When envious detractors find
In wise men's works, no welcome faults,
They satisfy their spiteful mind
By base and personal assaults.
At the very same time, when the gaunt Dromedary
And Ostrich, so ugly, each other bepraised,
In terms so unmeasured and extraordinary,
That the other brutes thought them both utterly crazed,
Till the Fox told the reason, and their wonder dispelled—
In that same assembly arose a discussion
Concerning the Silkworm, artificer skilled
In producing of works of such wonderful fashion.
A silken cocoon some one brought them to see;
They examine—their plaudits are hearty and loud.
And, even the Mole, though as blind as could be,
Concedes it to be a masterpiece proud.
But an old Caterpillar, who his spite could not stifle,
Muttered out of a corner, "This fuss was absurd.
Their wondrous cocoon was a pitiful trifle;
Its admirers all ninnies," he coolly averred.
The beasts at each other looked round in amaze.
"How comes it," say they, "that this creature forlorn,
What the rest of us all are uniting to praise,
He alone, wretched worm, takes upon him to scorn?"
Then up jumped sly Reynard and said, "On my soul,
'Tis easy enough the reason to show;
His mortified rancor he cannot control;
He makes cocoons too, though they 're worthless, we know."
Laborious Genius! when, stung by the sneer
Of the envious wretch who would rob you of glory,
The loss of your well-deserved laurels you fear,
Then take my advice and tell him this story.
Yesterday through our street
An Ass did pass,
In trappings most complete—
A gorgeous Ass.
Saddle and halter too
Were both bran new;
With tassels yellow
Or red as rose.
Besides the fellow
Wore plumes and bows
Of ribbons bright.
Bells tinkle light
As on he paced;
And many a prank
And rare device,
With carving nice,
The shears had traced
On breast and flank.
His cunning master,—
As I was told,—
A Gypsy jockey,
The creature sold
To a weak blockhead;
And they said
The Donkey Colt
Had cost the dolt
But a mere song.
In haste along
The exulting buyer
Drove home the beast,—
His pride to feast,
While friends admire
His bargain rare.
"Let me inquire,
Neighbor,"—says one,—
"If blood and bone,
Good as his clothes,
Your purchase shows."
Whereon, with care,
The showy gear
And harness line
To strip he goes.
Beneath the saddle—
At first go off—
They find his withers
With warts all rough,
Like musket balls.
Along the spine,
And on his shoulders,
Six dreadful galls
Appal beholders.
Nothing to say
Of two great gashes,
That hidden lay
Under the girt;
And an old hurt,
From cruel lashes,
Clean to the bone,
Into a tumor
Inveterate grown.
In bitter humor,
"Ah, precious gull!"—
The hapless owner said,—
"Donkey more dull
A thousand fold
Than this brute cull,
I have my money paid
For trumpery vile,
Through Gypsy wile."
Now faith, this queer affair
I often note.
Well it applies
To friends of mine,
Who, at great price,
Buy books, that shine
In bindings rich and rare,
But are not worth a groat.
As in a field the sturdy Ox was ploughing,
A Grasshopper, close by him, shrilly sang out;
"Ah! what a crooked furrow, friend, you're making!
Then the Ox answered,—"Sure, my little lady,
If every other furrow were not drawn straight,
You never would perceive that this was crooked;
Stop, then, reproaches so unjust and futile;
For well I serve my master, and he heeds not
A single failure, in so much accomplished."
Now let the captious critic that presumeth,—
Vain Grasshopper, the useful Ox reproaching,—
To drag to light, from works of sterling merit,
Some petty blemish, take to himself our meaning.
A brilliantly-colored Macaw,
A wandering clown, near the spot
Where she hung in a balcony, saw—
A Savoyard, more likely than not.
He was showing—a penny to gain—
An animal ugly and squat;
Which he lauded in high-sounding strain
The creature, it was a Marmot.
The absurd little beast, at his word,
Came out of his box into sight;
When unto him said our gay bird:
"This matter amazes me quite,
That men give their money, to see
Such a comical creature as you,
When they freely may look upon me,
Clad in plumage of exquisite hue.
You may be, for aught that I know,
Some creature of value untold;
But for me, 'tis enough that you show
Yourself to all comers, for gold."
A scribbler, who heard the remark,
Hung his head, and went sneaking away
Because, for his low, dirty work,
He was kept by a printer in pay.
A spreading contagion, defacing our tongue
With phrases outlandish, our critics bemoan.
But some fools have their notions of purity hung
Upon obsolete terms superseding our own.
Living words they despise as a vulgar intrusion,
And forgotten ones rake from oblivion's gloom.
For a word of advice on such stupid conclusion,
In phrase like their own, we here must find room;
In two dialects, jostling in motley confusion.
Of our own times a Painter—who jealousy felt
That some portraits antique, of a day long bygone
From the connoisseurs won both lauding and gelt—
Determined to make some antiques of his own.
So essaying, one day, the portrait to limn
Of a certain rich man, in high estimate held,
He deemed that a dress of antiquity grim
Would give to his limning the impress of eld.
For a second Velasquez he counted to stand—
When the traits of the sitter, to perfect content,
Having deftly depicted—with grave collar and band,
And glittering gauds, he a costume besprent
That had figured, whilom, as stately and grand.
To his patron the work he carries with speed.
He, his form thus yclad with wonderment saw;
By such odd gear full sorely astounded, I rede,—
Though the face of the portrait showed dainty and braw.
This antick his patron, to quip him, devised—
The Painter a guerdon to grant, to his gree—
In a chest, as heir-loom from his ancestry prized,
Some old coins had been lying for centuries three;
Of the first of the Charles' and fifth Ferdinand,
Of Philip the second and Philip the third:
A purse full of these he placed in the hand
Of the Painter abashed—but ne'er said a word.
"With these coin—or, as certes, I rather might say—
These medals, to market if I chance for to his,"—
Quoth our limner,—"when victuals I needed, I pray,
How, with such, could I chaffer my cheer to supply?
"But sith," said the other, "you've pranked me out there
In a guise, that was once brave and lordly,—'tis true,
But which no living man but a beadle would wear;
As you 've painted me, so I have paid you.
Take your picture again, and paint round my throat
A cravat, instead of that collar and band—
Yon satin slashed doublet exchange for my coat,
And my rapier, too, for that basket-hilt brand;
Not one, in the city's whole compass, there is
Who, in trappings like these, would guess at my phiz.
Paint me like myself, and the price I'll lay down
In good money, current in country or town."
Hold, now. If we laugh at the farcical notion
Of this modern Painter, and deem it so droll,
Why may we not laugh at the Author's devotion,
His ideas who drapes in antiquity's stole;—
Who shocks us with phrases all mouldy with age;
Thinks oddity graceful;—and purity's self
Considers his style, when he darkens his page
With expressions forgotten and laid on the shelf;—
And believes that no term by pure taste is forbid,
If it only were good in the time of the Cid?
Coming to a little town,
The mountain's skirts within,
Two youthful travellers, seeking rest,
Looked round them for an Inn.
Of two rival Inns, the host,
Each, with a thousand offers,
Did the wayfarers accost.
To give offence to neither
Was their natural desire;
So, in the house of either,
Apartments one doth hire.
Of the mansions twain,
Each guest chooseth, for himself,
In which he will remain.
To a house that stretched
Around its ample courts.
Its broad front palatial,
One traveller resorts.
A quartered scutcheon shone
Over the lofty gate,
Sculptured deep in stone.
Less grand the other Inn
Appeared unto the sight,
But, comfort and good cheer within
Its patron's trust requite.
Chambers, its walls did screen,
Of pleasant temperature,
All light, and bright, and clean.
But its rival, the huge palace,
With its architecture bold,
Was narrow, dark and dirty,
And miserably cold.
A portal tall and sightly,—
Within inclement garrets,
With tiled roof covered slightly.
Its inmate comfortless,
Did a weary sojourn make;
And bewailed unto his comrade,
Next day, his sad mistake.
His friend thus answer gives:
"In like manner many a book
Its reader's hopes deceives."
From China, once, the Tea-plant coming,
Met with the Sage upon his way.
"Friend,"—said the latter,—"whither roaming?"
"For Europe, where for me they pay
A generous price,"—quoth Tea,—"I'm bound."
"And I,"—said Sage,—"to China's market go;
Where I am held in reverence profound
For beverage or for medicine, you know.
In Europe no good fortune waits on me;
A worthless herb, not comparable to thee,
But quite too common there—to shine.
I to your home am sent, and you to mine.
Good luck attend you to my native shore!
For never yet was any nation known,
But gold and praises will profusely pour
On foreign products, while it slights its own."
This sarcasm some abatement may admit,
For varying fancies are the soul of trade;
But, of the comment, application fit,
In literary borrowings, may be made.
For what, in general, doth good service render,
In special cases sometimes proves a blunder.
Now, I am sure that I can Spaniards show,
Who will eternally be quoting
Whole pages out of Tasso or Boileau;
Yet never think or care to know
What language Garcilaso wrote in.
Creatures there are, of wondrous skill
To rid themselves of every ill,
By use of vegetable specific—
Their sound construction organic
Preserving by their lore botanic.
They know all herbs medicinal—diuretic,
Narcotic, purgative, emetic,
Febrifuge, styptic and prolific,
Cephalic, too, and sudorific.
A Cat, theoretic and empirical,
There was,—a pedant most rhetorical,—
That talked in lofty style, magniloquent
As any grave professor eloquent,—
Seeking for vegetables salutiferous,
Said to a Lizard,—"Ah! what pangs mortiferous
I must, to cure this turgidness hydropsical,
Swallow some essence of leaves heliotropical."
Lizard, at this bombastic speech astounded,—
That with big terms professional resounded,—
Naught better knew what Puss did gabble on,
Than if she spoke in tongue of Babylon.
But the ridiculous charlatan, he saw,
With Sunflower leaves was stuffing out her maw.
"Aha!"—said he,—"learned Signora Dropsical,
I know now what's your essence heliotropical!"
A silly Cricket heard the dialogue;
And, though he knew naught of this catalogue
Of words so overwhelming and so curious,
Honored the Cat with an eulogium glorious.
For some there are who pomp for merit take;
And, of what's clear and simple, mockery make.
Lovers of phrases hyperbolical,
And turgid aphorisms diabolical,
Exhausting all the dictionary's store
Of giant-worded and bombastic lore,—
Though meaningless and inappropriate all,—
Upon your mouthing verbiage dogmatical
Reflects this polysyllabic apologue enigmatical.
Attention—noble auditory!
While the rebeck I tune;
And be prepared with plaudits soon,
When ye have heard my story.
Certain of the subject beasts
Of the mighty Lion's court
An entertainment musical,
To make his Royal Highness sport
Upon his birth-day festival,
Devised,—to grace the occasion gay,
And pleasure to insure,
They organized an orchestra
To make success secure.
As often it doth happen,
Little wisdom was displayed,
In choosing actors competent,
That understood their trade.
Naught was said about the Nightingale,
Of the Blackbird not a word;
Of Lark or Linnet no one thought,
Or the Canary-bird.
Singers, much less accomplished
But more self-satisfied,
Took upon themselves the charge
The music to provide.
Before the time appointed
To electrify all hearts,
Each musician loudly vaunted
How they would play their parts.
At length the choir the prelude
Commenced within the hall,
Before the expectant multitude,—
Adroit performers all—
Two lusty Crickets treble sang;
Frog and locust took their place
To do up the contra-alto;
Hog and Donkey grunted base;
While, to make up the melody,
Two Hornets brisk the tenor try.
With what delicious cadence
And accent delicate
The orchestra resounded,
Sure I need not here repeat;
I'll only say, that most
Stopped up their ears, at once;
But, from deference to their host,
Their annoyance sought to hide,
At the barbarous dissonance,
That echoed far and wide.
Frog saw, by the wry faces,
That no bravo's cheering shout
Or glad applause awaited them;
And sprang the choir from out.
"The stupid Ass is out of tune
Most shockingly," said he.
"No—'tis the treble," Donkey brayed,
"That mars the harmony."
"The Hog, he fairly spoils the whole,"
A squeaking Cricket cried.
"No, no!"—said Chucky,—"on my soul,
I say the Locust, worse than all,
Out of all time and tune doth squall."
"That speech becomes you very ill!
Mind what you say!"—in accents shrill,
Locust angrily replied.
"'Tis plain that those confounded tenors,
The Hornets, are the real sinners!"
The Lion silenced the dispute:
"Before the concert was begun
Each puffed-up and conceited brute
Was bragging loud—yea, every one;
And challenged confident applause,
As if, to him alone, were due,
The honor of the harmony
Produced by your melodious crew.
Now the experiment is made,
And your incompetence betrayed—
On your own shares, ye all are dumb,
In this outrageous pandemonium,
And, to avoid presumptuous shame,
Each on his neighbor lays the blame.
Now get ye gone—and from my sight
Forever banished be.
The day beware, that e'er ye dare
Again to sing to me!"
Such, Heaven grant to be
The issue of the fray,
When writers, two or three,
Their scanty wits uniting,—
If the book should make its way
Each arrogates the praise;
If not—the blame he lays
On his comrade's wretched writing.
Sheer, sharp and trusty, tempered well,
A Sword, as good as from the skilful hand
Of famous smith Toledan ever fell,
The shock of many a combat did withstand.
In turn, it several masters truly served,
And brought them safe through dangers many.
Though better fate it well deserved,
At auctions sold for paltry penny,
Some luckless chance—who ever would have thought it?—
At last, into an inn's dark corner brought it.
There—like an useless thing—upon a pin
Hung up, it ate itself away
In useless rust, until the maid, one day,
By order of the innkeeper, her master,—
A precious blockhead, too, he must have been,—
Into the kitchen took it,—sad disaster!—
To spit a hen. Degrading—shame upon her!—
What once had been a blade of proof and honor.
While this was going on within the inn,
A certain stranger, newly come to court,—
A clown, that would a modish life begin,—
Did to a cutler for a sword resort.
The cutler saw that, for the case in hand,
The sword was but an idle ornament;
And, if the hilt could but inspection stand,
No matter what the blade might be—so sent
His booby customer, for the time, away;—
"A sword should ready be another day."
The rogue, then, takes an old and battered spit,
Which, in his kitchen, service long had done;
He cleans, and polishes, and sharpens it;
And sells it to the unsuspecting clown,—
In such transactions miserably raw,—
For the good sword of Thomas d'Ayala.
An arrant knave, as gallows e'er did cure,—
The innkeeper as great a blockhead,—sure.
With equal knavery and stupidity,
May not we charge these vile translators
Who, with their works, in wretched rivalry,
We see infesting all the world of Letters?
One, with bad versions, famous writers fits—
Thus turning noble swords to vulgar spits.
Another clothes vile works in sounding words;
Then, seeks to sell his spits for trusty swords.
A man who, from his birth, was dumb
And deafer than a mole,
Some trifle to arrange was set
With a blind man, cheek by jowl.
The blind man spoke by signs
Which the mute did plainly mark;
When, in like way, he said his say,
His friend was in the dark.
In this odd predicament,
They, for friendly aid, accost
A passing comrade of them both,
Who his right arm had lost.
The gestures of the mute
He explained in language good;
And the blind man, from his mouth,
The whole matter understood.
To close this curious scene
And conference singular,
A contract it behoved
Of the bargain to prepare.
"Friends,"—said the one-armed man,—
"I must here give up the task;
But the schoolmaster will come
And write it, if you ask."
"How can a cripple lame,"—
Said the blind man,—"hither come?
Why, he can hardly stir.
We must go to him at home."
The cripple then the compact
To paper did transfer;
The blind and maimed man dictate;
The mute was messenger.
For this purpose any two
Were enough,—and even more.
But, of such a hapless crew,
It took no less than four.
Were it not that in Alcarria,
A little while ago.
This very matter happened,—
As a thousand gossips know,—
It might have been surmised
That, some one contrived the story,
To hit off the plan devised
By weak aspirants for glory,
Who club their pens and brains
Some wondrous work to try,
By their united pains,
Which would each alone defy.
A Cock, that was well known
As a champion brave and stout,
And a Chicken but half grown
Squabbled something about,—
But what, to me's unknown,—
And, after furious din,
At last got up a very pretty battle;
In which the chick such fight did show,
And the old one around so sharply rattle,
That, with a loud, exultant crow,
He claimed the honors of the field to win.
Then the seraglio's vanquished lord,—
His rival out of hearing of his tongue,—
Said, "Ah! in time he'll make a pretty bird,
But, now, poor fellow, he is very young."
No more he dared himself to match
With the young hero; but again
With an old Cock he had a scratch,—
Of many fights, a veteran,—
Who hardly left him plume or crest.
Whereon he muttered to the rest,
"The fine old fellow!—surely it would be
Unfair to thrash so old a chap as he."
Let him that will in strife engage
On any question literary,
Pay less attention to the age
Than talents of his adversary.
To her friend, the crafty Monkey,
Said a Magpie,—"If you'll go
With me unto my dwelling,
I've some pretty things to show.
For, sure you know, I've skill
A thousand things to steal.
You shall see them, if you will,
Where I my hoard conceal
In my chest." Replied her friend:
"I'll wait on you with pleasure."
So their course forthwith they bend
To see the Magpie's treasure.
And there, my lady Magpie
Proceeded to produce,
First, an old colored garter,
Then a hoop that ladies use,—
Two petty coins, a buckle,
Of a knife a shabby handle,
A blade of broken scissors,
And a little bit of candle,
The battered tip of scabbard
Worn out in ancient war,
A scrap of gauze and half a comb,
Three pegs of a guitar,—
With an endless lot of knick-knacks,
That good for nothing were.
"What think you now, friend Monkey?
Don't you envy me my pelf?
Upon my word, no other bird
Is so wealthy as myself."
A shrewd grimace the Monkey made,
And to Magpie answered she:
"This is all an idle story,
And your wealth mere trumpery.
In your faithful chest you bury
Every petty, straggling waif;
Not that they all are worth a groat,
But because it keeps them safe.
Look at my jaws, dear gossip;
You see, beneath them here,
I have two nice snug magazines,
Or chops, if you prefer.
These I contract at pleasure,
Or expand them, when I please.
What I like, I eat at leisure,—
And the residue in these
I stow, there safely to remain
Till I shall hungry be again.
Old rags and wretched rubbish
You, foolish bird, lay by;
Sweet nuts and tender filberts,
And racy sweetmeats—I,—
Meat, and whatever else is good,
In time of need, to serve as food."
Shall the Monkey's lecture shrewd
To the Magpie only go?
The advice, I think, is good
For those who make a show
Of a medley incoherent,
Where no meaning is apparent.
A Nightingale her voice one day was tuning
In notes to match an organ's sonorous swell;
When by her cage a chattering Sparrow roaming
Stopped—his surprise at her attempt to tell.
"I marvel much, that such strange pains you take;
That you, who sing so sweetly and so well,
Your imitators, thus, your models make;
For sure, the notes the organ's pipes that swell,
It owes to imitation of your song."
"Nevertheless," replies the Nightingale,—
"Though it had learned of me, I would not fail
From it, in turn, instruction to derive.
And you will see the good results ere long.
To imitate my native bursts it sought;
I wish my untutored strains to modify
By the deep rules of science it has taught.
And thus, good sir, you see, that by and by,
My natural talent will by education thrive."
Has the caprice some learned fancy crossed,
That hours to study given are labor lost?
Who wisest is, will ever study most.
A copious fountain played
In a garden's flowery bed,
And served to form a basin
Where many fish were fed.
Of the watering of his flowers
The Gardener thought alone;
And drained it dry, till due supply
For carp and tench was gone.
His Master soon the mischief saw,
And scolds the careless sinner.
"The flowers I love; but also like
My mess of fish for dinner."
The Gardener, grown crusty,
So reads his Master's whim,
That he lets the plants go thirsty,
That carp and tench may swim.
In the garden, shortly after,
The indignant owner found
His flowers, all dry and withered,
Upon the parching ground.
"Booby! you need not water waste,
And leave me not a fish to taste;
Nor yet deny—to save the fish—
A single flower to grace the dish,"
Though the maxim may be trite,—
Unless you have the skill,
Taste and profit to unite,—
Lay by the author's quill.
A Thrush, with years grown gray,
And wise as well as old,
His grandson asked one day,—
An unpractised youth and bold,—
With him to go straightway,
Their morning flight to hold,
Where a well-stocked vineyard lay—
On its luscious fruit to prey.
"Where may this vineyard be?"—
The youngling answered coy,—
"And what fruit is there?"—"We'll see.
Learn how to live, my boy,"
Said the grandsire. "Come with me,
And a banquet rich enjoy."
As he spoke the words, he shew
Where thick the clusters grew.
The pert young pilferer saw;—
"Is this the fruit you puff?
Who would think you were so raw?
What puny, withered stuff!
Pooh! It isn't worth a straw.
Now, bigger fruit enough,
And better far than any here
I know of, in a garden near.
A single grape, I'll swear,
Will prove better than it all.
But we'll make a trial fair,"
When they reach the garden wall,
The fledgling shouts—"Look there—
How big and nice! I call
That fruit, indeed—no trash."
Reader, it was a yellow calabash.
It may not much surprise
That young birds by chaff are caught;
But that, by men reputed wise,
Books should, for bulk, be bought,
And valued for their size,
Is stranger, is it not?
If a good work, 'tis great of course;
If bad, the more there is the worse.
Near a lace-weaver, lived
A man who made silver and gold galloons.
"Now, who would have believed,
Neighbor," said he, "that, even for more doubloons,
Three yards of your light lace are sold
Than ten of mine, though wrought in heavy gold!"
"That my articles exceed
In value, sir, so very much your own,
Is not strange; although, indeed,
You work in gold, and I in thread alone.
For skill is known to all
To be of greater worth than raw material."
Let those, at style who sneer,
And, to regard the matter only, condescend,
Note that—as here
A simple thread doth precious gold transcend—
So elegance and finish give
That form to thought, by which great works shall live.
Well tired, and exhausted
With the heat of the sun,
But loaded with rabbits,
A Hunter turned home.
Near by—to a neighbor
He met in the way—
He recounted the labor
And spoils of the day.
"A long tramp,—my old lad,
All day did I trudge;
But the luck is not bad,
If I am the judge.
Since the break of the day
I 've been out in the sun;
Hot enough, I should say,—
But fair business I've done.
Without too much bragging,
I say and repeat it,—
No hunter in bagging
The conies can beat it."
The Ferret's quick ear,
In his box as he hung,
His master did hear—
His own praise while he sung.
His sharp nose he poked
Through its lattice of wire;
"Now surely you joked,—
I should like to inquire,—
That I did the work,
Can you truly deny?
These rabbits of yours,
Who caught them but I?
So little desert,
In my toils do you see,
That you never can make
Some slight mention of me?"
That this cogent remark
The master might sting,
A body might think;
But it did no such thing.
He was cool as some writers,
Who play the mean game—
To borrow from others,
Yet breathe not their name.
In a court-yard a poultry-house did lie,
Where a brisk Cock around at pleasure ran;
Behind the court, in a convenient sty,
Lay a stout Pig—fat as an alderman.
In the same yard, a little Lamb there lived;
And good companions, too, were all the three;
As may be very easily believed,
For such in farmers' yards we often see.
"Now, with your leave,"—the thrifty Pig, said he,
To the meek Lamb,—"what a delightful lot!
And what a peaceful, happy destiny,
The livelong day to slumber! Is it not?
Upon the honor of a Pig, I say,
That, in this wretched world, there's no such pleasure,
As to snore merrily the time away,
Let the world wag, and stretch yourself at leisure."
But, in his turn, the Cock the Lamb addressed,
Soon after Piggy did his dissertation end;
"To be with health and active vigor blest,
One must sleep sparingly, my little friend.
In hot July, or frosty winter day,
With the bright stars to watch, is the true way.
Sleep numbs our senses with a stupid sloth;
In fact unnerves the mind and body both."
The Lamb hears both, and knows not which to trust.
He never guesses—simple little elf—
That the fine rule, by each laid down, is just
That others ought to do what suits himself.
So among authors,—some there are who never
Think any doctrine sound, or maxim clever,
Or rules as good for others' guidance own,
Excepting such as they have hit upon.
The Steel the Flint abused
Most bitterly one day,
For the unfeeling way,
In which his sides he bruised,
To chip out the brilliant sparks.
After some sharp remarks
They parted company;
And the Steel cries out, "Good-by!
Unless with me you 're used,
Of little worth you'll be!"
"Not much," said Flint,—"and yet, beyond a doubt,
Just what yourself are worth, the Flint without."
This little tale of ours,
Let each writer bear in mind,
Who deep study has not joined
To native powers.
In the flint, no fire we find
Without the help of steel;
Nor does Genius aught avail
Without the aid of Art.
Long as they work apart,
They both are sure to fail.
A villain was by hands of justice caught,
Just as of cash, and even of his life,
At the sharp point of murderous knife,
A luckless wayfarer to rob, he sought
The Judge upbraids him with his crime—
He answered: "Sir, from earliest time
I've been a rogue, practised in petty theft;
When buckles, watches, trunks and cloaks,
And swords, I stole from other folks.
Then, fairly launched upon my wild career,
I houses sacked. Now—no compunction left—
On the highways I rob, without a fear.
Let not your worship, then, make such a stir,
That I should rob and slay a traveller—
Nor of the matter make a charge so sore!
I've done such things these forty years, and more."
Do we the bandit's wretched plea allow?
Yet writers give no worthier excuse,
Who justify, by argument of use,
Errors of speech or of expression low—
Urging the long-lived blunders of the past
Against the verdict by sound critics cast.
A Housemaid once was sweeping out a room
With a worn-out and very dirty Broom;
"Now, hang you for a Broom!"—said she in wrath—
"For, with the filth and shreds you leave behind
Where'er you go, you 're making, to my mind,
More dirt than you clean up upon your path."
The botchers who, devoid of skill, pretend
The faults of others' writings to amend,
But leave them ten times fuller than before;
Let not these blockheads fear that I shall score
Their paltry backs—I leave their blundering trade
To the apt censure of the serving-maid.
A Naturalist, cruel as a Turk,
Two Lizards in his garden catches,
And coolly sets himself at work
To anatomize the little wretches.
The plumpest now he has dissected,
And torn the reptile limb from limb;
With microscope he then inspected
Intestines, paws, and tail, and skin;
He pulls apart, for scrutiny,
The loin and belly, neck and eye:
Then takes his pen—again he looks—
A little writes and recapitulates—
The memoranda enters in his books;
To fresh dissection then himself betakes.
Some curious friends, by chance, dropped in to see
The subject of his shrewd anatomy.
One wonders—questions one proposes—
While others yet turn up their noses.
This done, the scientific man
Gave o'er, exhausted with his labors.
The other Lizard jumped and ran,
In his old haunts, to join his neighbors.
To them, in friendly chat, he stated
The matters we have just related.
"You need not doubt it, friends,"—said he,—
"For everything myself did see.
The livelong day this man did spend
Over the body of our friend.
If, in us, attributes so rare
Are worth such pains in writing down,
To call us vermin who shall dare?
'Tis gross abuse—as all must own.
Now, noble brothers, our high station
Let us with dignity maintain, I pray.
Sure, we are worthy great consideration—
Whatever spiteful folks may say."
It is not worth the while to natter
The pride of writers we despise.
'Tis honoring too much the matter,
To condescend to criticize.
Their paltry trash in serious way
To note—your pains will never pay.
Of Lizards to make great account,
Gives them occasion to surmise
Their claims to be of some amount,
In the impartial public's eyes—
"Whatever spiteful folks may say."
A knot of friends, invited to a feast,
At table sat—a loitering guest,
Who came long after all the rest,
Sought for his tardiness to make excuse:
And, by his comrades for a reason pressed,
Drew out his Watch, and, holding it on high,
Replied—"'Tis you are out of time, not I.
'Tis two precisely—wherefore this abuse?"
"Absurd!" they answered. "Friend, your Watch is slow.
The rest of us came near an hour ago."
"But"—said the loiterer—"what needs argue more?
I trust my Watch, as I have said before."
Now let each wiser man this reference take
To foolish authors, who gross blunders make;
Then quote—in order to make good their stand—
The first authority that comes to hand.
But with our story we will now go on.
The guests all round next eagerly began
To pull their Watches out to test the fact,—
For all men like to prove their words exact;—
One at the quarter stood; at half, another;
One made it six and thirty minutes past;
This fourteen more, that ten less than the last.
No single Watch agreed with any other.
Then, all was doubt and question and vexation.
By luck, their entertainer chanced to be
A great proficient in astronomy.
He, his Chronometer by observation
Carefully set, consulted—and the hour
Was three o'clock and just two minutes more.
Thus he concluded all the disputation:
"To quote opinion and authority
Against the truth, if any one can see
The use—no point needs unsupported be.
For all can surely see, and must admit, forsooth,
Many opinions there may be—but only one is truth!"
Some four-footed creatures
Assembled one day,
At the game of the blind man
Together to play.
A Dog and a Monkey,
Brimful of his tricks—
With a Fox, Hare and Eat,
And a Squirrel—made six.
The Monkey, he blinded
The eyes of the whole;
Because of his hands
He had better control.
A Mole heard their frolic;
And said,—"Surely I
For this fun am just fitted—
I think I will try."
He asks to come in;
The Monkey agreed.
Some mischief, I doubt not,
He had in his head.
The Mole, at each step,
Would stumble and blunder.
With his skin-covered eyes,
It was, clearly, no wonder.
At the very first trial,—
As well may be thought,—
Without much ado,
His Moleship was caught.
To be blind-man, of course,
To him it now fell:
And who was there fitted
To act it so well?
But, to get up a sham—
With affected surprise,
Said he,—"What are we doing?
You've not blinded my eyes."
If a creature purblind
Thus pretends he can see,
Will the blockhead confess himself
Stupid—think ye?
As an unpractised urchin lessons took
In dancing, of a veteran of the ring,
On slack or tight rope,—it is all one thing,—
The youngster said,—"Good master, prithee, look;
How this great staff bothers and wearies me,
Which you call balance-pole or counterpoise!
In rope-dancing, what use one can devise
For such a clumsy load, I cannot see.
Why should you wish my motions so to fetter?
I lack not strength, nor yet activity.
For instance, now—this step and posture—see
If I, without the pole, can't do it better.
Look, master, there's not one whit of trouble in it."
As he says this, he throws the pole away—
"What's coming now? What are you doing, pray?"
He's flat upon his back in half a minute!
"At your best friend you grumble—silly wretch,"—
The master said,—"and if you choose to scout
The aid of art and method,—you'll find out
This is not the last tumble you will catch."
A red Owl was sitting quietly
Up in his hole, in a hollow tree,
Where he chanced to catch the curious eye
Of a great Toad that was hopping by.
"Holloa, up there, Sir Solitary!"—
Spoke out the Toad, with accent merry,—
"Poke out your head, and let us see,
Handsome or ugly, whether you be."
"I have never set up for an elegant beau,"—
Answered the Owl to the Toad below.
"To attempt by daylight to make a great show,
Will hardly do for me—well I know.
"And for you, my good sir,—displaying your grace
So jauntily now, in the day's broad face,—
Don't you think it would far better be,
If you hid in another hole, like me?"
Alas! how few of us authors live
By the good advice the Owl doth give!
All the nonsense we write, get printed we must;
Although, to the world, it be dry as the dust.
The lesson, my comrades, is good—let us learn it
It often would be much better to burn it.
But conspicuous toads we rather would be,
Than modest owls in our own hollow tree.
Once on a time, an Ass,—
An Oilman's hack,—
Bearing upon his back
A huge skin filled with oil,
With foot o'er-worn by toil,
Into his stable sought to pass;
But, stumbling, struck his nose
The cruellest of blows
Upon the door's projecting clamp.
"Now, is it not a shame,"—
Poor Donkey did exclaim,—
"That I, who every day
Carry tuns of oil, my way
Into my own stable cannot find,
More than if I were stone-blind,
For want of one poor lamp?"
Much I fear, that those who glory
In buying books they never read,
Fare as ill,—
And deserve no more;—but, if they will
Grow wiser, let them heed this story.
A quarrel rose, both long and loud,
A well-stocked wine-cellar within,
Where wine-bibbers—a goodly crowd—
Tasted and argued, talked and sipped again.
The occasion was, that many tried
Veterans their voices did combine,
With obstinacy, rude and flagrant,
That no such drinks our times supplied,
No such delicious, luscious wine,
As days gone by—so generous, fine,
So ripe, so mellow and so fragrant.
In the opinion of the rest,
The later wines were deemed the best.
Their opponents' theory they abuse;
Their notion termed exaggeration,—
Mere trashy, idle declamation
Picked up from interested Jews,
Who glosing tales for cheatery use.
Of either side the rabid hum
The cellar filled to overflowing;
When an old toper chanced to come—
A famous connoisseur and knowing.
Said he then,—letting slip an oath,—
"By jolly Bacchus, the divine,"—
Among such worthies 'tis a strong one—
"Better than I, for choice of wine,
No one is fitted, by my troth,
To tell the right one from the wrong one.
So cease, good friends, your idle din.
You see that I am from Navarre.
In cask, or bottle, jug or skin,
Hogshead or tub, or earthen jar,
I've tasted of the juice of grape,
Of every kind, in every shape.
To taste, distinguish and to judge,
And surely to lay down the law,
In any vintage, I'll not grudge,
From Xeres' plains to Tudela.
From Malaga unto Peralta,
From the Canary Isles to Malta,
From Valdepeñas to Oporto,
Their wines I know—and many more, too.
I tell you now, 'tis folly great
To think that every cask of wine,
Which on its head bears ancient date,
By age will mellow and refine.
Time cannot make the poor wine good;
If mean it was, in its first hour,
It will be washy still and crude,
In nothing changed, but turning sour.
Worth no jot more this hour, you know,
Than vinegar a century ago.
New wines, from time to time, there are,—
Though some despise for being new,—
Which very safely may compare
With any wines that ever grew.
Those you despise—although surpassed,
Occasionally, in times long past,
By certain vintages—yet may
Tickle the palates of a future day.
Enough—to settle the dispute—
Bad wine I hold in low repute,
And ever do eschew.
But when 'tis good, I drain the flask;
And never vex myself to ask,
If it be old or new."
Many a learned bore
Keeps up a constant bother;
One praising ancient lore—
Modern alone, another.
By no such foolish question vexed,
I take the jolly toper's text;
The good, whate'er it is, I use;
The bad, without a word, refuse.
Once on a time, a noisy Frog
Heard a Hen cackling near his bog;
"Begone!" said he; "your clamor rude
Disturbs our quiet neighborhood.
What's all this shocking fuss about, I beg?"—
"Nothing, dear sir, but that I've laid an egg."
"A single egg! and therefore such a rout?"—
"Yes, neighbor Frog, a single egg, I say.
Are you so troubled, when I'm not put out
To hear your croaking all the night and day?
I boast that I have done some little good, though small;
Hold you your tongue! You do no good at all."
For a fable a subject I have,
Which would do very well,—but for rhymes
To-day my muse is too grave;
As she always will be at odd times—
And the topic for somebody stands,
Whose fancy more cheerily chimes.
For this writing of fables demands
That in verse our ideas should flow;
Which not always are matched to our hands,
A Beetle contemptible, now,
Of said fable the hero I choose;—
For I want one paltry and low.
Of this insect, every one knows
That—although from no filth he refrains—
He will ne'er eat the leaf of a rose.
Here the author should lavish his pains,
While, as well as his talents allow,
This astonishing taste he explains.
To wind up the whole, let him show,
By a sentence pithy and terse,
Just what he could have us to know.
And so let him trick out his verse,
With adornments according to taste;
But this moral conclusive rehearse;
That, as the flowers' beautiful queen
With no coarse, filthy beetle agrees;
So, some tasteless writers no keen
Or delicate fancy can please.
In Madrid, there was a rich man—and, they say,
That ten times as stupid, as rich, he was too;—
Whose magnificent mansion made ample display
Of furniture gorgeous and costly and new.
"It vexes me much, that a house so complete,"—
To this wealthy dolt, said a neighbor one day,—
"Should a Library lack,—an ornament great,—
So useful and elegant, too, by the way."
"To be sure," said the other, "how strange that the case
To me never occurred; I'll supply the want soon.
There is time enough yet; and, in the first place,
I devote to the purpose the northern saloon.
Send a cabinet-maker to put up some shelves,
Capacious, well finished,—no matter for cost,
Then, in buying some books, we will busy ourselves;—
To make it all perfect, no time shall be lost."
The cases are done; the owner he comes,
Inspects and approves: "And now,"—said the snob,—
"I must go out and look up some twelve thousand tomes.
'Pon my honor, 'twill be a pretty good job.
I am almost discouraged—of money a deal
It will take; and 'tis work for a century, too.
Will it not be much better the cases to fill,
With books made of pasteboard, as good to the view?
Just think now—why not? A painter I know,
For such little jobs precisely the man;
Can write titles out fair, and make pasteboard to show
Like leather or parchment, if any one can."
And now to the work,—books precious and rare,
Both modern and ancient, he caused to be painted;
And, besides printed volumes, he also takes care
To have manuscripts, too, in same guise represented.
The precious old fool then, each day, set apart
Some hours to wander his library round;
Till, learning the titles of many by heart,
He thought himself grown to a scholar profound.
Truly, what better needs the student,—contented
Of books, nothing more than their titles, to know
Than to own a collection right skilfully painted,
Of genuine volumes presenting the show?
"A strangely inconsistent crew!"—
Said the Viper to the simple Leech,—
"Men fly from me and seek for you;
Although they get a bite from each."
"All very true,"—the Leech replied,—
"But the two things are different quite.
I bite the sick, to give them aid;
To kill the sound and well, you bite."
Now, gentle reader, with you take
This counsel, as we part:
And always due distinction make,
If from the lash you smart.
Great is the difference between
Correction kind and malice keen.