +For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball: +The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale +For "Monies wanted," and "Estates on Sale;" +While some with equal minds to all attend, +Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end. + So charm the news; but we who, far from town, +Wait till the postman brings the packet down, +Once in the week, a vacant day behold, +And stay for tidings, till they're three days old: +That day arrives; no welcome post appears, +But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears: +We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile, +To talk of headaches, and complain of bile; +Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast, +Nor feast the body while the mind must fast. + A master passion is the love of news, +Not music so commands, nor so the Muse: +Give poets claret, they grow idle soon; +Feed the musician and he's out of tune; +But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd, +Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest. + Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose +These rival sheets of politics and prose. + First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw, +A mutual theft that never feared a law; +Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall, +And read it once, you read it through them all: +For this their runners ramble day and night, +To drag each lurking deed to open light; +For daily bread the dirty trade they ply, +Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie: +Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,- +Industrious creatures! ever on the wing; +Home to their several cells they bear the store, +Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more. + No anxious virgin flies to "fair Tweed-side;" +No injured husband mourns his faithless bride; +No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed; +But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed. +Should some fair frail one drive her prancing pair +Where rival peers contend to please the fair; +When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes, +And beauty decks, with all that beauty buys: +Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels, +Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels. + To these a thousand idle themes succeed, +Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed. +Here stocks, the state barometers, we view, +That rise or fall by causes known to few; +Promotion's ladder who goes up or down; +Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town; +What new-born heir has made his father blest; +What heir exults, his father now at rest; +That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives, +And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives. + So grows the work, and now the printer tries +His powers no more, but leans on his allies. + When lo! the advertising tribe succeed, +Pay to be read, yet find but few will read; +And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills +Have patent powers to vanquish human ills: +These, with their cures, a constant aid remain, +To bless the pale composer's fertile brain; +Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil +Requires some pause, some intervals from toil; +And they at least a certain ease obtain +From Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing strain. + I too must aid, and pay to see my name +Hung in these dirty avenues to fame; +Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen, +And sung, could make these avenues more clean; +Could stop one slander ere it found its way, +And give to public scorn its helpless prey. +By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends, +And kindly tells the banquet she intends; +Thither from real life the many run, +With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon; +Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to see +The mimic passion with their own agree; +To steal a few enchanted hours away +From self, and drop the curtain on the day. + But who can steal from self that wretched wight +Whose darling work is tried some fatal night? +Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss, +He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss; +Then groans succeed; nor traitors on the wheel +Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel. +Nor end they here: next day he reads his fall +In every paper; critics are they all: +He sees his branded name with wild affright, +And hears again the cat-calls of the night. + Such help the STAGE affords: a larger space +Is fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race. +Physic had once alone the lofty style, +The well-known boast, that ceased to raise a smile: +Now all the province of that tribe invade, +And we abound in quacks of every trade. + The simple barber, once an honest name, +Cervantes founded, Fielding raised his fame: +Barber no more--a gay perfumer comes, +On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms; +Here he appears, each simple mind to move, +And advertises beauty, grace, and love. +"Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew, +And learn the wonders of Olympian dew; +Restore the roses that begin to faint, +Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint; +Your former features, airs, and arts assume, +Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom. +Come, battered beaux, whose locks are turned to gray, +And crop Discretion's lying badge away; +Read where they vend these smart engaging things, +These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs; +No female eye the fair deception sees, +Not Nature's self so natural as these." + Such are their arts, but not confined to them, +The muse impartial most her sons condemn: +For they, degenerate! join the venal throng, +And puff a lazy Pegasus along: +More guilty these, by Nature less design'd +For little arts that suit the vulgar kind. +That barbers' boys, who would to trade advance, +Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from France: +That he who builds a chop-house, on his door +Paints "The true old original Blue Boar!"- + These are the arts by which a thousand live, +Where Truth may smile, and Justice may forgive:- +But when, amidst this rabble rout, we find +A puffing poet to his honour blind; +Who slily drops quotations all about +Packet or post, and points their merit out; +Who advertises what reviewers say, +With sham editions every second day; +Who dares not trust his praises out of sight, +But hurries into fame with all his might; +Although the verse some transient praise obtains, +Contempt is all the anxious poet gains. + Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past, +Their Correspondents stand exposed at last; +These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown, +Who for the public good forego their own; +Who volunteers in paper-war engage, +With double portion of their party's rage: +Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear +Wooing the printer for admission here; +Whose generous souls can condescend to pray +For leave to throw their precious time away. + Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a patriot draws +His gray-goose quill in his dear country's cause, +To vex and maul a ministerial race, +Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place? +Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heart +He longs his best-loved labours to impart; +How he has sent them to thy brethren round, +And still the same unkind reception found: +At length indignant will he damn the state, +Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate. + These Roman souls, like Rome's great sons, are known +To live in cells on labours of their own. +Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief, +Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef: +Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay, +Yet fights the public battles twice a-day: +E'en now the godlike Brutus views his score +Scroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door: +Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you'll see, +And Amor Patriae vending smuggled tea. + Last in these ranks, and least, their art's disgrace, +Neglected stand the Muses' meanest race; +Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye +Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by: +This Poet's Corner is the place they choose, +A fatal nursery for an infant Muse; +Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie, +These cannot live, and they shall never die; +Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade, +And win to verse the talents due to trade. + Curb then, O youth! these raptures as they rise, +Keep down the evil spirit and be wise; +Follow your calling, think the Muses foes, +Nor lean upon the pestle and compose. + I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare +Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry "Beware!" +Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind, +A sudden couplet rushes on your mind; +Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes, +And read your first-born work a thousand times; +Th'infection spreads, your couplet grows apace, +Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face: +You take a name; Philander's odes are seen, +Printed, and praised, in every magazine: +Diarian sages greet their brother sage, +And your dark pages please th' enlightened age.- +Alas! what years you thus consume in vain, +Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain! + Go! to your desks and counters all return; +Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn; +Trade, and be rich; or, should your careful sires +Bequeath your wealth, indulge the nobler fires; +Should love of fame your youthful heart betray, +Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way, +Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray. + Of all the good that mortal men pursue, +The Muse has least to give, and gives to few; +Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on, +With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone. +Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair +Forget how constant one, and one how fair: +Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming bride, +Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side; +And though she smiles not with such flattering charms, +The brave will sooner win her to their arms. + Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands, +Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands; +Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn, +And let her foes lament that you were born: +Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend, +Though hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend; +Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage, +And rise the THURLOW of the future age. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} Lord Robert Manners, killed in battle April 1782. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 5203 *** |