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Title: The Knight And The Friar
Author: George Colman [
More Titles by Colman]
PART FIRST.
IN our Fifth Harry's reign, when 'twas the fashion
To thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;--
Tho' Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,
And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;--
In Harry's reign, when flush'd Lancastrian roses
Of York's pale blossoms had usurp'd the right;[1]
As wine drives Nature out of drunkards' noses,
Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;--
In Harry's reign--but let me to my song,
Or good king Harry's reign may seem too long.
[1] Roses were not emblems of faction, cries the Critick, till the reign of Henry the Sixth.--Pooh!--This is a figure, not an anachronism. Suppose, Mr. Critick, you and all your descendants should be hang'd, although your father died in his bed:--Why then posterity, when talking of your father, may allude to the family gallows, which his issue shall have render'd notoriously symbolical of his House.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight,
When this king Harry went to war, in France,
Girded a sword about his middle;
Resolving, very lustily, to fight,
And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,
Without a fiddle.
And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle,
Performing prodigies, with spear and shield;
His valour, like a murrain among cattle,
Was reckon'd very fatal in the field.
Yet, tho' Sir Thomas had an iron fist,
He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.
Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die,
To any inconvenience to put 'em:
"It quite distress'd his feelings," he would cry,
"That he must cut their throats,"--and, then he cut 'em.
Thus, during many a Campaign,
He cut, and grieve'd, and cut, and came again;--
Pitying, and killing;--
Lamenting sorely for men's souls,
While pretty little eyelet holes,
Clean thro' their bodies he kept drilling:
Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,
(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)
Homeward he bent his course, to wreath 'em;
And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,
Glutted with glory, he sat down,
In perfect solitude, beneath 'em.
Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say,
Gives grace, and dignity--and so it may--
When men have done campaigning;
But, certainly, these gentlemen must own
That sitting under Laurels, quite alone,
Is much more dignified than entertaining.
Pious AEneas, who, in his narration
Of his own prowess, felt so great a charm;--
(For, tho' he feign'd great grief in the relation,
He made the story longer than your arm;[2])
[2] --"Quis talia fando
Temperet a lachrymis? "
says AEneas, by way of proem; yet, for a Hero, tolerably "use'd to the melting mood," he talks, on this occasion, much more than he cries; and, though he begins with a wooden Horse, and gives a general account of the burning of Troy, still the "quorum pars magna fui" is, evidently, the great inducement to his chattering:--accordingly, he keeps up Queen Dido to a scandalous late hour, after supper, for the good folks of Carthage, to tell her an egotistical story, that occupies two whole books of the AEneid.--Oh, these Heroes!--I once knew a worthy General--but I wont tell that story.
Pious AEneas no more pleasure knew
Than did our Knight--who could he pious too--
In telling his exploits, and martial brawls:
But pious Thomas had no Dido near him--
No Queen--King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him--
So he was force'd to tell them to the walls:
And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise,
The knight, full often, did soliloquize:--
For "Walls have ears," Sir Thomas had been told;
Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter,
If, now and then, a tale he could unfold
To ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.
At length, his old Castellum grew so dull,
That legions of Blue Devils seize'd the Knight;
Megrim invested his belaurell'd skull;
Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;
Till, thro' the day-time, he was haunted, wholly,
By all the imps of "loathed Melancholy!"--
Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!--
An Incubus,[3] whene'er he went to bed,
Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead,
Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.
[3] Far be it from me to offer a pedantick affront to the Gentlemen who peruse me, by explaining the word Incubus; which Pliny and others, more learnedly, call Ephialtes.--I, modestly, state it to mean the Night-Mare, for the information of the Ladies. The chief symptom by which this affliction is vulgarly known, is a heavy pressure upon the stomach, when lying in a supine posture in bed. It would terrify some of my fair readers, who never experience'd this characteristick of the Incubus, were I to dwell on its effects; and it would irritate others, who are in the habit of labouring under its sensations.
Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear;
Sir Thomas being but a Layman,
Swore, very roundly, a la militaire,
Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:
Damning his Walls, out of all line and level;
Sinking his drawbridges and moats;
Wishing that he were cutting throats--
And they were at the devil.
"What's to be done," Sir Thomas said one day,
"To drive Ennui away?
How is the evil to be parried?
What can remind me of my former life?--
Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!"
The last word struck him;--"Zounds!" says he,
"a Wife!"--
And so he married.
Muse! regulate your pace;--
Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!
Here is a stately Lady in the case:
We mustn't, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.
O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!
Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen's quarters;
His torch bedimming, as thou runn'st away,
Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!
Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows pass
Thro' hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;
Who mark'st with Milkmaids' forms, the tell-tale grass,
And make'st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!
Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,
Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;
And let thy Poet catch it, now, to sing
The beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!
Her beauty!--but Sir Thomas's own Sonnet
Beats all that I can say upon it.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's[4] SONNET ON HIS LADY.
[4] An old Gentlewoman, a great admirer of the BLACK LETTER, (as many old Gentlewomen are) presented the Author of these Tales with the Original MS. of this Sonnet; advising the publication of a facsimile of the Knight's hand-writing. It is painful, after this, to advance, that the Sonnet, so far from being genuine, is one of the clumsiest literary forgeries, that the present times have witnessed. It appears, in this authentick Story, that Sir Thomas Erpingham was married in the reign of Henry the Fifth; and it is evidently intended, that Moderns should believe he writ these love-verses almost immediately after his marriage; not only from the ardour with which he celebrates the beauty of his wife, but from the circumstance of a man writing any love-verses upon his wife at all;--but the style and language of the lines are most glaringly inconsistent with their pretended date. The fact is, we have here foisted upon us a close imitation of COWLEY, (vide the MISTRESS) who was not born till the year 1618,--two centuries after the era in question. Chaucer died, A. D. 1400; and Henry the Fifth (who was king only 9 years, 5 months, and 11 days) began his reign scarcely 13 years after the death of that Poet. Sir Thomas, then, must, at least, have written in the obsolete phraseology of Chaucer,--and, probably, would have imitated him,--as did Lidgate, Occleve, and others;--nay, Harding, Skelton, &c. who were fifty or sixty years subsequent to Chaucer, were not so modern in their language as their celebrated predecessor. Having, in few words, prove'd (it is presume'd) this Sonnet to be spurious, an apology may be thought necessary for not saying a great deal more;--but this Herculean task is left, in deference, to the disputants on Vortigern; who will, doubtless, engage in it, as a matter of great importance, and, once more, lay the world under very heavy obligations, with various Pamphlets in folio, upon the subject:--and, surely, too many acknowledgments cannot be given to men who are so indefatigably generous in their researches, that half the result of them, when publish'd, causes even the sympathetick reader to labour as much as the Writer!
How ungratefully did Pope say!
"There, dim in clouds, the poring Scholiasts mark,
Wits, who, like owls, see only in the dark;
A lumber-house of books in every head;
For ever reading, never to be read!"--Dunciad.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's SONNET ON HIS LADY.
1
SUCH star-like lustre lights her Eyes,
They must have darted from a Sphere,
Our duller System to surprise,
Outshining all the Planets here;
And, having wander'd from their wonted place,
Fix in the wond'rous Heaven of her Face.
2
The modest Rose, whose blushes speak
The ardent kisses of the Sun,
Off'ring a tribute to her Cheek,
Droops, to perceive its Tint outdone;
Then withering with envy and despair,
Dies on her Lips, and leaves its Fragrance there.
3
Ringlets, that to her Breast descend,
Increase the beauties they invade;
Thus branches in luxuriance bend,
To grace the lovely Hills they shade;
And thus the glowing Climate did entice
Tendrils to curl, unprune'd, o'er Paradise.
* * * * *
Sir Thomas having close'd his love-sick strain,
Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!
Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,
Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil's skirts;
Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,
And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.
Their House's sole Endowment was our Knight's:--
Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,
Conquer'd (sage, pious men!) their appetites
With that infallible specifick--eating.
'Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars,
That Peace and Harmony reign'd here eternally;--
Whoever told you so were cursed liars;--
The holy Friars quarrell'd most infernally.
Not a day past
Without some schism among these heavenly lodgers;
But none of their dissensions seem'd to last
So long as Friar John's and Friar Roger's.
I have been very accurate in my researches,
And find this Convent (truce with whys and hows)
Kept in a constant ferment with the rows
Of these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.
But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions,
Proceeding thro' their Cloister with his Bride,
You never could have dream'd of their commotions,
The stiff-rump'd rascals look'd so sanctified:
And it became the custom of the Knight
To go to matins every day;
He jogg'd his Bride, as soon as it was light,
Crying, "my dear, 'tis time for us to pray."--
This custom he establish'd, very soon,
After his honey-moon.
Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising;
But much his pious lady did it please,
To see her Husband, every morning, rising,
And going, instantly, upon his knees.
Never, I ween,
In any person's recollection,
Was such a couple seen,
For genuflection!
Making as great a drudgery of prayer
As humble Curates are oblige'd to do,--
Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks;
And, every morning, whether foul or fair,
Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew,
Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.
It could not otherwise befall
(Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,)
But that the Lady, affable to all,
Should greet the Friars, on her way
To matins, as she met them, every day,
Good morninging, and how d'ye doing:
Now nodding to this Friar, now to that,
As thro' the Cloister she was wont to trip;
Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat,
On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;--
So condescending was her Ladyship,
To Roger, John, and all the others.
All this was natural enough
To any female of urbanity;--
But holy men are made of as frail stuff
As all the lighter sons of Vanity!--
And these her Ladyship's chaste condescensions,
In Friar John bred damnable desire;
Heterodox, unclean intentions;--
Abominable in a Friar!
Whene'er she greeted him, his gills grew red,
While she was quite unconscious of the matter;--
But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,
Out of his bullock-head.
That coxcombs were and are, I need not give,
Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;
Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,
Have thought a Lady's condescension, love.
This happen'd with fat Friar John!--
Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;
Fill'd with conceit up to his very brim!--
He thought his guts and garbage doated on,
By a fair Dame, whose Husband was to him
Hyperion to a mummy.
Burning with flames the Lady never knew,
Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,
He sent her a much warmer billet-doux
Than Abelard e'er writ to Eloise.
But whether Friar John's fat shape and face,
Tho' pleading both together,
Were sorry advocates, in such a case;--
Or, whether
He marr'd his hopes, by suffering his pen
With too much fervour to display 'em;--
As very tender Nurses, now and then,
Cuddle their Children, till they overlay 'em;--
'Twas plain, his pray'r to decorate the brows
Of good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,
That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,
And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.
Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta'en, for life,
A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,
Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wife
Brandish'd, before his eyes, the Friar's letter!
He felt, Sir,--Zounds!--
Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,--for it makes me swear--
More torture than he suffer'd from the wounds
He got among the French, in France;--
Not that I take upon me to advance
The knight was ever wounded there.
Think gravely, Sir, I pray:--fancy the Knight--
('Tis quite a Picture)--with his heart's delight!
Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,
Holding the Friar's foulness in her hand!--
How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?
Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:--
You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,
A frouzy Friar, meddle'd with your Rib.
His bosom almost burst with ire
Against the Friar;
Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;
His cheeks turn'd purple, and his nose turn'd blue;
He swore with this mock Saint he'd soon be even;--
He'd have him flay'd, like Saint Bartholomew;--
And, now again, he'd have him stone'd, like Stephen.
But, "Ira furor brevis est,"
As Horace, quaintly, has express'd;--
Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth
Work thro' the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,
Pull'd out the vent-peg of his wrath,
To let the stream of his revenge run clear:
Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,
To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.
First, an attack against his Foe he plann'd,
Learn'd in the Field, where late he fought so felly;
That is--to march up, bravely, sword in hand,
And run the Friar thro' his holy belly.
At last, his better judgment did declare--
Seeing his honour would as little shine
By sticking Friars, as by killing swine--
To circumvent him, by a ruse de guerre:
And, as the project ripen'd in his head,
Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:
"Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!
And list thy Lord's desire;
An assignation thou shalt write,
Beshrew me! to the Friar.
"Aread him, at the midnight hour,
In silent sort to go,
And bide thy coming, in the Bower--
For there do Crabsticks grow.
"He shall not tarry long;--for why?
When Twelve have striking done,
Then, by the God of Gardens![5] I
Will cudgel him till One."
[5] If the Knight knew the aptness, in its full extent, of his oath, upon this occasion, we must give him more credit for his reading than we are willing to allow to military men of the age in which he flourish'd;--for, observe: he vows to cudgel a man lurking to rob his Lady of her virtue, in a bower;--how appropriately, therefore, does he swear by the God of the Gardens! who is represented with a kind of cudgel (falx lignea) in his right hand; and is, moreover, furnished with another weapon of formidable dimensions, (Horace calls it Palus) for the express purpose of annoying Robbers.
"Fures dextra coercet,
Obscaenoque ruber porrectus ab inguine PALUS."
It must be confess'd that the last mention'd attribute of this Deity was stretch'd forth to promote pleasure in some instances, instead of fear;--for it was a sportive custom, in the hilarity of recent marriages, to seat the Bride upon his Palus;--but this circumstance by no means disproves its efficacy as a dread to Robbers; on the contrary, that implement must have been peculiarly terrifick, which could sustain the weight of so many Brides, without detriment to its firmness, or elasticity.
The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;
For, it is no less strange than true,
That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;--
Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!
She name'd the midnight hour;--
Telling the Friar to repair
To the sweet, secret Bower;--
But not a word of any crabsticks there.
Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,
Lure'd by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;
And, when he's eager for a bit of fat,
Down goes a trap upon him, and he's taken.
A tiny Page,--for, formerly, a boy
Was a mere dunce who did not understand
The doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,--
Slipp'd the Dame's note into the Friar's hand,
As he was walking in the cloister;
And, then, slipp'd off,--as silent as an oyster.
The Friar read;--the Friar chuckle'd:--
For, now the Farce's unities were right:
Videlicet--The Argument, a Cuckold;
The Scene, a Bow'r; Time, Twelve o'clock, at night.
Blithe was fat John!--and, dreading no mishap,
Stole, at the hour appointed, to the trap;
But, so perfume'd, so musk'd, for the occasion,--
His tribute to the nose so like invasion,--
You would have sworn, to smell him, 'twas no rat,
But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.
He reach'd the spot, anticipating blisses,
Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,
Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;
When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.
Now, on his head it came, now on his face,
His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;
In short, on almost every place
We read of in the Almanack.
Blows rattle'd on him thick as hail;
Making him rue the day that he was born;--
Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail,
And thrash'd as if he had been thrashing corn.
At length, a thump,--(painful the facts, alas!
Truth urges us Historians to relate!)--
Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate,
It acted like a perfect coup de grace.
Whether it was a random shot,
Or aim'd maliciously,--tho' Fame says not--
Certain his soul (the Knight so crack'd his crown)
Fled from his body; but which way it went,
Or whether Friars' souls fly up, or down,
Remains a matter of nice argument.
Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon;
Enough, for me, his body is not gone;
For I have business, still, in my narration,
With the fat carcass of this holy porpus;
And Death, tho' sharp in his Administration,
Never suspended such an Habeas Corpus.
THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.
PART THE SECOND.
READER! if you have Genius, you'll discover,
Do what you will to keep it cool,
It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over,
Upon a fool.
Haven't you (lucky man if not) been vex'd,
Worn, fretted, and perplex'd,
By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave,
A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?
And haven't you, all christian patience gone,
At last, put down the puppy with your wit;--
On whom it seem'd, tho' you had Mines of it,
Extravagance to spend a jest upon?--
And haven't you, (I'm sure you have, my friend!)
When you have laid the puppy low,--
All little pique, and malice, at an end,--
Been sorry for the blow?
And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,)
"Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?"
Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;--
Whose Genius didn't much disturb his pate:
It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,--
Like many other men's of good estate:
Thus did Sir Thomas say;--and well he might,
When pity to resentment did succeed;
For, certainly, (tho' not with wit) the Knight
Had hit the Friar very hard, indeed!
And heads, nineteen in twenty, 'tis confest,
Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.
There was, in the Knight's family, a man
Cast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts;
With shoulders wider than a dripping pan,
And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.
All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk,
So large a specimen of Nature's whims,
With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk,
Had christen'd him the Duke of Limbs.
Thro'out the Castle, every whipper-snapper
Was canvassing the merits of this strapper:
Most of the Men voted his size alarming;
But all the Maids, nem. con. declare'd it charming!
This wight possess'd a quality most rare;--
I tremble when I mention it, I swear!
Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity:
'Twas--when he had a secret in his care,
To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.
Pour but a secret in him, and 'twould glue him
Like rosin, on a well-cork'd bottle's snout;
Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,
They never could have screw'd the secret out.
Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,
Had kill'd a Friar, weighing twenty stone,
Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,
Judging he might as hopelessly desire
To move a Convent as the Friar,
He thought on this man's secresy, and brawn;--
And, like a swallow, o'er the lawn he skims,
Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:
Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copy
Of his own daughter Mors,[6] had made assault
On the Duke's eye-lids,--not with juice of poppy,
But potent draughts, distill'd from hops and malt.
[6] There is a terrible jumble in Somnus's family. He was the son of Nox, by Erebus;--and Erebus, according to different accounts, was not only Nox's husband, but her brother,--and even her son, by Chaos;--and Mors was daughter of Somnus, by that devil of a Goddess Nox, the mother of his father and himself!--The heathen Deities held our canonical notions in utter contempt; and must have laugh'd at the idea (which, surely, nobody does now,) of forbidding a man to marry his Grandmother.
Certainly, nothing operates much quicker
Against two persons' secret dialogues,
Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,
Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.
Yet circumstance did, presently, require
The Knight to tell his tale;
And to instruct his Man, knock'd down with ale,
That he (Sir Thomas) had knock'd down a Friar.
How wake a man, in such a case?
Sir, the best method--I have tried a score--
Is, when his nose is playing thoro' bass,
To pull it, till you make him roar.
A Sleeper's nose is made on the same plan
As the small wire 'twixt a Doll's wooden thighs;
For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man,
Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.
This mode Sir Thomas took,--and, in a trice,
Grasp'd, with his thumb and finger, like a vice,
That feature which the human face embosses,
And pull'd the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.
The Man awoke, and goggle'd on his master;--
He saw his Master goggling upon him;--
Fresh from concluding, on a Friar's nob,
What Coroners would call an awkward job,
He glare'd, all horror-struck and grim,--
Paler than Paris-plaister!
His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;--
So Garrick look'd, when he perform'd Macbeth;
Who, ere he entered, after Duncan's death,
Rumple'd his wig.
The Knight cried, "Follow me!"--with strange grimaces;
The Man arose,--
And began "sacrificing to the Graces,"[7]
[7] Vide Lord Chesterfield's Letters.--This noble Author, by the by, has set his dignified face against risibility. It would be well for us poor devils, who call ourselves Comic Writers, if our efforts were always as successful in raising a Laugh as his Lordship's censure upon it.
By putting on his clothes;
But he reverse'd, in making himself smart,
A Scotchman's toilet, altogether:
And merely clapp'd a cover on that part
The Highlanders expose to wind and weather.
They reach'd the bower where the Friar lay;
When, to his Man,
The Knight began,
In doleful accents, thus to say:
"Here a fat Friar lies, kill'd with a mauling,
For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling;
Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!"
Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh'd;--
To whom the Duke of Limbs replied--
"Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don't say so!"
Then, taking the huge Friar per the hocks,
He whirl'd the ton of blubber three times round,
And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground,
With strength that yields, in any age, to no man's,--
Tho' Milo's ghost should rise, bearing the Ox
He carried at the games of the old Romans.
Nay, I opine--let Fame say what it can--
Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar)
That Milo was a pigmy to this Man,
And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.
Besides,--I hold it in much doubt
If Roman graziers (should the truth come out)
Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;--
--I wouldn't breed my beast more Romano;--
For, I suspect, in fatt'ning they were dull,
And when they made an ox out of a bull,
They fed him ill,--and, then, he got no fatter
Than a fat opera Soprano.[8]
[8] I am aware that much has been said, of old, relative to the "cura boum," and the "optuma torvae forma bovis;"--but, for a show of cattle, I would back Smithfield, or most of our English market Towns, against any forum boarium of the Romans.
Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)
Gallantly stalk'd the brawny Duke of Limbs,
Bearing Johannes, of the shaven crown,
Fame'd, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;
For mangling Pater-Nosters, and goose-pies,
And telling sundry beads,--and sundry lies.
Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gait
Than Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,
And perch'd himself, with his monastick weight,
Upon the Convent-garden's wall;--
Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze'd,
To find a spot where he might leave his load,
He 'spied a House so little, it seem'd raise'd
More for Man's visits, than his fix'd abode;--
And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,
For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.
Arise, Tarquinius![9] shew thy lofty face!
While I describe, with dignity, the place.
[9] Tarquinius Superbus, the last King of Rome;--he was a haughty Monarch, and built the Cloaca maxima.
Snug in an English garden's shadiest spot,
A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;
Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman's cot,
Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.
There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;
And to some end apply the dullest pages;
And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,
Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.
Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,
Never was any less presuming seen!
It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!
And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;--
Like a coy Maid, design'd for filthy Man,
Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.
Into this place, unnotice'd by beholders,
The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,
And shot the Friar off his shoulders,
Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:
Not taking any pains,
Nor caring, in the least,
How he deposited the Friar's remains,
No more than if a Friar were a beast.
No funeral, of which you ever heard,
Was mark'd with ceremonies half so slight;
For John was left, not like the dead interr'd,
But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!
Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t'other,
Recurring to the facts already stated,
Thought on a certain Roger?--that same brother
Who hated John, and whom John hated?
'Tis, now, a necessary thing to say
That, at this juncture, Roger wasn't well;
Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day,
His stomach with coarse towels:
And clapping trenchers, hot as hell,
Upon his bowels;
Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick,
Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.
He also had imbibe'd, to sooth his pains,
Of pulvis rhei very many grains;
And to the garden's deepest shade was bent,
To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:
When, there,--alive and merry to appearance--
He 'spied his ancient foe, by the moon's light!--
Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,
It look'd as if he kept his post in spite.
A case it is of piteous distress,
If, carrying a secret grief about,
We wish to bury it in a recess,
And find another there, who keeps us out.
Expecting, soon, his enemy to go,
Roger, at first, walk'd to and fro,
With tolerably tranquil paces;
But finding John determine'd to remain,
Roger, each time he pass'd, thro' spite or pain,
Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.
How misery will lower human pride!
And make us buckle!--
Roger, who, all his life, had John defied,
Was now oblige'd to speak him fair,--and truckle.
"Behold me," Roger cried, "behold me, John!
Entreating as a favour you'll be gone;
Me! your sworn foe, tho' fellow-lodger;
Me!--who, in agony, tho' suing now to you,
Would, once, have seen you damn'd ere make a bow to you.
Me,--Roger!"[10]
[10] This is a palpable plagiarism. Rolla thus addresses Pizarro: "Behold me, at thy feet--Me,--Rolla!--Me, that never yet have bent or bow'd--in humble agony I sue to you."--The theft is more glaring, as the Apostrophe, both here, and in the original, occurs in the midst of a strong incident, and is address'd to an Enemy by a proud spirit, in very moving circumstances.
To this address, so fraught with the pathetick,
John remain'd dumb, as a Pythagorean;
Seeming to hint, "Roger, you're a plebeian
Peripatetick."
When such choice oratory has not hit,
When it is, e'en, unanswer'd by a grunt,
'Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit,
And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.
Cholerick Roger could not brook it;--
So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it;
And aiming, like a marksman at a crow,
Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe;
Who fell, like Pedants' periods, to the ground,--
Very inanimate, and very round.
Here is another Picture, reader mine!
I gave you one in the first Canto;[11]--
This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,--
Like something in the Castle of Otranto.
[11] Vide Part 1st, page 61, lines 4-7.
Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,
Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!
Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,
To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!
Come, Limners, come! who choke your house's entry
With dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;
Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;
Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!
Come, Limners, hither come! and draw
A finer incident than e'er ye saw!
Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)
Lying stone dead; and, here, a Roger, quick!
And over John stands Roger, in a funk,
Supposing he has kill'd him with a brick!
There, Painters! there!
Now, by Apelles's gamboge, I swear!
Such a dead subject never comes,
Among those lifeless living ye display;
Then, thro' your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,--
And work away!
Seeing John dead as a door nail,
Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;
Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!
Thrice "Benedicite!" he mutter'd;
Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter'd;
"I've done a pretty job of journey-work!"
Some people will shew symptoms of repentance
When Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites 'em;
Some from mere dread of the Law's sentence,
When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights 'em;--
That Virtue's struggles, in the heart, denotes,
This Vice's hints, to men's left ears, and throats.
Now Roger's conscience, it appears,
Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.
His breast, soon after he was born,
Grew like an Hostler's lantern, at an Inn;
All the circumference was dirty horn,
And feebly blink'd the ray of warmth within.
In short, for one of his religious function,
His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;
No melting Cherub whisper'd to't "Compunction!"
But grim Jack Ketch disturb'd it, crying "Gallows!"
And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr'd,
Was nothing but antipathy to cord.
A padlock'd door stood in the garden wall,
Where John, by Roger's brick-bat, chance'd to fall,
And Roger had a key that could undo it;
Thro' this same door, at any time of day,
They brought, into the Convent, corn, and hay;----
Sometimes, at dusk, a pretty girl came thro' it:
Just to confess herself, to some grave codger;
Perhaps, she came to John,--perhaps, to Roger.
Out at this portal Roger made a shift
To lug his worst of foes:
For, seizing (as the gout was wont) his toes,
He dragg'd the load he couldn't lift.
Achilles, thus, drew round the Trojan plain,
The ten years' Adversary he had slain.--
Yet,--for I scorn a Grecian to disparage,--
Achilles in more style, and splendour, did it;
He sported Murder strapp'd behind his carriage,--
But bourgeois Roger sneak'd on foot, and hid it.
Roger, however, labour'd on,--
Puffing and tugging;--
And hauling John,
As fishermen, on shore, haul up a boat;
Till, after a great deal of lugging,
He lugg'd him to the edge of the Knight's moat;
And stuck him up so straight upon his rear,
Touching, almost, the water, with his heels,
That the defunct might pass, not seen too near,
For some fat gentleman who bobb'd for eels.
Swiftly did Roger, then, retrace his ground,
Lighter than he came out, by many a pound.
So have I seen, on Marlb'rough downs, a hack,
Ease'd of a great man's chaise, and coming back,
From Bladud's springs, upon the western road;
No bloated Noble's luggage at his rump,
Whose doom's, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,
He canters home, from Bath, without his load.
Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,
Couldn't, in all this interval, be easy.
He went to bed;--and, there, began to burn;
Nine times he turn'd, in wondrous perturbation;--
He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,
And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation.
To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose,
And prowl'd with him, lamenting Fortune's stripes;
Now in the rookery among the crows,
Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes:
Wishing strange wishes;--among many,
He wish'd--ere he had clapp'd his eyes on any.
All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;--
Or, seeing Providence ordain'd it so,
That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow,
He wish'd stout Crabstick couldn't kill fat Friar.
Men's wishes will be partial, now and then;--
As, in this case, 'tis plainly seen;
Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,
Wish'd to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.
Think ye that he,--at wishing tho' a dab,--
To wish such harm to any Knight would urge ye?
Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,
And thump'd to death, with it, one of the Clergy.
As he went wishing on,
With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,--
Horror on horror!--he saw John
Where least of all he ever thought to find him:
Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,
Like a stuff'd Kangaroo,--tho' vastly fatter,--
With the full moon upon his chubby face,
Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.
"'Sdeath!" quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,
"Didst thou not tell me where this Friar was left?
Men rise again, to push us from our stools!"[12]
To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,--
"Them as took pains to push that Friar from his,
At such a time o'night, was cursed fools."
[12] Shakspeare certainly borrow'd this expression from Sir Thomas.--See Macbeth.
"Ah!" sigh'd Sir Thomas, "while I wander here,
By fortune stamp'd a Homicide, alas!"
(And, as he spoke, a penitential tear
Mingled with Heaven's dew-drops, on the grass;)--
"Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?"
"Sir Thomas," said the Duke of Limbs, "I wool."
He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,
But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.
The Lout, at length, having bethought him,
Heave'd up the Friar on his back once more;
And (Castles having armories of yore)
Into the Knight's old Armory he brought him.
Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,
That grace'd the walls, on high, in gallant shew,--
As pewter pots, in houses fame'd for ale,
Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,--
A curious, antique suit was hoarded,
Cover'd with dust;
Which had, for many years, afforded
An iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.
Though this was all too little,--in a minute,
The Duke of Limbs ramm'd the fat Friar in it;
So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,
To make black puddings, and stuffs hog's meat in.
The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,
Inquire'd the meaning; when the Duke did say,--
"I'll tie him on ould Dumpling, that's at grass,
And turn him out, a top of the highway."
This Steed,--who now, it seems, was grazing,--
In the French wars had often borne the Knight;--
His symmetry beyond the power of praising,
And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!
Once, how he paw'd the ground, and snuff'd the gale!
Uncropp'd his ears, undock'd his flowing tail;
No blemish was within him, nor without him;
Perfect he was in every part;--
No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,
Had mutilated the least bit about him.
Of high Arabian pedigree,
Father of many four-foot babes was he;
And sweet hoof'd Beauties still would he be rumpling;
But, counting five and twenty from his birth,
At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,
He had obtain'd, alas! the name of Dumpling.
Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;
Saddle'd, and house'd,--in full caparison!--
Now on his back,--no rider larger,--
Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:
Arm'd cap-a-pie completely, like a knight
Going to fight.
A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:
Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or 'Squire;--
The Duke, with thistles, switch'd old Dumpling's breech;
And off he clatter'd with the martial Friar.
Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,--
Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn't sleep:
Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,
For fat John's soul, he had been seize'd with qualms,
Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;--
And having, prudently, resolve'd on flight,
Knock'd up a neighbouring miller, in the night,
And borrow'd his grey Mare.
Thus, trotting off,--beneath a row of trees
He saw "a sight that made his marrow freeze!"
A furious Warrior follow'd him, in mail,
Upon a Charger, close at his Mare's tail!
He cross'd himself!--and, canting, cried,
Oh, sadly have I sinned!
Then stuck his heels in his Mare's side;
And, then, old Dumpling whinny'd!
Roger whipp'd, and Roger spurr'd,
Distilling drops of fear!
But while he spurr'd, still, still he heard
The wanton Dumpling at his rear.
'Twas dawn!--he look'd behind him, in the chase;
When, lo! the features of fat John,--
His beaver up, and pressing on,--
Glare'd, ghastly, in the wretched Roger's face!
The Miller's Mare, who oft had gone the way,
Scamper'd with Roger into Norwich town;
And, there, to all the market-folks' dismay,
Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.
Brief let me be;--the Story soon took air;--
For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,
When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,
Chase'd by a dead one, arm'd, upon a Horse.
Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,
To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,
And, for his services, in Gallia, past,
His suit did not miscarry:--
For, in those days,--thank Heaven they are mended!--
Kings hang'd poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.
YE CRITICKS, and ye HYPER-CRITICKS!--who
Have deign'd (in reading this my story thro')
A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,--
If, as I humbly amble, ye complain
I give my Pegasus too loose a rein,
'Tis time to call my Betters to defend me.
Come, SWIFT! who made so merry with the Nine;
With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!
When she is style'd a slattern, and a trollop;--
Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;
Point to thy Caelia, and thy Dressing-Room,
Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame'd Maw-Wallop!
Come, STERNE!--whose prose, with all a Poet's art,
Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!--
Since at apologies I ne'er was handy,--
Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,
And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,
Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!
Ye Two, alone!--tho' I could bring a score
Of brilliant names, and high examples, more--
Plead for me, when 'tis said I misbehave me!
And, ye, sour Censors! in your crabbed fits,
Who will not let them rescue me as Wits,
Prithee, as Parsons, suffer 'em to save me!
[The end]
George Colman's poem: Knight And The Friar
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