Broad Grins Part 1

Broad Grins.

by George Colman, the Younger.

MY NIGHT-GOWN AND SLIPPERS

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TOM, d.i.c.k, and WILL, were little known to Fame;-- No matter;-- But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came, To chatter.

It was the custom of these three To sit up late; And, o'er the embers of the Ale-house fire, When steadier customers retire, The choice _Triumviri_, d'ye see, Held a debate.

Held a debate?--On politicks, no doubt.

Not so;--they care'd not who was in, No, not a pin;-- Nor who was out.

All their discourse on modern Poets ran; For in the Muses was their sole delight;-- They talk'd of such, and such, and such a man; Of those who could, and those who could not write.

It cost them very little pains To count the modern Poets, who had brains.

'Twas a small difficulty;--'twasn't any; They were so few: But to cast up the scores of men Who wield a stump they call a pen, Lord! they had much to do,-- They were so many!

Buoy'd on a sea of fancy, Genius rises, And like the rare Leviathan surprises; But the _small fry_ of scribblers!--tiny souls!

They wriggle thro' the mud in shoals.

It would have raise'd a smile to see the faces They made, and the ridiculous grimaces, At many an author, as they overhaul'd him.

They gave no quarter to a calf, Blown up with puff, and paragraph; But, if they found him bad, they maul'd him.

On modern Dramatists they fell, Pounce, _vi et armis_--tooth and nail--pell mell.

They call'd them Carpenters, and Smugglers; Filching their incidents from ancient h.o.a.rds, And knocking them together, like deal boards: And Jugglers; Who all the town's attention fix, By making--Plays?--No, Sir, by making _tricks_.

The Versifiers--Heaven defend us!

They play'd the very devil with their rhymes.

They hope'd Apollo a new set would send us; And then, invidiously enough, Place'd modish verse, which they call'd stuff, Against the writing of the elder times.

To say the truth, a modern versifier Clap'd cheek by jowl With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior, Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!

For Novels, should their critick hints succeed, The Misses might fare better when they took 'em; But it would fare extremely ill, indeed, With gentle _Messieurs Lane_ and _Hookham_.

"A Novel, now," says WILL, "is nothing more Than an old castle,--and a creaking door,-- A distant hovel;-- Clanking of chains--a gallery--a light,-- Old armour--and a phantom all in white,-- And there's a Novel!"

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"Scourge me such catch-penny inditers Out of the land," quoth WILL--rousing in pa.s.sion-- "And fy upon the readers of such writers, Who bring them into fas.h.i.+on!"

WILL rose in declamation. "'Tis the bane,"

Says he, "of youth;--'tis the perdition: It fills a giddy female brain With vice, romance, l.u.s.t, terror, pain,-- With superst.i.tion.

"Were I Pastor in a boarding-school, I'd quash such books _in toto_;--if I couldn't, Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule, I'd flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn't."

WILLIAM, 'tis plain, was getting in a rage; But, Thomas dryly said,--for he was cool-- "I think no gentleman would mend the age By flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school."

d.i.c.k knock'd the ashes from his pipe, And said, "Friend WILL, You give the Novels a fair wipe; But still, While you, my friend, with pa.s.sion run 'em down, They're in the hands of all the town.

"The reason's plain," proceeded d.i.c.k, "And simply thus-- Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave'd, and sick, And needs a _stimulus_.

"Time was,--(when honest Fielding writ)-- Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit, Were reckon'd most delicious boil'd and roast: But stomachs are so cloy'd with novel-feeding, Folks get a vitiated taste in reading, And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.

"Or, to come nearer, And put the case a little clearer:-- Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation, By too much use; And sink into a state of relaxation, With long abuse.

"Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees, Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails; And all these Legendary Tales Are, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.

"But how to cure the evil?" you will say: "My _Recipe_ is,--laughing it away.

"Lay bare the weak farrago of those men Who fabricate such visionary schemes, As if the night-mare rode upon their pen, And trouble'd all their ink with hideous dreams.

"For instance--when a solemn Ghost stalks in, And, thro' a mystick tale is busy, Strip me the Gentleman into his skin-- What is he?

"Truly, ridiculous enough: Mere trash;--and very childish stuff.

"Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend, _of low degree_, And all the bubble's broken!--Let us see."

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THE WATER-FIENDS.

ON a wild Moor, all brown and bleak, Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse, There stood a tenement antique; Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here Silence reign'd, with lips of glue, And undisturb'd maintain'd her law; Save when the Owl cry'd "whoo! whoo! whoo!"

Or the hoa.r.s.e Crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion!--for, 'tis said, Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds,--from the Bull's head, Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop!--Lords may moan, Who stake, in London, their estate, On two, small, rattling, bits of bone; On _little figure_, or on _great_.

Swift whirl the wheels.--He's gone.--A Rose Remains behind, whose virgin look, Unseen, must blush in wintry snows, Sweet, beauteous blossom!----'twas the Cook!

A bolder far than my weak note, Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand: Eels might be proud to lose their coat, If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.

Long had the fair one sat alone, Had none remain'd save only she;-- She by herself had been--if one Had not been left, for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue, Was tinge'd with health and manly toil;-- Cabbage he sow'd; and, when it grew, He always cut it off, to boil.

Oft would he cry, "Delve, Delve the hole!

And prune the tree, and trim the root!

And stick the wig upon the pole, To scare the sparrows from the fruit!"

A small, mute favourite, by day, Follow'd his step; where'er he wheels His barrow round the garden gay, A bob-tail cur is at his heels.