Cant.
Ridicule is never more strong, than when it is
concealed in Gravity. True Humour lies in the Thought, and arises from
the Representation of Images in odd Circumstances, and uncommon Lights.
A pleasant Thought strikes us by the Force of its natural Beauty; and
the Mirth of it is generally rather palled, than heightened by that
ridiculous Phraseology, which is so much in Fashion among the Pretenders
to Humour and Pleasantry. This Tribe of Men are like our Mountebanks;
they make a Man a Wit, by putting him in a fantastick Habit.
Our little Burlesque Authors, who are the Delight of ordinary Readers,
generally abound in these pert Phrases, which have in them more Vivacity
than Wit.
I lately saw an Instance of this kind of Writing, which gave me so
lively an Idea of it, that I could not forbear begging a Copy of the
Letter from the Gentleman who shew'd it to me. It is written by a
Country Wit, upon the Occasion of the Rejoycings on the Day of the
King's Coronation.
Dear Jack,
(Past two a Clock and a frosty Morning.)1
I have just left the Right Worshipful and his Myrmidons about a
Sneaker of Five Gallons. The whole Magistracy was pretty well
disguised before I gave 'em the Slip. Our Friend the Alderman was half
Seas over before the Bonfire was out. We had with us the Attorney, and
two or three other bright Fellows. The Doctor plays least in Sight.
At Nine a Clock in the Evening we set Fire to the Whore of
Babylon.
The Devil acted his Part to a Miracle. He has made his Fortune by it.
We equip'd the young Dog with a Tester a-piece. Honest old
Brown of
England was very drunk, and showed his Loyalty to the Tune of a
hundred Rockets. The Mob drank the King's Health, on their
Marrow-bones, in Mother
Day's Double. They whip'd us half a dozen
Hogsheads. Poor
Tom Tyler had like to have been demolished with the
End of a Sky-Rocket, that fell upon the Bridge of his Nose as he was
drinking the King's Health, and spoiled his Tip. The Mob were very
loyal 'till about Midnight, when they grew a little mutinous for more
Liquor. They had like to have dumfounded the Justice; but his Clerk
came in to his Assistance, and took them all down in Black and White.
When I had been huzza'd out of my Seven Senses, I made a Visit to the
Women, who were guzzling very comfortably. Mrs. Mayoress clip'd the
King's
English. Clack was the Word.
I forgot to tell thee, that every one of the Posse had his Hat cocked
with a Distich: The Senators sent us down a Cargo of Ribbon and Metre
for the Occasion.
Sir Richard to shew his Zeal for the Protestant Religion, is at the
Expence of a Tar-Barrel and a Ball. I peeped into the Knight's great
Hall, and saw a very pretty Bevy of Spinsters. My dear Relict was
amongst them, and ambled in a Country-Dance as notably as the best of
'em.
May all his Majesty's liege Subjects love him as well as his good
People of this his ancient Borough. Adieu.
Footnote 1:
(Two in the Morning is the Word, old Boy.)
Contents
Contents, p. 8
Torva Mimalloneis implerunt cornua bombis,
Et raptum vitulo caput ablatura superbo
Bassaris, et lyncem Mænas flexura corymbis,
Evion ingeminat reparabilis adsonat Echo.
Persius.
translation
There are two Extreams in the Stile of Humour, one of which consists in
the Use of that little pert Phraseology which I took Notice of in my
last Paper; the other in the Affectation of strained and pompous
Expressions, fetched from the learned Languages. The first savours too
much of the Town; the other of the College.
As nothing illustrates better than Example, I shall here present my
Reader with a Letter of Pedantick Humour, which was written by a young
Gentleman of the University to his Friend; on the same Occasion, and
from the same Place, as the lively Epistle published in my
Dear Chum,
'It is now the third Watch of the Night, the greatest Part of which I
have spent round a capacious Bowl of
China, filled with the choicest
Products of both the
Indies. I was placed at a quadrangular Table,
diametrically opposite to the Mace-bearer. The Visage of that
venerable Herald was, according to Custom, most gloriously illuminated
on this joyful occasion. The Mayor and Aldermen, those Pillars of our
Constitution, began to totter; and if any one at the Board could have
so far articulated, as to have demanded intelligibly a Reinforcement
of Liquor, the whole Assembly had been by this time extended under the
Table.
'The Celebration of this Night's Solemnity was opened by the
Obstreperous Joy of Drummers, who, with their Parchment Thunder, gave
a signal for the Appearance of the Mob under their several Classes and
Denominations. They were quickly joined by the melodious Clank of
Marrow-bone and Cleaver, whilst a Chorus of Bells filled up the
Consort. A Pyramid of Stack-Faggots cheared the Hearts of the Populace
with the Promise of a Blaze: The Guns had no sooner uttered the
Prologue, but the Heavens were brightned with artificial Meteors, and
Stars of our own making; and all the
High-street lighted up from one
End to another, with a Galaxy of Candles. We collected a Largess for
the Multitude, who tippled Eleemosynary till they grew exceeding
Vociferous. There was a Paste-board Pontiff with a little swarthy
Dæmon at his Elbow, who, by his diabolical Whispers and Insinuations
tempted his Holiness into the Fire, and then left him to shift for
himself. The Mobile were very sarcastick with their Clubs, and gave
the old Gentleman several Thumps upon his triple Head-piece.
Tom
Tyler's Phiz is something damaged by the Fall of a Rocket, which hath
almost spoiled the Gnomon of his Countenance. The Mirth of the Commons
grew so very outragious, that it found Work for our Friend of the
Quorum, who, by the help of his
Amanuensis, took down all their
Names and their Crimes, with a Design to produce his Manuscript at the
next Quarter-Sessions,
&c. &c. &c.
'I shall subjoin to the foregoing Piece of a Letter, the following
Copy of Verses
translated from an
Italian Poet, who was the
Cleveland of his Age, and had Multitudes of Admirers. The Subject is
an Accident that happened under the Reign of Pope
Leo, when a
Firework, that had been prepared upon the Castle of St.
Angelo,
begun to play before its Time, being kindled by a Flash of Lightning.
The Author hath written his Poem
1 in the same kind of Style, as
that I have already exemplified in Prose. Every Line in it is a
Riddle, and the Reader must be forced to consider it twice or thrice,
before he will know that the
Cynick's Tenement is a
Tub, and
Bacchus his Cast-coat a
Hogs-head, &c.
'Twas Night, and Heav'n, a Cyclops, all the Day,
An Argus now did countless Eyes display;
In ev'ry Window Rome her Joy declares,
All bright, and studded with terrestrial Stars.
A blazing Chain of Lights her Roofs entwines.
And round her Neck the mingled Lustre shines,
The Cynick's rowling Tenement conspires,
With Bacchus his Cast-coat, to feed the Fires.
The Pile, still big with undiscover'd Shows,
The Tuscan Pile did last its Freight disclose,
Where the proud Tops of Rome's new Ætna rise,
Whence Giants sally, and invade the Skies.
Whilst now the Multitude expect the Time,
And their tir'd Eyes the lofty Mountain climb,
A thousand Iron Mouths their Voices try,
And thunder out a dreadful Harmony;
In treble Notes the small Artill'ry plays,
The deep-mouth'd Cannon bellows in the Bass.
The lab'ring Pile now heaves; and having giv'n
Proofs of its Travail sighs in Flames to Heav'n.
The Clouds invelop'd Heav'n from Human Sight,
Quench'd every Star, and put out ev'ry Light;
Now Real Thunder grumbles in the Skies,
And in disdainful Murmurs Rome defies;
Nor doth its answer'd Challenge Rome decline;
But whilst both Parties in full Consort join,
While Heav'n and Earth in Rival Peals resound,
The doubtful Cracks the Hearer's Sense confound;
Whether the Claps of Thunderbolts they hear,
Or else the Burst of Canon wounds their Ear;
Whether Clouds raged by struggling Metals rent,
Or struggling Clouds in Roman Metals pent.
But O, my Muse, the whole Adventure tell,
As ev'ry Accident in order fell.
Tall Groves of Trees the Hadrian Tow'r surround,
Fictitious Trees with Paper Garlands crown'd,
These know no Spring, but when their Bodies sprout
In Fire, and shoot their gilded Blossoms out;
When blazing Leaves appear above their Head,
And into branching Flames their Bodies spread.
Whilst real Thunder splits the Firmament,
And Heav'n's whole Roof in one vast Cleft is rent,
The three-fork'd Tongue amidst the Rupture lolls,
Then drops and on the Airy Turret falls.
The Trees now kindle, and the Garland burns,
And thousand Thunderbolts for one returns.
Brigades of burning Archers upward fly,
Bright Spears and shining Spear-men mount on high,
Flash in the Clouds, and glitter in the Sky.
A Seven-fold Shield of Spheres doth Heav'n defend,
And back again the blunted Weapons send;
Unwillingly they fall, and dropping down,
Pour out their Souls, their sulph'rous Souls, and groan.
With Joy, great Sir , we viewed this pompous Show,
While Heaven, that sate Spectator still 'till now,
It self turn'd Actor, proud to Pleasure you.
And so 'tis fit, when Leo's fires appear,
That Heav'n it self should turn an Engineer;
That Heav'n it self should all its Wonders show,
And Orbs above consent with Orbs below.
Footnote 1:
Translated from the Latin in Strada's
Prolusions.
Contents
Contents, p. 8
|
Wednesday, November 10, 1714 |
|
—Neque enim concludere versum
Dixeris esse satis: neque siquis scribat, uti nos,
Sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse Poetam.
Hor.
translation
Mr. SPECTATOR,
You having, in your two last
Spectators, given the Town a couple of
Remarkable Letters, in very different Styles: I take this Opportunity
to offer to you some Remarks upon the
Epistolary way of writing in
Verse. This is a
Species of Poetry by it self; and has not so much
as been hinted at in any of the Arts of Poetry, that have ever fallen
into my Hands: Neither has it in any Age, or any Nation, been so much
cultivated, as the other several Kinds of Poesie. A Man of
Genius
may, if he pleases, write Letters in Verse upon all manner of
Subjects, that are capable of being embellished with Wit and Language,
and may render them new and agreeable by giving the proper Turn to
them. But in speaking, at present, of
Epistolary Poetry, I would be
understood to mean only such Writings in this Kind, as have been in
Use amongst the Ancients, and have been copied from them by some
Moderns. These may be reduced into two
Classes: In the one I shall
range Love-Letters, Letters of Friendship, and Letters upon mournful
Occasions: In the other I shall place such Epistles in Verse, as may
properly be called Familiar, Critical, and Moral; to which may be
added Letters of Mirth and Humour.
Ovid for the first, and
Horace
for the Latter, are the best Originals we have left.
'He that is ambitious of succeeding in the
Ovidian way, should first
examine his Heart well, and feel whether his Passions (especially
those of the gentler Kind) play easie, since it is not his Wit, but
the Delicacy and Tenderness of his Sentiments, that will affect his
Readers. His Versification likewise should be soft, and all his
Numbers flowing and querulous.
'The Qualifications requisite for writing Epistles, after the Model
given us by
Horace, are of a quite different Nature. He that would
excel in this kind must have a good Fund of strong Masculine Sense: To
this there must be joined a thorough Knowledge of Mankind, together
with an Insight into the Business, and the prevailing Humours of the
Age. Our Author must have his Mind well seasoned with the finest
Precepts of Morality, and be filled with nice Reflections upon the
bright and the dark sides of human Life: He must be a Master of
refined Raillery, and understand the Delicacies, as well as the
Absurdities of Conversation. He must have a lively Turn of Wit, with
an easie and concise manner of Expression; Every thing he says, must
be in a free and disengaged manner. He must be guilty of nothing that
betrays the Air of a Recluse, but appear a Man of the World
throughout. His Illustrations, his Comparisons, and the greatest part
of his Images must be drawn from common Life. Strokes of Satyr and
Criticism, as well as Panegyrick, judiciously thrown in (and as it
were by the by) give a wonderful Life and Ornament to Compositions of
this kind. But let our Poet, while he writes Epistles, though never so
familiar, still remember that he writes in Verse, and must for that
reason have a more than ordinary care not to fall into Prose, and a
vulgar Diction, excepting where the Nature and Humour of the Thing
does necessarily require it. In this Point
Horace hath been thought
by some Criticks to be sometimes careless, as well as too negligent of
his Versification; of which he seems to have been sensible himself.
'All I have to add is, that both these Manners of Writing may be made
as entertaining, in their Way, as any other Species of Poetry, if
undertaken by Persons duly qualify'd; and the latter sort may be
managed so as to become in a peculiar manner Instructive.
I am, &ct.'
I shall add an Observation or two to the Remarks of my ingenious
Correspondent, and, in the First place, take Notice, that Subjects of
the most sublime Nature are often treated in the Epistolary way with
Advantage, as in the famous Epistle of
Horace
to
Augustus.
The Poet
surprizes us with his Pomp, and seems rather betrayed into his Subject,
than to have aimed at it by Design: He appears like the Visit of a King
Incognito
, with a mixture of Familiarity, and Grandeur. In Works of
this kind, when the Dignity of the Subject hurries the Poet into
Descriptions and Sentiments, seemingly unpremeditated, by a sort of
Inspiration; it is usual for him to recollect himself, and fall back
gracefully into the natural Stile of a Letter.
I might here mention an Epistolary Poem, just published by Mr.
Eusden
on the King's Accession to the Throne: Wherein, amongst many other noble
and beautiful Strokes of Poetry, his Reader may see this Rule very
happily observed.
Contents
Contents, p. 8
|
Friday, November 12, 1714 |
|
—dura
Exerce imperia, et ramos compesce fluentes.
Virg.
translation
I have often thought, that if the several Letters, which are written to
me under the Character of SPECTATOR, and which I have not made use of,
were published in a Volume, they would not be an unentertaining
Collection. The Variety of the Subjects, Styles, Sentiments, and
Informations, which are transmitted to me, would lead a very curious, or
very idle Reader, insensibly along, through a great many Pages. I know
some Authors, who
pick up a
Secret History
out of such
Materials, and make a Bookseller an Alderman by the Copy
. I shall
therefore carefully preserve the Original Papers in a Room set apart for
that Purpose, to the end that they may be of Service to Posterity; but
shall at present content my self, with owning the Receipt of several
Letters, lately come to my Hands, the Authors whereof are impatient for
an Answer.
Charissa
, whose Letter is dated from
Cornhill
, de
Sir
es to be eased
in some Scruples relating to the Skill of Astrologers.
Referred to the
Dumb Man for an Answer.
J. C.
who proposes a Love-Case, as he calls it, to the Love-Casuist,
is hereby de
Sir
'd to speak of it to the Minister of the Parish; it being
a Case of Conscience.
The poor young Lady, whose Letter is dated
October
26, who complains of
a harsh Guardian, and an unkind Brother, can only have my good Wishes,
unless she pleases to be more particular.
The Petition of a certain Gentleman, whose Name I have forgot, famous
for renewing the Curls of decayed Perriwigs, is referred to the
Censor
of small Wares.
The Remonstrance of
T. C.
against the Profanation of the Sabbath by
Barbers, Shoe-cleaners,
&c.
had better be offer'd to
the Society of
Reformers.
A learned and laborious Treatise upon the Art of Fencing,
returned to
the Author.
To the Gentleman of
Oxford
, who de
Sir
es me to insert a Copy of
Latin
Verses which were denied a Place in the University Book. Answer.
Nonumque prematur in annum.
To my learned Correspondent who writes against Master's Gowns, and Poke
Sleeves, with a Word in Defence of large Scarves. Answer.
I resolve not
to raise Animosities amongst the Clergy.
To the Lady, who writes with Rage against one of her own Sex, upon the
Account of Party Warmth. Answer.
Is not the Lady she writes against
reckoned Handsome?
I de
Sir
e
Tom Truelove
, (who sends me a Sonnet upon his Mistress, with
a de
Sir
e to print it immediately) to consider, that it is long since I
was in Love.
I shall answer a very profound Letter from my old Friend the
Upholsterer, who is still inquisitive whether the King of
Sweden
be
living or dead, by whispering him in the Ear,
That I believe he is
alive.
Let Mr.
Dapperwit
consider,
What is that long Story of the Cuckoldom
to me?
At the earnest De
Sir
e of
Monimia's
Lover, who declares himself very
penitent, he is recorded in my Paper by the Name of
The Faithful
Castalio.
The Petition of
Charles Cocksure
, which the Petitioner styles
very
reasonable—Rejected.
The Memorial of
Philander
, which he de
Sir
es may be dispatched out of
Hand,
Postponed.
I de
Sir
e
S. R.
not to repeat the Expression
under the Sun
so often
in his next Letter.
The Letter of
P. S.
who de
Sir
es either to have it printed entire, or
committed to the Flames.
Not to be printed entire.
Footnote 1:
Charles Lillie published, in 1725, 'Original and Genuine
Letters sent 'to the
Tatler
and
Spectator
during the time those
Works were publishing, none of which have been before printed.'
Contents
Contents, p. 8
|
Monday, November 15, 1714 |
Tickell |
Hic Vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti sæpius audis.
Virg.
translation
Having lately presented my Reader with a Copy of Verses full of the
False Sublime, I shall here communicate to him an excellent Specimen of
the True: Though it hath not yet been published, the judicious Reader
will readily discern it to be the Work of a Master: And if he hath read
that noble Poem on
The Prospect of Peace
, he will not be at a Loss to
guess at the Author.
The Royal Progress.
When
Brunswick
first appear'd, each honest Heart,
Intent on Verse, disdain'd the Rules of Art;
For him the Songsters, in unmeasur'd Odes,
Debas'd
Alcides,
and dethron'd the Gods,
In Golden Chains the Kings of
India
led,
Or rent the Turban from the
Sultan's
Head.
One, in old Fables, and the
Pagan
Strain,
With
Nymphs
and
Tritons,
wafts him o'er the Main;
Another draws fierce
Lucifer
in Arms,
And fills th' Infernal Region with Alarms;
A Third awakes some
Druid,
to foretel
Each future Triumph from his dreary Cell.
Exploded Fancies! that in vain deceive,
While the Mind nauseates what she can't believe.
My Muse th' expected1 Hero shall pursue
From Clime to Clime, and keep him still in View;
His shining March describe in faithful Lays,
Content to paint him, nor presume to praise;
Their Charms, if Charms they have, the Truth supplies,
And from the Theme unlabour'd Beauties rise.
By longing Nations for the Throne design'd,
And call'd to guard the Rights of Human-kind;
With secret Grief his God-like Soul repines,
And Britain's
Crown with joyless Lustre shines,
While Prayers and Tears his destin'd Progress stay,
And Crowds of Mourners choak their Sovereign's Way.
Not so he march'd, when Hostile Squadrons stood
In Scenes of Death, and fir'd his generous Blood;
When his hot Courser paw'd th'
Hungarian
Plain,
And adverse Legions stood the Shock in vain.
His Frontiers past, the
Belgian
Bounds he views,
And cross the level Fields his March pursues.
Here pleas'd the Land of Freedom to survey,
He greatly scorns the Thirst of boundless Sway.
O'er the thin Soil, with silent Joy he spies
Transplanted Woods, and borrow'd Verdure rise;
Where every Meadow won with Toil and Blood,
From haughty Tyrants, and the raging Flood,
With Fruits and Flowers the careful Hind supplies,
And cloathes the Marshes in a rich Disguise.
Such Wealth for frugal Hands doth Heaven decree,
And such thy Gifts, Celestial Liberty!
Through stately Towns, and many a fertile Plain,
The Pomp advances to the neighbouring Main.
Whole Nations crowd around with joyful Cries,
And view the Heroe with insatiate Eyes.
In
Haga's
Towers he waits, 'till Eastern Gales
Propitious rise to swell the
British
Sails.
Hither the Fame of
England's
Monarch brings
The Vows and Friendships of the neighb'ring Kings;
Mature in Wisdom, his extensive Mind
Takes in the blended Int'rests of Mankind,
The World's great Patriot. Calm thy anxious Breast,
Secure in him
, O Europe
take thy Rest;
Henceforth thy Kingdoms shall remain confined
By Rocks or Streams, the Mounds which Heav'n design'd:
The
Alps
their new-made Monarch shall restrain,
Nor shall thy Hills
, Pirene,
rise in vain
But see! to
Britain's
Isle the Squadrons stand,
And leave the sinking Towers, and lessening Land,
The Royal Bark bounds o'er the floating Plain,
Breaks thro' the Billows, and divides the Main,
O'er the vast Deep, Great Monarch, dart thine Eyes,
A watry Prospect bounded by the Skies:
Ten thousand Vessels, from ten thousand Shores,
Bring Gums and Gold, and either
India's
Stores:
Behold the Tributes hastening to thy Throne,
And see the wide Horizon all thy own.
Still is it thine; tho' now the cheerful Crew
Hail
Albion's
Cliffs, just whitening to the View.
Before the Wind with swelling Sails they ride,
Till
Thames
receives them in his opening Tide.
The Monarch hears the thundering Peals around,
From trembling Woods and ecchoing Hills rebound,
Nor misses yet, amid the deafening Train,
The Roarings of the hoarse-resounding Main.
As in the Flood he sails, from either Side
He views his Kingdom in its rural Pride;
A various Scene the wide-spread Landskip yields,
O'er rich Enclosures and luxuriant Fields:
A lowing Herd each fertile Pasture fills,
And distant Flocks stray o'er a thousand Hills.
Fair
Greenwich
hid in Woods, with new Delight,
(Shade above Shade) now rises to the Sight:
His Woods ordain'd to visit every Shore,
And guard the Island which they graced before.
The Sun now rowling down the Western Way,
A Blaze of Fires renews the fading Day;
Unnumbered Barks the Regal Barge infold,
Brightening the Twilight with its beamy Gold;
Less thick the finny Shoals, a countless Fry,
Before the Whale or kingly Dolphin fly.
In one vast Shout he seeks the crowded Strand,
And in a Peal of Thunder gains the Land.
Welcome, great Stranger, to our longing Eyes,
Oh! King deSir 'd, adopted
Albion