Charles Lamb - The Collected Works of Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb

I will do D. the justice to say, that on such occasions he took what happened in the best humour possible. He had no false modesty —though I have generally observed, that persons, who are quite deficient in that mauvais[e] honte , are seldom over-troubled with the quality itself, of which it is the counterfeit.

By what arts, with his pretensions, D. contrived to wriggle himself into a seat in the Academy, I am not acquainted enough with the intrigues of that body (more involved than those of an Italian conclave) to pronounce. It is certain, that neither for love to him, nor out of any respect to his talents, did they elect him. Individually he was obnoxious to them all. I have heard that, in his passion for attaining this object, he went so far as to go down upon his knees to some of the members, whom he thought least favourable, and beg their suffrage with many tears.

But death , which extends the measure of a man's stature to appearance; and wealth , which men worship in life and death, which makes giants of punies, and embalms insignificance; called around the exequies of this pigmy Painter the rank, the riches, the fashion of the world. By Academic hands his pall was borne; by the carriages of nobles of the land, and of ambassadors from foreign powers, his bier was followed; and St. Paul's (O worthy casket for the shrine of such a Zeuxis) now holds—all that was mortal of G. D.

Table of Contents

(1831)

A complete translation of these poems is a desideratum in our literature. Cowper has done one at least, out of the four which he has given us, with a felicity almost unapproachable. Few of our readers can be ignorant of the delightful lines beginning with:—

"There is bird, which by its coat——"

A recent writer has lately added nine more to the number; we wish he would proceed with the remainder, for of all modern Latinity, that of Vincent Bourne is the most to our taste. He is "so Latin," and yet "so English" all the while. In diction worthy of the Augustan age, he presents us with no images that are not familiar to his countrymen. His topics are even closelier drawn; they are not so properly English, as Londonish . From the streets, and from the alleys, of his beloved metropolis he culled his objects, which he has invested with an Hogarthian richness of colouring. No town picture by that artist can go beyond his Ballad-Singers; Gay's Trivia alone, in verse, comes up to the life and humour of it.

Quæ septem vicos conterminat una columna,

Consistunt nymphæ Sirenum ex agmine binæ;

Stramineum capiti tegimen, collumque per omne

Ingentes electri orbes: utrique pependit

Crustato vestis cœno, limoque rigescens

Crure usque a medio calcem defluxit ad imum.

Exiguam secum pendentem ex ubere natam

Altera; venales dextrâ tulit altera chartas.

His vix dispositis, pueri innuptæque puellæ

Accurrunt: sutor primus, cui lorea vitta

Impediit crines, humili, quæ proxima stabat,

Proruit è cellâ, chartas, si forte placerent,

Empturus; namque ille etiam se carmine multo

Oblectat, longos solus quo rite labores

Diminuit, fallitque hybernæ tædia noctis.

Collecti murmur sensim increbrescere vulgi

Auditi, et excurrit nudis ancilla lacertis.

Incudem follesque et opus fabrile relinquens,

Se densæ immiscet plebi niger ora Pyracmon.

It juxta, depressum ingens cui mantica tergum

Incurvat, tardo passu; simul ille coronam

Aspectat vulgi, spe carminis arrigit aures;

Statque moræ patiens, humeris nec pondera sentit.

Sic ubi Tartareum Regem Rhodopeïus Orpheus

Threiciis studuit fidibus mulcere, laboris

Immemor, Æolides stupuit modulamina plectri,

Nec sensit funesti onera incumbentia saxi.

Sæbe interventus rhedæ crepitantis, ab illo

Vicorum, ant illo, stipantem hinc inde catervam

Dividit; at rursus coëunt, ubi transiit illa,

Ut coëunt rursus, puppis quas dividit, undæ.

Canticulæ interea narraverat argumentum

Altera Sirenum, infidi perjuria nautæ,

Deceptamque dolo nympham; tum flebile carmen

Flebilibus movit numeris, quos altera versu

Alterno excepit: patulis stant rictibus omnes:

Dextram ille acclinat, lævam ille attentius aurem,

Promissum carmen captare paratus hiatu.

Longa referre mora est, animum quâ vicerit arte

Virgineum juvenis. Jam poscunt undique chartas

Protensæ emptorum dextræ, quas illa vel illa

Distribuit, cantatque simul: neque ferreus iste

Est usquam auditor, dulcis cui lene camæna

Non adhibet tormentum, et furtivum elicit assem.

Stat medios inter baculoque innititur Irus;

Nec tamen hic loculo parcit, sed prodigus æris

Emptor adest, solvit pretium, carmenque requirit.

Fors juxta adstabat vetula iracundior æquo;

Quæ loculo ex imo invitum, longumque latentem

Depromens vix tandem obolum, Cedo, fœmina, chartam,

Inquit; ut æternum monumentum in pariete figam,

Cum laribus mansurum ipsis, quam credula nymphis

Pectora sint; fraudis quam plena, et perfida nautis.

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column [62]draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race. With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discoloured Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns Cherish'd the gift of Song , which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft at the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight. Who now hath caught the alarm? The Servant Maid Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They re-unite, so these unite as fast. The older Songstress hitherto has spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in prose; to wit, the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes— Ah " Wandering He! "—which now in loftier verse Pathetic they alternately rehearse. All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes His right ear to the strain. The other hopes To catch it better with his left. Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded Maid A victim fell. And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and sings the while ; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest, And boldly claims his ballad with the rest. An old Dame only lingers. To her purse The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, "Give me," she cries—"I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befal Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way; How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."