by Thomas Moore
And shot from little devilish guns,
Hard peas into the subjects’ faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he played,
And’ grew so mischievous, God bless him!
That his Chief Nurse — with even the aid
Of an Archbishop — was afraid.
When in these moods, to comb or dress him.
Nay, even the persons most inclined
Thro’ thick and thin, for Kings to stickle,
Thought him (if they’d but speak their mind;
Which they did not) an odious pickle.
At length some patriot lords — a breed
Of animals they’ve got in Thibet,
Extremely rare and fit indeed
For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit —
Some patriot lords, who saw the length
To which things went, combined their strength,
And penned a manly, plain and free,
Remonstrance to the Nursery;
Protesting warmly that they yielded
To none that ever went before ’em,
In loyalty to him who wielded
The hereditary pap-spoon o’er ’em;
That, as for treason, ’twas a thing
That made them almost sick to think of —
That they and theirs stood by the King,
Throughout his measles and his chincough,
When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive! —
But, still — tho’ much admiring Kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings),
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control
Of birch before their ruler’s eyes;
But that of late such pranks and tricks
And freaks occurred the whole day long,
As all but men with bishoprics
Allowed, in even a King, were wrong.
Wherefore it was they humbly prayed
That Honorable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,
As all good men desired to see; —
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping —
They ventured humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!
When this was read, no Congreve rocket,
Discharged into the Gallic trenches
E’er equalled the tremendous shock it
Produced upon the Nursery benches.
The Bishops, who of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss —
“What, whip a Lama! suffer birch
“To touch his sacred — infamous!
“Deistical! — assailing thus
“The fundamentals of the Church! —
“No — no — such patriot plans as these,
“(So help them Heaven — and their Sees!)
“They held to be rank blasphemies.”
The alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread thro’ the land, till, such a pother,
Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history’s page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state,
Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords’ advice, tho’ late,
Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met —
The little Lama, called before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.
And tho’, ‘mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word’s pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince
So much is Thibet’s land a debtor,
That her long line of Lamas, since,
Have all behaved themselves much better.
1 Andreas.
FABLE VII. THE EXTINGUISHERS.
PROEM.
Tho’ soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think —
Nay, Colonels have been known to reason, —
And reasoners, whether clad in pink
Or red or blue, are on the brink
(Nine cases out of ten) of treason
Not many soldiers, I believe, are
As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else — woe to Kings! when Freedom’s fever
Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then — but hold— ’tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale: —
FABLE.
A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,
Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,
Whose fires, beneath his very nose,
In heretic combustion rose.
But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,
Do what they will — so, one fine morning,
He turned the rascal Ghebers out,
First giving a few kicks for warning.
Then, thanking Heaven most piously,
He knockt their Temple to the ground,
Blessing himself for joy to see
Such Pagan ruins strewed around.
But much it vext my Lord to find,
That, while all else obeyed his will,
The Fire these Ghebers left behind,
Do what he would, kept burning still.
Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown
Could scare the bright insurgent down;
But, no — such fires are headstrong things,
And care not much for Lords or Kings.
Scarce could his Lordship well contrive
The flashes in one place to smother,
Before — hey presto! — all alive,
They sprung up freshly in another.
At length when, spite of prayers and damns,
’Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,
His stewards came, with low salams,
Offering, by contract, to provide him
Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,
Much used, they said, at Ispahan,
Vienna, Petersburg — in short,
Wherever Light’s forbid at court),
Machines no Lord should be without,
Which would at once put promptly out
All kinds of fires, — from staring, stark
Volcanoes to the tiniest spark;
Till all things slept as dull and dark,
As in a great Lord’s neighborhood
’Twas right and fitting all things should.
Accordingly, some large supplies
Of these Extinguishers were furnisht
(All of the true Imperial size),
And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht,
Ready, where’er a gleam but shone
Of light or fire, to be clapt on.
But ah! how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, so thought he) dark, secure —
The flame, at all its exits, entries,
Obstructed to his heart’s content,
And black extinguishers, like sentries,
Placed over every dangerous vent —
Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,
His wrath, his rage, when, on returning,
He found not only the old blaze,
Brisk as before, crackling and burning, —
Not only new, young conflagrations,
Popping up round in various stations —
But still more awful, strange and dire,
The Extinguishers themselves on fire!!1
They, they — those trusty, blind machines
His Lordship had so long been praising,
As, under Providence, the means
Of keeping down all lawless blazing,
Were now, themselves — alas, too true,
The shameful fact — turned blazers too,
And by a change as odd as cruel
Instead of dampers, served for fuel!
Thus, of his only hope bereft,
“What,” said the great man, “must be done?” —
All that, in scrapes like this, is left
To great men is — to cut and run.
So run he did; while to their grounds,
The banisht Ghebers blest returned;
And, tho’ their Fire had broke its bounds,
And all abroad now wildly burned,
Yet well could they, who loved the flame,
Its wandering, its excess reclaim;
And soon another, fairer Dome
Arose to be its sacred home,
Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined,
The living glory dwelt inshrined,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Tho’ born of earth, grew worthy heaven.
MORAL.
The moral hence my Muse infers
Is, that such Lords are simple elves,
In trusting to Extinguishers,
That are combustible themselves.
1 The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the “Letters to Julia,” — a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.
FABLE VIII. LOUIS FOURTEENTH’S WIG.
The money raised — the army ready —
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,
To the old tune ““Eh, eh, Sire Àne!”1 —
Naught wanting, but some coup dramatic,
To make French sentiment explode,
Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,
And make the war “la dernière mode” —
Instantly, at the Pavillon Marsan,
Is held an Ultra consultation —
What’s to be done, to help the farce on?
What stage-effect, what decoration,
To make this beauteous France forget,
In one, grand, glorious pirouette,
All she had sworn to but last week,
And, with a cry of Magnifique!”
Rush forth to this, or any war,
Without inquiring once— “What for?”
After some plans proposed by each.
Lord Chateaubriand made a speech,
(Quoting, to show what men’s rights are,
Or rather what men’s rights should be,
From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Tsar,
And other friends to Liberty,)
Wherein he — having first protested
‘Gainst humoring the mob — suggested
(As the most high-bred plan he saw
For giving the new War éclat)
A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,
To be got up at Notre Dame,
In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!
Had by his hilt acquired such fame,
’Twas hoped that he as little shyness
Would show, when to the point he came,)
Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,
Be christened Hero, ere he started;
With power, by Royal Ordonnance,
To bear that name — at least in France.
Himself — the Viscount Chateaubriand —
(To help the affair with more esprit on)
Offering, for this baptismal rite,
Some of his own famed Jordan water2 —
(Marie Louise not having quite
Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her.)
The baptism, in this case, to be
Applied to that extremity,
Which Bourbon heroes most expose;
And which (as well all Europe knows)
Happens to be, in this Defender
Of the true Faith, extremely tender.
Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme
Too rash and premature should seem —
If thus discounting heroes, on tick —
This glory, by anticipation,
Was too much in the genre romantique
For such a highly classic nation,
He begged to say, the Abyssinians
A practice had in their dominions,
Which, if at Paris got up well.
In full costume, was sure to tell.
At all great epochs, good or ill,
They have, says BRUCE (and BRUCE ne’er budges
From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille
In public danced by the Twelve Judges3 —
And he assures us, the grimaces,
The entre-chats, the airs and graces
Of dancers, so profound and stately,
Divert the Abyssinians greatly.
“Now (said the Viscount), there’s but few
“Great Empires where this plan would do:
“For instance, England; — let them take
“What pains they would— ‘twere vain to strive —
“The twelve stiff Judges there would make
“The worst Quadrille-set now alive.
“One must have seen them, ere one could
“Imagine properly JUDGE WOOD,
“Performing, in hie wig, so gayly,
“A queue-de chat with JUSTICE BAILLY!
“French Judges, tho’, are, by no means,
“This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines;
“And we, who’ve seen them at Saumur
“And Poitiers lately, may be sure
“They’d dance quadrilles or anything,
“That would be pleasing to the King —
“Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,
“To please the little Duc de Bordeaux!”
After these several schemes there came
Some others — needless now to name,
Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself,
Soon doomed all others to the shelf,
And was received par acclamation
As truly worthy the Grande Nation.
It seems (as Monsieur told the story)
That LOUIS the Fourteenth, — that glory,
That Coryphée of all crowned pates, —
That pink of the Legitimates —
Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he
Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary
His marriage deeds, and cordon bleu,
Bequeathed to her his State Wig too —
(An offering which, at Court, ’tis thought,
The Virgin values as she ought) —
That Wig, the wonder of all eyes,
The Cynosure of Gallia’s skies,
To watch and tend whose curls adored,
Re-build its towering roof, when flat,
And round its rumpled base, a Board
Of sixty barbers daily sat,
With Subs, on State-Days, to assist,
Well pensioned from the Civil List: —
That wondrous Wig, arrayed in which,
And formed alike to awe or witch.
He beat all other heirs of crowns,
In taking mistresses and towns,
Requiring but a shot at one,
A smile at t’other, and ’twas done! —
“That Wig” (said Monsieur, while his bro
w
Rose proudly,) “is existing now; —
“That Grand Perruque, amid the fall
“Of every other Royal glory,
“With curls erect survives them all,
“And tells in every hair their story.
“Think, think, how welcome at this time
“A relic, so beloved, sublime!
“What worthier standard of the Cause
“Of Kingly Right can France demand?
“Or who among our ranks can pause
“To guard it, while a curl shall stand?
“Behold, my friends” — (while thus he cried,
A curtain, which concealed this pride
Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside)
“Behold that grand Perruque — how big
“With recollections for the world —
“For France — for us — Great Louis’s Wig,
“By HIPPOLYTE new frizzed and curled —
“New frizzed! alas, ’tis but too true,
“Well may you start at that word new —
“But such the sacrifice, my friends,
“The Imperial Cossack recommends;
“Thinking such small concessions sage,
“To meet the spirit of the age,
“And do what best that spirit flatters,
“In Wigs — if not in weightier matters.
“Wherefore to please the Tsar, and show
“That we too, much-wronged Bourbons, know
“What liberalism in Monarchs is,
“We have conceded the New Friz!
“Thus armed, ye gallant Ultras, say,
“Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray?
“With this proud relic in our van,
“And D’ANGOULEME our worthy leader,
“Let rebel Spain do all she can,
“Let recreant England arm and feed her, —
“Urged by that pupil of HUNT’S school,
“That Radical, Lord LIVERPOOL —
“France can have naught to fear — far from it —
“When once astounded Europe sees
“The Wig of LOUIS, like a Comet,
“Streaming above the Pyrenées,
“All’s o’er with Spain — then on, my sons,
“On, my incomparable Duke,
“And, shouting for the Holy Ones,
“Cry Vive la Guerre — et la Perrugue!”
1 They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, “Eh, eh, eh, Sire Àne, eh, eh, eh. Sire Àne.” — WARTEN’S Essay on Pope.
2 Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.
3 “On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance,” etc. — Book. v.
