He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, The spirit of evil well may be : A drone too base to have a sting; Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, And calls lust, luxury. Now he was quite the kind of wight Round whom collect, at a fixed æra, Venison, turtle, hock, and claret, Good cheer-and those who come to share itAnd best East Indian madeira! It was his fancy to invite Men of science, wit and learning, Who came to lend each other light; He proudly thought that his gold's might Had set those spirits burning. And men of learning, science, wit, And all the while with loose fat smile, The willing wretch sat winking there, Believing 'twas his power that made That jovial scene-and that all paid Homage to his unnoticed chair. Though to be sure this place was Hell; He was the Devil-and all theyWhat though the claret circled well, And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?— Were damned eternally. PART THE FIFTH. Grace. AMONG the guests who often staid He was a mighty poet-and A subtle-souled psychologist; All things he seemed to understand, Of old or new-of sea or landBut his own mind-which was a mist. This was a man who might have turned He spoke of poetry, and how "Divine it was a light-a loveA spirit which like wind doth blow As it listeth, to and fro; A dew rained down from God above. "A power which comes and goes like dream, And which none can ever traceHeaven's light on earth-Truth's brightest beam." And when he ceased there lay the gleam Of those words upon his face. Now Peter, when he heard such talk, Or drop and break his master's plate. At night he oft would start and wake In a wild measure songs to make On moor, and glen, and rocky lake, And on the heart of man. And on the universal sky And the wide earth's bosom green,And the sweet, strange mystery Of what beyond these things may lie, And yet remain unseen. For in his thought he visited The spots in which, ere dead and damned, He his wayward life had led; Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed, Which thus his fancy crammed. And these obscure remembrances Stirred such harmony in Peter, That whensoever he should please, He could speak of rocks and trees In poetic metre. For though it was without a sense He knew something of heath, and fell. He had also dim recollections Of pedlers tramping on their rounds; Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections Of saws, and proverbs; and reflections Old parsons make in burying-grounds. But Peter's verse was clear, and came Announcing from the frozen hearth Of a cold age, that none might tame The soul of that diviner flame It augured to the Earth. 66 And this short notice Pray abuse." Then seriatim, month and quarter, Appeared such mad tirades.-One said- In that barbarian Shakspeare poking?" One more, "Is incest not enough? And must there be adultery too? Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar! Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! Hell-fire Is twenty times too good for you. "By that last book of yours we think You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink You stood. From your black name will shrink All these Reviews the Devil made Untied them-read them-went half mad. "What!" cried he, "this is my reward For nights of thought, and days of toil? "What have I done to them?-and who I've half a mind to fight a duel. "Or," cried he, a grave look collecting, "Is it my genius, like the moon, Sets those who stand her face inspecting, That face within their brain reflecting, Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?" For Peter did not know the town, But thought, as country readers do, All Peter did on this occasion Was, writing some sad stuff in prose. The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair, Five thousand crammed octavo pages I looked on them nine several days, I found Sir William Drummond had. Vox populi, vox dei. As Mr. Godwin truly observes of a more famous saying, of some merit as a popular maxim, but totally destitute of philosophical accuracy. When the book came, the Devil sent It to P. Verbovale,* Esquire, By that night's Carlisle mail. It went, Fire, which ex luce præbens fumum, Made him beyond the bottom see Of truth's clear well-when I and you Ma'am, Go, as we shall do, subter humum, We may know more than he. Now Peter ran to seed in soul Into a walking paradox; Furious he rode, where late he ran, Lashing and spurring his tame hobby; Turned to a formal puritan, A solemn and unsexual man, He half believed White Obi. This steed in vision he would ride, Home to his heart, and found from thence To Peter's view, all seemed one hue; Nothing, was all his glory. One single point in his belief From his organization sprung, The heart-enrooted faith, the chief Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, That "happiness is wrong;" So thought Calvin and Dominic; So think their fierce successors, who His morals thus were undermined:- As when he tramped beside the Otter.† * Quasi, Qui valet verba :-i. e. all the words which have been, are, or may be expended by, for, against, with, or on him. A sufficient proof of the utility of this history. Peter's progenitor who selected this name seems to have possessed a pure anticipated cognition of the nature and modesty of this ornament of his posterity. † A famous river in the new Atlantis of the Dynastophylic Pantisocratists. My wife wants one.-Let who will bury This mangled corpse! And I and you, My dearest Soul, will then make merry, As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,Ay-and at last desert me too." And so his soul would not be gay, But moaned within him; like a fawn As troubled skies stain waters clear, The storm in Peter's heart and mind Now made his verses dark and queer: They were the ghosts of what they were, Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind. For he now raved enormous folly, Of Baptisms, Sunday-Schools, and Graves, "Twould make George Colman melancholy, To have heard him, like a male Molly, Chaunting those stupid staves. Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse On Peter while he wrote for freedom, A planet lost in truth's keen rays:— Pure-minded Poet of these days." See the description of the beautiful colours produced during the agonizing death of a number of trout, in the fourth part of a long poem in blank verse, published within a few years. That poem contains curious evidence of the gradual hardening of a strong but circumscribed sensibility, of the perversion of a pene trating but panic-stricken understanding. The author might have derived a lesson which he had probably forgotten from these sweet and sublime verses. This lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, THE Devil now knew his proper cue.— To feed from the superfluous taxes, Than he." His lordship stands and racks his Stupid brains, while one might count As many beads as he had boroughs,— At length replies; from his mean front, Like one who rubs out an account, Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows: "It happens fortunately, dear Sir, I can. I hope I need require No pledge from you, that he will stir That he'll be worthy of his hire." These words exchanged, the news sent off The Devil's corpse was leaded down; His eyes grew like two stars for bliss; Seemed a lord's shoe to kiss. He hired a house, bought plate, and made But a disease soon struck into The very life and soul of PeterHe walked about-slept-had the hue Of health upon his cheeks and few Dug better-none a heartier eater. Clung upon Peter, night and day, Peter was dull-he was at first Dull-O, so dull-so very dull! No one could read his books-no mortal, *It is curious to observe how often extremes meet. Cobbett and Peter use the same language for a different purpose; Peter is indeed a sort of metrical Cobbett. Cobbett is, however, more mischievous than Peter, because he pollutes a holy and now unconquerable cause with the principles of legitimate murder whilst the other only makes a had one ridiculous and odious. If either Peter or Cobbett should see this note, each will feel more indignation at being compared to the other than at any censure implied in the moral perversion laid to their charge. |