by Thomas Moore
2 Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them, — History of Poland.
EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.1
CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.2
“Ahi, mio Ben!”
— METASTASIO.3
What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown?
Is this the new go? — kick a man when he’s down!
When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then —
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN!
“Foul! foul!” all the lads of the Fancy exclaim —
CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified — BELCHER spits flame —
And MOLYNEUX — ay, even BLACKY4 cries “shame!”
Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied
‘Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side:
When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating)
His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating.
But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions,
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions;
Your Noyaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what —
(One swig of Blue Ruin5 is worth the whole lot!)
Your great and small crosses — my eyes, what a brood!
(A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good!)
Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise,
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus;
And (as JIM says) the only one trick, good or bad,
Of the Fancy you’re up to, is fibbing, my lad.
Hence it comes, — BOXIANA, disgrace to thy page! —
Having floored, by good luck, the first swell of the age,
Having conquered the prime one, that milled us all round,
You kickt him, old BEN, as he gaspt on the ground!
Ay — just at the time to show spunk, if you’d got any —
Kickt him and jawed him and lagged6 him to Botany!
Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger!7 you, who, alas!
Doubled up by the dozen those Moun-seers in brass,
On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes,
When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes,
Look down upon BEN — see him, dung-hill all o’er,
Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more!
Out, cowardly spooney! — again and again,
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN.
To show the white feather is many men’s doom,
But, what of one feather? — BEN shows a whole Plume.
1 A nickname given, at this time, to the Prince Regent.
2 Written soon after Bonaparte’s transportation to St. Helena.
3 Tom, I suppose, was “assisted” to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.
4 Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.
5 Gin.
6 Transported.
7 A Life-Guardsman, one of the Fancy who distinguished himself and was killed in the memorable set-to at Waterloo.
FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.
tu Regibus alas eripe
VERGIL, Georg. lib. iv.
— Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings.
DRYDEN’S Translation.
DEDICATION.
TO LORD BYRON.
Dear Lord Byron, — Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am,
My dear Lord,
Ever faithfully yours,
T. B.
PREFACE.
Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the “painful pre-eminence” of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.
I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, etc. — but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the “Transactions of the Pococurante Society,” I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either “Nancy Dawson” or “He stole away the Bacon.”
It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants, than is contained in the three words “non curat Hippoclides” (meaning, in English, “Hippoclides does not care a fig,”) which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading dictum of the sect.
THOMAS BROWN.
FABLE I. THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.
A DREAM.
I’ve had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess —
As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess —
It seems to me extremely awful.
Methought, upon the Neva’s flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,
A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne,1
Which shone by moonlight — as the tale is —
Like an Aurora Borealis.
In this said Palace, furnisht all
And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
Given by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,
Those holy gentlemen, who’ve shown a
Regard so kind for Europe’s weal,
At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.
The thought was happy — and designed
To hint how thus the human Mind
May, like the stream imprisoned there,
Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E’er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.
And all were pleased and cold and stately,
Shivering in grand illumination —
Admired the superstructure greatly,
Nor gave one thought to the foundation.
Much too the Tsar himself exulted,
To all plebeian fears a stranger,
For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,
Had pledged her word there was no danger
So, on he capered, fearless quite,
Thinking himself extremely clever,
And waltzed away with all his might,
As if the Frost would last forever.
Just fancy how a bard like me,
Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled
To see that goodly company,
At such a ticklish sport assembled.
Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded —
For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy
Were seized with an ill-omened dripping,
And o’er the floors, now growing glassy,
Their Holinesses took to slipping.
The Tsar, half thro’ a Polonaise
,
Could scarce get on for downright stumbling;
And Prussia, tho’ to slippery ways
Well used, was cursedly near tumbling.
Yet still ’twas, who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria ‘mong the foremost. —
And now, to an Italian air,
This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;
Now — while old Louis, from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare —
Called loudly out for a Fandango.
And a Fandango, ‘faith, they had,
At which they all set to, like mad!
Never were Kings (tho’ small the expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)
So out of all their princely senses,
But ah! that dance — that Spanish dance —
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as ‘twere a glance
Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light thro’ all the chambers flamed,
Astonishing old Father Frost,
Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed,
“A thaw, by Jove — we’re lost, we’re lost!
“Run, France — a second Waterloo
“Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut!”
Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations? —
Instantly all was in a flow,
Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations —
Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice —
Those Eagles, handsomely provided
With double heads for double dealings —
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
Out of their claws on all the ceilings!
Proud Prussia’s double bird of prey
Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;
While — just like France herself, when she
Proclaims how great her naval skill is —
Poor Louis’s drowning fleurs-de-lys
Imagined themselves water-lilies.
And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,
But — still more fatal execution —
The Great Legitimates themselves
Seemed in a state of dissolution.
The indignant Tsar — when just about
To issue a sublime Ukase,
“Whereas all light must be kept out” —
Dissolved to nothing in its blaze.
Next Prussia took his turn to melt,
And, while his lips illustrious felt
The influence of this southern air,
Some word, like “Constitution” — long
Congealed in frosty silence there —
Came slowly thawing from his tongue.
While Louis, lapsing by degrees,
And sighing out a faint adieu
To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese
And smoking fondus, quickly grew,
Himself, into a fondu too; —
Or like that goodly King they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,
When, in some urchin’s mouth, alas!
It melts into a shapeless mass!
In short, I scarce could count a minute,
Ere the bright dome and all within it,
Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone —
And nothing now was seen or heard
But the bright river, rushing on,
Happy as an enfranchised bird,
And prouder of that natural ray,
Shining along its chainless way —
More proudly happy thus to glide
In simple grandeur to the sea,
Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,
’Twas deckt with all that kingly pride
Could bring to light its slavery!
Such is my dream — and, I confess,
I tremble at its awfulness.
That Spanish Dance — that southern beam —
But I say nothing — there’s my dream —
And Madame Krüdener, the she-prophet,
May make just what she pleases of it.
1 “It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect.” — PINKERTON.
FABLE II. THE LOOKING-GLASSES.
PROEM.
Where Kings have been by mob-elections
Raised to the throne, ’tis strange to see
What different and what odd perfections
Men have required in Royalty.
Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,
Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight; —
Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy,
Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.1
The Easterns in a Prince, ’tis said,
Prefer what’s called a jolterhead:2
The Egyptians weren’t at all partic’lar,
So that their Kings had not red hair —
This fault not even the greatest stickler
For the blood-royal well could bear.
A thousand more such illustrations
Might be adduced from various nations.
But, ‘mong the many tales they tell us,
Touching the acquired or natural right
Which some men have to rule their fellows,
There’s one which I shall here recite: —
FABLE.
There was a land — to name the place
Is neither now my wish nor duty —
Where reigned a certain Royal race,
By right of their superior beauty.
What was the cut legitimate
Of these great persons’ chins and noses,
By right of which they ruled the state,
No history I have seen discloses.
But so it was — a settled case —
Some Act of Parliament, past snugly,
Had voted them a beauteous race,
And all their faithful subjects ugly.
As rank indeed stood high or low,
Some change it made in visual organs;
Your Peers were decent — Knights, so so —
But all your common people, gorgons!
Of course, if any knave but hinted
That the King’s nose was turned awry,
Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted —
The judges doomed that knave to die.
But rarely things like this occurred,
The people to their King were duteous,
And took it, on his Royal word,
That they were frights and He was beauteous.
The cause whereof, among all classes,
Was simply this — these island elves
Had never yet seen looking-glasses,
And therefore did not know themselves.
Sometimes indeed their neighbors’ faces
Might strike them as more full of reason,
More fresh than those in certain places —
But, Lord, the very thought was treason!
Besides, howe’er we love our neighbor,
And take his face’s part, ’tis known
We ne’er so much in earnest labor,
As when the face attackt’s our own.
So on they went — the crowd believing —
(As crowds well governed always do)
Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving —
So old the joke, they thought ’twas true.
But jokes, we know, if they too far go,
Must have an end — and so, one day,
Upon that coast there was a cargo
Of looking-glasses cast away.
’Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere,
Had laid their wicked heads together,
And forced that ship to founder there, —
While some believe it was the weather.
However this might be, the
freight
Was landed without fees or duties;
And from that hour historians date
The downfall of the Race of Beauties.
The looking-glasses got about,
And grew so common thro’ the land,
That scarce a tinker could walk out,
Without a mirror in his hand.
Comparing faces, morning, noon,
And night, their constant occupation —
By dint of looking-glasses, soon,
They grew a most reflecting nation.
In vain the Court, aware of errors
In all the old, establisht mazards,
Prohibited the use of mirrors
And tried to break them at all hazards: —
In vain — their laws might just as well
Have been waste paper on the shelves;
That fatal freight had broke the spell;
People had lookt — and knew themselves.
If chance a Duke, of birth sublime,
Presumed upon his ancient face,
(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,)
They popt a mirror to his Grace; —
Just hinting, by that gentle sign,
How little Nature holds it true,
That what is called an ancient line,
Must be the line of Beauty too.
From Dukes’ they past to regal phizzes,
Compared them proudly with their own,
And cried. “How could such monstrous quizzes
“In Beauty’s name usurp the throne!” —
They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,
Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy,
Which made the King try various looks,
But none improved his physiognomy.
And satires at the Court were levelled,
And small lampoons, so full of slynesses,
That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled
Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.
At length — but here I drop the veil,
To spare some royal folks’ sensations; —
Besides, what followed is the tale
Of all such late-enlightened nations;
Of all to whom old Time discloses
A truth they should have sooner known —
That kings have neither rights nor noses
A whit diviner than their own.
1 The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King. — Munster, “Cosmog.” lib. iii. .
2 “In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable.” — Oriental Field Sports.
FABLE III. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.
I saw it all in Fancy’s glass —
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
