Chapter 5

A Painter, now by Fame forgot, Had painted--'tis no matter what; Enough that he resolved to try The Verdict of a critic Eye. The Friend he sought made no Pretence To more than candid Common-sense, Nor held himself from Fault exempt. He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt. Then, pausing long, showed here and there That Parts required a nicer Care,-- A closer Thought. The Artist heard, Expostulated, chafed, demurred.

Just then popped in a passing Beau, Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;-- One of those Mushroom Growths that spring From _Grand Tours_ and from Tailoring;-- And dealing much in terms of Art Picked up at Sale and auction Mart. Straight to the Masterpiece he ran With lifted Glass, and thus began, Mumbling as fast as he could speak:-- "Sublime!--prodigious!--truly Greek! That 'Air of Head' is just divine; That contour GUIDO, every line; That Forearm, too, has quite the _Gusto_ Of the third Manner of ROBUSTO...." Then, with a Simper and a Cough, He skipped a little farther off:-- "The middle Distance, too, is placed Quite in the best Italian Taste; And Nothing could be more effective Than the _Ordonnance_ and Perspective.... You've sold it?--No?--Then take my word, I shall speak of it to MY LORD. What!--I insist. Don't stir, I beg. Adieu!" With that he made a Leg, Offered on either Side his Box,-- So took his _Virtú_ off to COCK'S.

The Critic, with a Shrug, once more Turned to the Canvas as before. "Nay,"--said the Painter--"I allow The Worst that you can tell me now. 'Tis plain my Art must go to School, To win such Praises--from a FOOL!"

THE TWO PAINTERS.

In Art some hold Themselves content If they but compass what they meant; Others prefer, their Purpose gained, Still to find Something unattained-- Something whereto they vaguely grope With no more Aid than that of Hope. Which are the Wiser? Who shall say! The prudent Follower of GAY Declines to speak for either View, But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.

Once--'twas in good Queen ANNA'S Time-- While yet in this benighted Clime The GENIUS of the ARTS (now known On mouldy Pediments alone) Protected all the Men of Mark, Two Painters met Her in the Park. Whether She wore the Robe of Air Portrayed by VERRIO and LAGUERRE; Or, like BELINDA, trod this Earth, Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth, And armed at every Point for Slaughter With Essences and Orange-water, I know not: but it seems that then, After some talk of Brush and Pen,-- Some chat of Art both High and Low, Of VAN'S "Goose-Pie" and KNELLER'S "_Mot_,"-- The Lady, as a Goddess should, Bade Them ask of Her what They would. "Then, Madam, my request," says BRISK, Giving his _Ramillie_ a whisk, "Is that your Majesty will crown My humble Efforts with Renown. Let me, I beg it--Thanks to You-- Be praised for Everything I do, Whether I paint a Man of Note, Or only plan a Petticoat." "Nay," quoth the other, "I confess" (This One was plainer in his Dress, And even poorly clad), "for me, I scorn Your Popularity. Why should I care to catch at once The Point of View of every Dunce? Let me do well, indeed, but find The Fancy first, the Work behind; Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...." The Goddess both Petitions granted.

Each in his Way, achieved Success; But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.

THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE.

Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame Beneath some simple-sounding Name! So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride, Will call Display but _Proper Pride_; So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose, Curse not their Folly but the _Jews_; So _Madam_, when her Roses faint, Resorts to ... anything but _Paint_.

An honest Uncle, who had plied His Trade of Mercer in _Cheapside_, Until his Name on _'Change_ was found Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound, Was burdened with an Heir inclined To thoughts of quite a different Kind. His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse From Morn to Night, and, what was worse, He quitted all at length to follow That "sneaking, whey-faced God, APOLLO." In plainer Words, he ran up Bills At _Child's_, at _Batson's_ and at _Will's_; Discussed the Claims of rival Bards At Midnight,--with a Pack of Cards; Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle" Over a point in ARISTOTLE. This could not last, and like his Betters He found, too soon, the _Cost_ of Letters. Back to his Uncle's House he flew, Confessing that he'd not a _Sou_. 'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere, Were more poetical than clear: "Alas!" he said, "I name no Names: The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_ has claims." His Uncle, who, behind his Till, Knew less of _Pindus_ than _Snow-Hill_, Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say) That Youth but once can have its Day, Equipped anew his _Pride_ and _Hope_ To frisk it on _Parnassus_ Slope. In one short Month he sought the Door More shorn and ragged than before. This Time he showed but small Contrition, And gloried in his mean Condition. "The greatest of our Race," he said, "Through _Asian_ Cities begged his Bread. The _Muse_--the _Muse_ delights to see Not _Broadcloth_ but _Philosophy_! Who doubts of this her Honour shames, But (as you know) she has her Claims...." "Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubt This scurvy Craft that you're about Will lead your _philosophic_ Feet Either to _Bedlam_ or the _Fleet_. Still, as I would not have you lack, Go get some _Broadcloth_ to your Back, And--if it please this precious _Muse_-- 'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes. Though harkye, Sir...." The Youth was gone, Before the good Man could go on.

And yet ere long again was seen That Votary of _Hippocrene_. As along _Cheap_ his Way he took, His Uncle spied him by a Brook, Not such as _Nymphs Castalian_ pour,-- 'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more. His Plight was plain by every Sign Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine. He strove to rise, and wagged his Head-- "The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_--" he said. "_Muse!_" quoth the Other, in a Fury, "The _Muse_ shan't serve you, I assure ye. She's just some wanton, idle _Jade_ That makes young Fools forget their Trade,-- Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will, From _Charing Cross_ to _Ludgate Hill_. She's just...." But he began to stutter, So left SIR GRACELESS in the Gutter.

THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL.

Nothing so idle as to waste This Life disputing upon _Taste_; And most--let that sad Truth be written-- In this contentious Land of _Britain_, Where each one holds "it seems to me" Equivalent to Q. E. D., And if you dare to doubt his Word Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd. And then, too often, the Debate Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate, Some narrow Issue, where a Touch Of more or less can't matter much, But, and this makes the Case so sad, Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad. Nay,--there are some so strangely wrought,-- So warped and twisted in their Thought,-- That, if the Fact be but confest, They like the baser Thing the best. Take BOTTOM, who for one, 'tis clear, Possessed a "reasonable Ear;" He might have had at his Command The Symphonies of _Fairy-Land_; Well, our immortal SHAKESPEAR owns The Oaf preferred the "Tongs and Bones!"

'Squire HOMESPUN from _Clod-Hall_ rode down, As the Phrase is--"to see the Town;" (The Town, in those Days, mostly lay Betwixt the _Tavern_ and the _Play_.) Like all their Worships the J.P.'s, He put up at the _Hercules_; Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare, Rather than jolt it in a Chair,-- A curst, new-fangled _Little-Ease_, That knocks your Nose against your Knees. For the good 'Squire was Country-bred, And had strange Notions in his Head, Which made him see in every Cur The starveling Breed of _Hanover_; He classed your Kickshaws and _Ragoos_ With Popery and Wooden Shoes; Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo, And sighed o'er _Chaos_ Wine for Stingo.

Hence, as he wandered to and fro, Nothing could please him, high or low. As _Savages_ at _Ships of War_ He looked unawed on _Temple-Bar_; Scarce could conceal his Discontent With _Fish-Street_ and the _Monument_; And might (except at Feeding-Hour) Have scorned the Lion in the _Tower_, But that the Lion's Race was run, And--for the Moment--there was none.

At length, blind Fate, that drives us all, Brought him at Even to _Vauxhall_, What Time the eager Matron jerks Her slow Spouse to the _Water-Works_, And the coy Spinster, half-afraid Consults the _Hermit_ in the Shade. Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire Sank in a Seat before the Choir. The FAUSTINETTA, fair and showy, Warbled an Air from _Arsinoë_, Playing her Bosom and her Eyes As Swans do when they agonize. Alas! to some a Mug of Ale Is better than an _Orphic Tale_! The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored; His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored. Then, straying thro' the "poppied Reign," He dreamed him at _Clod-Hall_ again; He heard once more the well-known Sounds, The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.

He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo! A Change had come upon the Show. Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow, Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow, Was mimicking a Cock that crew. Then came the Cry of Hounds anew, _Yoicks! Stole Away!_ and harking back; Then Ringwood leading up the Pack. The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee At this most hugeous Pleasantry. The sawn Wood followed; last of all The Man brought something in a Shawl,-- Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked. Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sit So excellent he thought the Wit. But when _Sir Wag_ drew off the Sheath And showed there was no Pig beneath, His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe, Exploded in a long Guffaw: And, to his dying Day, he'd swear That Naught in Town the Bell could bear From "Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!"

MORAL THE FIRST you may discover: The 'Squire was like TITANIA'S lover; He put a squeaking Pig before The Harmony of CLAYTON'S Score.

MORAL THE SECOND--not so clear; But still it shall be added here: He praised the Thing he understood; 'Twere well if every Critic would.

THE CLIMACTERIC.

When do the reasoning Powers decline? The Ancients said at Forty-Nine. At Forty-Nine behoves it then To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen, Since ARISTOTLE so decreed. Premising thus, we now proceed.

In that thrice-favoured Northern Land, Where most the Flowers of Thought expand, And all things nebulous grow clear, Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer, There lived, at _Dumpelsheim_ the Lesser, A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor. Than GROTIUS more alert and quick, More logical than BURGERSDYCK, His Lectures both so much transcended, That far and wide his Fame extended, Proclaiming him to every clime Within a Mile of _Dumpelsheim_. But chief he taught, by Day and Night, The Doctrine of the Stagirite, Proving it fixed beyond Dispute, In Ways that none could well refute; For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men O'er-stepped the Limit now and then, He'd show unanswerably still Either that all they did was "Nil," Or else 'twas marked by Indication Of grievous mental Degradation: Nay--he could even trace, they say, That Degradation to a Day.

The Years rolled on, and as they flew, More famed the Herr Professor grew, His "_Locus_ of the Pineal Gland" (A Masterpiece he long had planned) Had reached the End of Book Eleven, And he was nearing Forty-Seven. Admirers had not long to wait; The last Book came at Forty-Eight, And should have been the Heart and Soul-- The Crown and Summit--of the whole. But now the oddest Thing ensued; 'Twas so insufferably crude, So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain The Writer's Mind was on the wane. Nothing could possibly be said; E'en Friendship's self must hang the head, While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil, Denounced it openly as "Drivel." Never was such Collapse. In brief, The poor Professor died of Grief.

With fitting mortuary Rhyme They buried him at _Dumpelsheim_, And as they sorrowing set about A "Short Memoir," the Truth came out. He had been older than he knew. The Parish Clerk had put a "2" In place of "Nought," and made his Date Of Birth a Brace of Years too late. When he had written Book the Last, His true Climacteric had past!

MORAL.--To estimate your Worth, Be certain as to date of Birth.

TALES IN RHYME.

THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS.

Much strange is true. And yet so much Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays He blurs them both beneath his touch:--

In this our tale his part he plays. At Florence, so the legend tells, There stood a church that men would praise

(Even where Art the most excels) For works of price; but chief for one They called the "Virgin with the Bells."

Gracious she was, and featly done, With crown of gold about the hair, And robe of blue with stars thereon,

And sceptre in her hand did bear; And o'er her, in an almond tree, Three little golden bells there were,

Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity. None knew from whence she came of old, Nor whose the sculptor's name should be

Of great or small. But this they told:-- That once from out the blaze of square, And bickering folk that bought and sold,

More moved no doubt of heat than prayer, Came to the church an Umbrian, Lord of much gold and champaign fair,

But, for all this, a hard, haught man. To whom the priests, in humbleness, At once to beg for alms began,

Praying him grant of his excess Such as for poor men's bread might pay, Or give their saint a gala-dress.

Thereat with scorn he answered--"Nay, Most Reverend! Far too well ye know, By guile and wile, the fox's way

"To swell the Church's overflow. But ere from me the least carline Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow;

"Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft. By Bacchus! ye are none too lean

"For fasting folk!" With that he laughed, And so, across the porphyry floor, His hand upon his dagger-haft,

Strode, and of these was seen no more. Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they At those his words, since gear and store

Oft dower shrunk souls. But, on a day, While yet again throughout the square, The buyers in their noisy way,

Chaffered around the basket ware, It chanced (I but the tale reveal, Nor true nor false therein declare)--

It chanced that when the priest would kneel Before the taper's flickering flame, Sudden a little tremulous peal

From out the Virgin's altar came. And they that heard must fain recall The Umbrian, and the words of shame

Spoke in his pride, and therewithal Came news how, at that very date And hour of time was fixed his fall,

Who, of the Duke, was banned the State, And all his goods, and lands as well, To Holy Church were confiscate.

Such is the tale the Frati tell.

A TALE OF POLYPHEME.

"There's nothing new"--Not that I go so far As he who also said "There's nothing true," Since, on the contrary, I hold there are Surviving still a verity or two; But, as to novelty, in my conviction, There's nothing new,--especially in fiction.

Hence, at the outset, I make no apology, If this _my_ story is as old as Time, Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,-- The Cyclops' love,--which, somewhat varied, I'm To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting, In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting.

"Once on a time"--there's nothing new, I said-- It may be fifty years ago or more, Beside a lonely posting-road that led Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore, With low-built bar and old bow-window shady, An ancient Inn, the "Dragon and the Lady."

Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine, You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon, Where beast and man were equal on the sign, Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon: The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops, A road-side break beyond the straggling shops.

And so directed, thereupon you led Your halting roadster to a kind of pass, This you descended with a crumbling tread, And found the sea beneath you like a glass; And soon, beside a building partly walled-- Half hut, half cave--you raised your voice and called.

Then a dog growled; and straightway there began Tumult within--for, bleating with affright, A goat burst out, escaping from the can; And, following close, rose slowly into sight-- Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan-- An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man.

Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too: You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail, Bared a red forearm, bringing into view Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.

And then he lit his fire.... But I dispense Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse, As being but a colorable pretence To bring an awkward hero in perforce; Since this our smith, for reasons never known, To most society preferred his own.

Women declared that he'd an "Evil Eye,"-- This in a sense was true--he had but one; Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy: We sometimes say so of the friends we shun; But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it-- The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,--

Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea, Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte, Milking his goat at eve, and it may be, Spearing the fish along the flats at night, Until, at last, one April evening mild, Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child.

The Lady was a nullity; the Child One of those bright bewitching little creatures, Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled, Would soften out the ruggedest of features; Fragile and slight,--a very fay for size,-- With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes."

Nurses, no doubt, might name her "somewhat wild;" And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow;" Or corset-makers add, that for a child, She needed "cultivation;"--all I know Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu.

The Lady was a nullity--a pale, Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid, Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail, Remained religiously indoors to read; So that, in wandering at her will, the Child Did, in reality, run "somewhat wild."

At first but peering at the sanded floor And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar; Then watching idly from the dusky door, The noisy advent of a coach or car; Then stealing out to wonder at the fate Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate,--

Some old ship's figure-head--until at last, Straying with each excursion more and more, She reached the limits of the road, and passed, Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore, And so, as you, respected Reader, showed, Came to the smith's "desirable abode."

There by the cave the occupant she found, Weaving a crate; and, with a gladsome cry, The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned With all the terrors of his single eye; Then from a mound came running, too, the goat, Uttering her plaintive, desultory note.

The Child stood wondering at the silent man, Doubtful to go or stay, when presently She felt a plucking, for the goat began To crop the trail of twining briony She held behind her; so that, laughing, she Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea.

But the goat followed her on eager feet, And therewithal an air so grave and mild, Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat Of injured confidence, that soon the Child Filled the lone shore with louder merriment, And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent.

Thus grew acquaintanceship between the pair, The girl and goat;--for thenceforth, day by day, The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare As might be gathered on the downward way:-- Foxglove, or broom, and "yellow cytisus," Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus.

But, for the Cyclops, that misogynist Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled, Felt it at least incumbent to resist Further encroachment, and as one beguiled By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut, Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut.

And yet not less from thence he still must see That daily coming, and must hear the goat Bleating her welcome; then, towards the sea, The happy voices of the playmates float; Until, at last, enduring it no more, He took his wonted station by the door.

Here was, of course, a pitiful surrender; For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye Seemed to exert an influence but slender, Would run to question him, till, by and by, His moody humor like a cloud dispersing, He found himself uneasily conversing.

That was a sow's-ear, that an egg of skate, And this an agate rounded by the wave. Then came inquiries still more intimate About himself, the anvil, and the cave; And then, at last, the Child, without alarm Would even spell the letters on his arm.

"G--A--L--_Galatea_." So there grew On his part, like some half-remembered tale, The new-found memory of an ice-bound crew, And vague garrulities of spouting whale,-- Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe. And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo.

Till, in his heart, which hitherto had been Locked as those frozen barriers of the North, There came once more the season of the green,-- The tender bud-time and the putting forth, So that the man, before the new sensation, Felt for the child a kind of adoration;--

Rising by night, to search for shell and flower, To lay in places where she found them first; Hoarding his cherished goat's milk for the hour When those young lips might feel the summer's thirst; Holding himself for all devotion paid By that clear laughter of the little maid.

Dwelling, alas! in that fond Paradise Where no to-morrow quivers in suspense,-- Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice To break the soft forgetfulness of sense,-- Where dreams become realities; and where I willingly would leave him--did I dare.

Yet for a little space it still endured, Until, upon a day when least of all The softened Cyclops, by his hopes assured, Dreamed the inevitable blow could fall, Came the stern moment that should all destroy, Bringing a pert young cockerel of a Boy.