Fragments. [By a Free-Lover.] Blackwood’s Magazine, 1823
They were not married by a muttering priest,
With superstitious rites, and senseless words,
Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book,
In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen)
Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH!
THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth—
The starry empyrean their vast temple—
Their book each other’s eyes—and Love himself
Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!—
Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy
The spirit of the universe.—In sooth
There was a sort of drizzling rain that day,
For I remember (having left at home
My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA,
Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter
Under an entry not twelve paces off
(It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman’s shop
For half an hour or more, and there I mused
(Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed,
That hurried as a het’rogenous mass
To the common sewer, it’s dark reservoir),
I mused upon the running stream of LIFE!
But that’s not much to the purpose—I was telling
Of these most pure espousals.—Innocent pair!
Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains
About the yielding mind of credulous youth,
Wound by the nurse and priest—YOUR energies,
Your unsophisticated impulses,
Taught ye to soar above their “settled rules
Of Vice and Virtue.” Fairest creature! He
Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth
Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch!
With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit
Held no communion.—’T was well done, fair creature!
T’ assert the independence of a mind
Created-generated I would say—
Free as “that chartered libertine, the air.”
Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange!
Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew
Your kindred souls by * * * *
* * * * * *
There fled the noblest spirit—The most pure,
Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt
In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art,
Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now
Into and with the all-absorbing frame
Of Nature, the great mother. Ev’n in life,
While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones,
My thoughts and feelings like electric flame
Shot through the solid mass, toward the source,
And blended with the general elements,
When thy young star o’er life’s horizon hung
Far from it’s zenith yet low lagging clouds
(Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays—
Dull joys of prejudice and superstition
And vulgar decencies begirt thee round;
And thou didst wear awhile th’ unholy bonds
Of “holy matrimony!” and didst vail
Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.—
But reason came-and firm philosophy,
And mild philanthropy, and pointed out
The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame,
To curb within a little paltry pale
The love that over all created things
Should be diffusive as the atmosphere.
Then did thy boundless tenderness expand
Over all space—all animated things
And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart,
A ready tear for all.—The dying whale,
Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubber
By Man the Tyrant.—The small sucking pig
Slain for his riot.—The down-trampled flower
Crushed by his cruel foot.—ALL, EACH, and ALL
Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then—
(SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE)
Then didst thou spurn the whimp’ring wailing thing
That dared to call THEE “husband,” and to claim,
As her just right, support and love from THEE—
Then didst thou * * * *
* * * * * * *
The Confession. Blackwood’s Magazine
There’s somewhat on my breast father,
There’s somewhat on my breast!
The live-long day I sigh, father,
At night I can not rest;
I can not take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so,
A weary weight oppresseth me—
The weary weight of woe!
’Tis not the lack of gold, father
Nor lack of worldly gear;
My lands are broad and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear;
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief,
But oh! ’tis not a kinsman’s hand
Can give my heart relief!
’Tis not that Janet’s false, father,
’Tis not that she’s unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
’Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my laboring breast—
Its that confounded cucumber
I’ve ate, and can’t digest.
THE MILLING-MATCH BETWEEN ENTELLUS AND DARES. TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE AENEID, BY ONE OF THE FANCY. THOMAS MOORE.
With daddles1 high upraised, and NOB held back,
In awful prescience of the impending THWACK,
Both KIDDIES2 stood—and
with prelusive SPAR,
And light manoeuv’ring, kindled up the war!
The One, in bloom of youth—a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE—
The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made,
Express, by Nature for the hammering trade;
But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much,
And lungs, that lack’d the BELLOWS-MENDER’S touch.
Yet, sprightly TO THE SCRATCH both BUFFERS came,
While RIBBERS rung from each resounding frame,
And divers DIGS, and many a ponderous PELT,
Were on their broad BREAD-BASKETS heard and felt
With roving aim, but aim that rarely miss’d,
Round LUGS and OGLES3 flew the frequent fist;
While showers of FACERS told so deadly well,
That the crush’d jaw-bones crackled as they fell!
But firmly stood ENTELLUS—and still bright,
Though bent by age, with all THE FANCY’S light,
STOPP’D with a skill, and RALLIED with a fire
The Immortal FANCY could alone inspire!
While DARES, SHIFTING round, with looks of thought,
An opening to the COVE’S huge carcase sought
(Like General PRESTON, in that awful hour,
When on ONE leg he hopp’d to—take the Tower!)
And here, and there, explored with active FIN4
And skillful FEINT, some guardless pass to win,
And prove a BORING guest when once LET IN.
And now ENTELLUS, with an eye that plann’d
PUNISHING deeds, high raised his heavy hand,
But, ere the SLEDGE came down, young DARES spied
His shadow o’er his brow, and slipp’d aside—
So nimbly slipp’d, that the vain NOBBER pass’d
Through empty air; and He, so high, so vast,
Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground
Not B—CK—GH—M himself, with bulkier sound,
Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories,
Fell SOUSE, of late, among the astonish’d Tories!
Instant the RING was broke, and shouts and yells
From Trojan FLASHMEN and Sicilian SWELLS
Fill’d the wide heaven—while, touch’d with grief to see
His PAL,5 well-known through many a LARK and SPREE,
6
Thus RUMLY FLOOR’D, the kind ACESTES ran,
And pitying raised from earth the GAME old man,
Uncow’d, undamaged to the SPORT he came,
His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame.
The memory of his MILLING glories past,
The shame that aught but death should see him GRASS’D,
All fired the veteran’s PLUCK—with fury flush’d,
Full on his light-limb’d CUSTOMER he rush’d—
And HAMMERING right and left, with ponderous swing,
RUFFIAN’D the reeling youngster round the RING—
Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given,
But, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven
Beats on the house-top, showers of RANDALL’S SHOT
7
Around the Trojan’s LUGS flew peppering hot!
Till now AENEAS, fill’d with anxious dread,
Rush’d in between them, and, with words well-bred
Preserved alike the peace and DARES’ head,
BOTH which the veteran much inclined to BREAK—
Then kindly thus the PUNISH’D youth bespake:
Poor JOHNNY RAW! what madness could impel
So RUM a FLAT to face so PRIME a SWELL?
Sees’t thou not, boy, THE FANCY, heavenly Maid,
Herself descends to this great HAMMERER’S aid,
And, singling HIM from all her FLASH adorers,
Shines in his HITS, and thunders in his FLOORERS?
Then, yield thee, youth—nor such a SPOONEY be,
To think mere man can MILL a Deity!”
Thus spoke the Chief—and now, the SCRIMAGE o’er,
His faithful PALS the DONE-UP DARES bore
Back to his home, with tottering GAMS, sunk heart,
And MUNS and NODDLE PINK’D in every part.
While from his GOB the guggling CLARET gush’d,
And lots of GRINDERS, from their sockets crush’d,
Forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush’d!
NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT.
[PARODY ON WOLFE’S “BUKIAL or SIB JOHN MOORE.”]
R. HARRIS BARHAM
Not a SOUS had he got—not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning;
We twigg’d the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him;
And he look’d like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his MARSHALL cloak around him.
“The Doctor’s as drunk as the d——,” we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sigh’d at the thought that his head
Whould “consumedly ache” on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.—
Loudly they talk’d of his money that’s gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on
’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory!!
Notes
1 Hands.
2 Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.
3 Ears and Eyes.
4 Arm.
5 Friend
6 Party of pleasure and frolic
7 A favorite blow of THE NONPARIEL’S, so called.