by Byron
TRACY: Not left him a tatter –
30
Not a rag of his present or past reputation, Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation.
INKEL: I’m sorry to hear this! for friendship, you know – Our poor friend! – but I thought it would terminate so. Our friendship is such, I’ll read nothing to shock it.
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You don’t happen to have the Review in your pocket?
TRACY: No; I left a round dozen of authors and others (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother’s) All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse.
40
INKEL: Let us join them.
TRACY:What, won’t you return to the lecture?
INKEL: Why, the place is so cramm’d, there’s not room for a spectre.
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd –
TRACY: How can you know that till you hear him?
INKEL: I heard Quite enough; and, to tell you the truth, my retreat
45
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat.
TRACY: I have had no great loss then?
INKEL:Loss! – such a palaver! I’d inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours To the torrent of trash which around him he pours,
50
Pump’d up with such effort, disgorged with such labour, That—come — do not make me speak ill of one’s neighbour.
TRACY: I make you!
INKEL: Yes, you! I said nothing until You compell’d me, by speaking the truth —
TRACY:To speak ill? Is that your deduction?
INKEL:When speaking of Scamp ill,
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I certainly follow, not set an example. The fellow’s a fool, an impostor, a zany.
TRACY: And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool makes many.
But we two will be wise.
INKEL:Pray, then, let us retire.
TRACY: I would, but —
INKEL: There must be attraction much higher
60
Than Scamp, or the Jews’ harp he nicknames his lyre, To call you to this hotbed.
TRACY:I own it – tis true A fair lady –
INKEL:A spinster?
TRACY:Miss Lilac!
INKEL:The Blue! The heiress?
TRACY:The angel!
INKEL:The devil! why, man!
Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can.
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You wed with Miss Lilac! ’twould be your perdition:
She’s a poet, a chymist, a mathematician.
TRACY: I say she’s an angel.
INKEL:Say rather an angle.
If you and she marry, you’ll certainly wrangle.
I say she’s a Blue, man, as blue as the ether.
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TRACY: And is that any cause for not coming together?
INKEL: Humph! I can’t say I know any happy alliance Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science.
She’s so learned in all things, and fond of concerning
Herself in all matters connected with learning,
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That -
TRACY: What?
INKEL:I perhaps may as well hold my tongue; But there’s five hundred people can tell you you’re wrong.
TRACY: You forget Lady Lilac’s as rich as a Jew.
INKEL: Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue?
TRACY: Why, Jack, I’ll be frank with you – something of both.
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The girl’s a fine girl.
INKEL:And you feel nothing loth To her good lady-mother’s reversion; and yet Her life is as good as your own, I will bet.
TRACY: Let her live, and as long as she likes; I demand Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand.
85
INKEL: Why, that heart’s in the inkstand – that hand on the pen;
TRACY: A propos – Will you write me a song now and then?
INKEL: To what purpose?
TRACY: You know, my dear friend, that in prose My talent is decent, as far as it goes; But in rhyme—
INKEL:You’re a terrible stick, to be sure.
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TRACY: I own it; and yet, in these times, there’s no lure For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two; And so, as I can’t, will you furnish a few?
INKEL: In your name?
TRACY:In my name. I will copy them out, To slip into her hand at the very next rout.
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INKEL: Are you so far advanced as to hazard this?
TRACY:Why, Do you think me subdued by a Bluestocking’s eye, So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme
What I’ve told her in prose, at the least, as sublime?
INKEL: As sublime! – If it be so, no need of my Muse.
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TRACY: But consider, dear Inkel, she’s one of the ‘Blues.’
INKEL: As sublime! — Mr Tracy — I’ve nothing to say. Stick to prose — As sublime!! — but I wish you good day.
TRACY: Nay, stay, my dear fellow – consider – I’m wrong; I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song.
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INKEL: As sublime!!
TRACY:I but used the expression in haste.
INKEL: That may be, Mr Tracy, but shows damn’d bad taste.
TRACY: I own it – I know it – acknowledge it – what Can I say to you more?
INKEL:I see what you’d be at: You disparage my parts with insidious abuse,
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Till you think you can turn them best to your own use.
TRACY: And is that not a sign I respect them?
INKEL:Why that
To be sure makes a difference.
TRACY: I know what is what: And you, who’re a man of the gay world, no less Than a poet of t’other, may easily guess
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That I never could mean, by a word, to offend A genius like you, and moreover my friend.
INKEL: No doubt; you by this time should know what is due. To a man of— but come — let us shake hands.
TRACY:You knew, And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I,
20
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy.
INKEL: That’s my bookseller’s business; I care not for sale; Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. There were Renegade’s epics, and Botherby’s plays, And my own grand romance —
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TRACY:Had its full share of praise. I myself saw it puff’d in the ‘Old Girl’s Review.’
INKEL: What Review?
TRACY: ’Tis the English ‘Journal de Trevoux;’ A clerical work of our jesuits at home. Have you never yet seen it?
INKEL:That pleasure’s to come.
TRACY: Make haste then.
INKEL:Why so?
TRACY:I have heard people say
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That it threaten’d to give up the ghost t’other day. INKEL: Well, that is a sign of some spirit. TRACY: No doubt.
Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome’s rout? INKEL: I’ve a card, and shall go: but at present, as soon
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the moon
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(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits),
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits,
I’m engaged to the Lady Bluebottle’s collation,
To partake of a luncheon and learn’d conversation:
’Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days
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Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise.
And I own, for my own part, that ’tis not unpleasant.
Will you go? There’s Miss Lilac will also be present.
TRACY: That ‘metal’s attractive.’
INKEL: No doubt – to the pocket.
TRACY: You should rather encourage my passion than shock it.
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But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum —
INKEL: Very true; let us go, then, before they can come,
Or else we’ll be kept here an hour at their levy,
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy.
Hark! Zounds, they’ll be on us; I know by the drone
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Of old Botherby’s spouting ex-cathedrâ tone.
Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join
Your friends, or he’ll pay you back in your own coin.
TRACY: All fair; ’tis but lecture for lecture.
INKEL:That’s clear.
But for God’s sake let’s go, or the Bore will be here.
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Come, come: nay, I’m off.
[Exit INKEL.]
TRACY:You are right, and I’ll follow;
’Tis high time for a ‘Sic me servavit Apollo.’
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes,
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes,
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles
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With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle’s.
[Exit TRACY.]
Eclogue Second
An Apartment in the House of LADY BLUEBOTTLE. A Table prepared.
[SIR RICHARD BLUEBOTTLE solus.]
Was there ever a man who was married so sorry?
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry.
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy’d;
My days, which once pass’d in so gentle a void,
5
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ’d:
The twelve, do I say? – of the whole twenty-four,
Is there one which I dare call my own any more?
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining,
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, and shining,
10
In science and art, I’ll be cursed if I know
Myself from my wife; for although we are two,
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be done
In a style which proclaims us eternally one.
But the thing of all things which distresses me more
15
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore)
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue,
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost
– For the bill here, it seems, is defray’d by the host -
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No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains,
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains;
A smatter and chatter, glean’d out of reviews,
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call ‘BLUES;’
A rabble who know not—But soft, here they come!
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Would to God I were deaf! as I’m not, I’ll be dumb.
[Enter LADY BLUEBOTTLE, MISS LILAC, LADY BLUEMOUNT, MR BOTHERBY, INKEL, TRACY, MISS MAZARINE, and others, with SCAMP the Lecturer, &c. &c.]
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Ah! Sir Richard, good morning; I’ve brought you some friends.
SIR RICHARD [bows, and afterwards aside]: If friends, they’re the first.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE:But the luncheon attends.
I pray ye be seated, ‘sans cérémonie.’
Mr Scamp, you’re fatigued; take your chair there, next me.
[They all sit.]
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SIR RICHARD [aside]: If he does, his fatigue is to come.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE:Mr Tracy –
Lady Bluemount – Miss Lilac – be pleased, pray, to place ye;
And you, Mr Botherby —
BOTHERBY:Oh, my dear Lady, I obey.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Mr Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye: You were not at the lecture.
INKEL:Excuse me I was;
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But the heat forced me out in the best part – alas!
And when —
LADY BLUEBOTTLE:To be sure it was broiling; but then You have lost such a lecture!
BOTHERBY:The best of the ten.
TRACY: How can you know that? there are two more.
BOTHERBY:Because
I defy him to beat this day’s wondrous applause.
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The very walls shook.
INKEL:Oh, if that be the test,
I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best.
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you; – a wing?
MISS LILAC: No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures next spring?
BOTHERBY: Dick Dunder.
INKEL:That is, if he lives.
MISS LILAC:And why not?
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INKEL: No reason whatever, save that he’s a sot.
Lady Bluemount! a glass of Madeira?
LADY BLUEMOUNT:With pleasure.
INKEL: How does your friend Wordswords, that Windermere treasure?
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings,
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and kings?
50
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: He has just got a place.
INKEL:As a footman?
LADY BLUEMOUNT:For shame!
Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name.
INKEL: Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master;
For the poet of pedlers ’twere, sure, no disaster
To wear a new livery; the more as ’tis not
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The first time he has turn’d both his creed and his coat.
LADY BLUEMOUNT: For shame! I repeat. If Sir George could but hear —
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Never mind our friend Inkel; we all know, my dear,
’Tis his way.
SIR RICHARD: But this place —
INKEL:Is perhaps like friend Scamp’s, A lecturer’s.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Excuse me – ’tis one in ’the Stamps: ’
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He is made a collector.
TRACY:Collector!
SIR RICHARD:How?
MISS LILAC:What?
INKEL: I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat: There his works will appear—
LADY BLUEMOUNT:Sir, they reach to the Ganges.
INKEL: I sha’n’t go so far – I can have them at Grange’s.1
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Oh fie!
MISS LILAC:And for shame!
LADY BLUEMOUNT:You’re too bad.
BOTHERBY:Very good!
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LADY BLUEMOUNT: How good?
LADY BLUEBOTTLE:He means nought – ’tis his phrase.
LADY BLUEMOUNT:He grows rude.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: He means nothing; nay, ask him.
LADY BLUEMOUNT:Pray, sir! did you mean What you say?
INKEL:Never mind if he did; ’twill be seen
That whatever he means won’t alloy what he says.
BOTHERBY: Sir!
INKEL:Pray be content with your portion of praise;
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’Twas in your defence.
BOTHERBY:If you please, with submission,
I can make out my own.
INKEL:It would be your perdition.
While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend
Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend.
A propos – Is your play then accepted at last?
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BOTHERBY: At last?
INKEL:Why I thought — that’s to say — there had pass’d A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know That the taste of the actors at best is so so.
BOTHERBY: Sir, the green-room’s in rapture, and so’s the committee.
INKEL: Ay – yours are the plays for exciting our ‘pity
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And fear,’ as the Greek says: for ‘purging the mind,’ I doubt if you’ll leave us an equal behind.
BOTHERBY: I have written the prologue, and meant to have pray’d
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue
’s aid.
INKEL: Well, time enough yet, when the play’s to be play’d.
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Is it cast yet?
BOTHERBY: The actors are fighting for parts,
As is usual in that most litigious of arts.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: We’ll all make a party, and go the first night.
TRACY: And you promised the epilogue, Inkel.
INKEL:Not quite.
However, to save my friend Botherby trouble,
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I’ll do what I can, though my pains must be double.
TRACY: Why so?
INKEL:To do justice to what goes before.
BOTHERBY: Sir, I’m happy to say, I have no fears on the score.
Your parts, Mr Inkel, are —
INKEL:Never mind mine;
Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line.
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LADY BLUEMOUNT: Your’re a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes?
INKEL: Yes, ma’am; and a fugitive reader sometimes.
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight,
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight.
LADY BLUEMOUNT: Sir, your taste is too common; but time and posterity
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Will right these great men, and this age’s severity
Become its reproach.
INKEL:I’ve no sort of objection,
So I’m not of the party to take the infection.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will take?
INKEL: Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake
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Have taken already, and still will continue
To take – what they can, from a groat to a guinea,
Of pension or place; – but the subject’s a bore.
LADY BLUEMOUNT: Well, sir, the time’s coming.
INKEL: Scamp! don’t you feel sore? What say you to this?
SCAMP:They have merit, I own;
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Though their system’s absurdity keeps it unknown.
INKEL: Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures?
SCAMP: It is only time past which comes under my strictures.
LADY BLUEBOTTLE: Come, a truce with all tartness: — the joy of my heart
Is to see Nature’s triumph o’er all that is art.
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Wild Nature! – Grand Shakspeare!
BOTHERBY:And down Aristotle!
LADY BLUEMOUNT: Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle;
And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard,
, And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard
For the poet, who, singing of pedlers and asses,
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Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus.
TRACY: And you, Scamp! –