I am afraid my friend Joe Hume would hardly agree with this last prayer, but it is evident that Joseph has no taste for the fine arts. The philological student will discover in this verse the origin of the phrase, "leathering a man's wife." On the moral propriety of conjugal fistycuffery I had prepared some copious remarks, when I received information from a sure hand, that my Lord Holland has a folio on the subject nearly ready for the press, and I bow to his Lordship's superior talents and experience.
Socrates and Aristotle
Sucked no wit from a Leather Bottle;
For surely E think a man as soon may
Find a needle in a bottle of hay:
But if the Black Jack a man often toss over,
'Twill make him as drunk as any philosopher;
When he that makes Jacks from a peck to a quart,
Conjures not, though he lives by the black art.
And I wish, &c.
I care not a fig for the black art, and defy the foul fiend, Prince Hohenlohe, and Ingleby the Emperor of the Conjurors-so shall make no remark on the last two lines. It would lead us into too deep a historico-metaphysical disquisition, were I to enter into a history of the fortunes of the Aristotelian philosophy. During the life of Aristotle, he was looked on as the prince of philosophers; and such did his estimation continue, as long as there were minds in the world manly enough to understand him. While Europe was sunk in darkness, he was taken up by the acute Arabians, then at the head of the intellect of the earth. From them the schoolmen caught him, badly translated and imperfectly understood; and when their day was over, the puny whipsters who had got possession of the ear of the metaphysical world, thought nothing could be finer than to disparage, because he had been caricatured, him whom they could not read; and we see, in our own day, Stewart mumping and mumbling pretty little nothings, with full assurance that the Peripatetic whom he cannot construe, or who, if construed for him, is far above any reach of thought he could bring to the consideration, is unworthy to unloose the latchet of his shoe. But to his fortune in our poetry I may briefly advert: it is a fine illustration of the elder Mr Shandy's theory of the influence of a name. That he was a hard drinker I hope, for he was a great man; but whether he was or not, no name of the ancients occurs so often in juxta-position with the bottle. See the verse above. So also the eminent Harry Carey,
Zeno, Plato, Aristotle,
All were lovers of the bottle.
To moisten our throttle,
We'll call the third bottle,
For that was the practice of wise Aristotle.
All owing to the two last syllables of his name. With respect to the remark
If the Black Jack a man often toss over,
'Twill make him as drunk as any philosopher,
I can vouch, from my own experience, that the illustration is correct; for I have had the honour of being intimately acquainted with fifteen of the first philosophers of the age, fourteen of whom went to bed drunk as widgeons every night of their lives, and the fifteenth retired when he found himself tipsy.
Besides, my good friend, let me tell you, that fellow
That framed the bottle, his brains were but shallow ;
The case is so clear, E nothing need mention,
The Jack is a nearer and deeper invention ;
When the bottle is cleaned, the dregs fly about,
As if the guts and the brains flew out;
But if in a cannon-bore Jack it had been,
From the top to the bottom all might have been clean.
And I wish his soul no comfort may lack,
That first devised the bouncing Black Jack.
I am not antiquarian enough to decide on the correctness of the above objurgation against the uncleanliness of the bottles of the olden time, and willingly leave the consideration of the matter to Mr John Nichols, who presides, and long may he preside, over the archeologists who wield the pen for the Gentleman's Magazine, in which, perhaps, he will favour us with an engraved likeness of a leathern bottle, as, I think, churches are running rather low. But, be that as it may, he must have little gusto for the sublime who can fail to admire the splendid epithet of the CANNON-BORE Jack. What vast ideas of stupendous bibosity does not it excite? Conceive a nine-pounder-like machine charged with ale, levelled on your table, in full range against your brains! Nay, the very word is good. It makes us think of battle and blood-of square column and platoon mowed down in unrelenting sweep-of Sir William Congreve, the Duke of Wellington, and the field of Waterloo-of Buonaparte, St Helena, and Sir Hudson Lowe-and thence, by the association of ideas, of Barry O'Meara, and the horse-whipping of old Walter of the Times. I shall lump my dissertation on the four following verses :
Your leather bottle is used by no man
That is a hair's-breadth above a plowman;
Then let us gang to the Hercules pillars,
And there let us visit those gallant Jack swillers;
En these small, strong, sour, mild, and stale,
They drink orange, lemon, and Lambeth ale:
The chief of heralds there allows,
The Jack to be of an ancienter house.
And may his successors never want sack,
That first devised the long Leather Jack.
Then for the bottle, you cannot well fill it,
Without a tunnel, but that you must spill it ;
'Tis as hard to get in, as it is to get out,
'Tis not so with a Jack, for it runs like a spout :
Then burn your bottle, what good is in it,
One cannot well fill it, nor drink, nor clean it;
But if it had been in a jolly Black Jack,
'Twould come a great pace, and hold you good tack.
And E wish his soul, &c.
He that's drunk in a Jack, looks as fierce as a spark,
That were just ready cockt to shoot at a mark ;
When the other thing up to the mouth it goes,
Makes a man look with a great bottle nose ;
All wise men conclude, that a Jack, new or old,
Tho' beginning to leak, is however worth gold;
For when the poor man on the way does trudge it,
His worn-out Jack serves him for a budget.
And I wish his heirs may never lack sack,
That first contrived the leather Black Jack.
When bottle and Jack stand together, fie on't,
The bottle looks just like a dwarf to a giant ;
Then have we not reason the Jack for to choose,
For they can make boots, when the bottle mends shoes ;
For add but to every Jack a foot,
And every Jack becomes a boot:
Then give me my Jack, there's a reason why,
They have kept us wet, they will keep us dry.
I now shall cease, but as I am an honest man,
The Jack deserves to be called Sir John.
And may they ne'er want, for belly nor back,
That keep up the trade of the bonny Black Jack,
Amen! and virtue be its own reward!
On the above, four things are to be particularly noticed.
I. That the Hercules Pillars is the ne-plus-ultra of signs.
II. That the progress of time has extinguished various sorts of ales-for who, now-a-days, drinks Orange, Lemon, or Lambeth-they sleep with the Chians and Falernians of the days of Greece and Rome.
III. That a partiality for a man's favourite pursuit may lead him to bestow on it unjust and undeserved praise; for, after various and repeated experi ments in drinking out of every vessel under the sun, I can give it as my unbiassed opinion, that the shape of the instrument imparts no additional value to the liquor drunk, and that therefore the idea that he, who imbibes from a black jack, acquires a superior fierceness or martiality of aspect, must be classed among such innocent delusions as induced the barber to recominend whitehandled razors as the best fitted for abrading of beards.
Lastly and finally, we cannot help being pleased by the vein of genuine andunaffected piety which runs through both these dignified compositions. The prayers which in both conclude each verse, though more varied and poetical in the latter, are not more solemn and impressive than the solitary ejaculation of blessing bestowed on the earlier production. There is something striking, which sinks into the soul, in the constant choral-like repetition of the one formulary which amply compensates for the picturesque diversity, which excites our admiration, but fills us not with awe. The one goes to the head-the other to the heart. To conclude, if the brows of the inventors of the Bottle and Jack deserve to be bound with snow-white fillets, as being men who civilized life by new productions of art and genius, the bards who hymned their exploits may justly claim the same honour, as being pious poets, who spoke things worthy of Apollo.
LEAVING PORT.-A PASSENGER'S OLIO.
THE Fortune sails to-night-a ship
New rigg'd, and ready for her trip.
Magnetic centre for a while
Of bawling din, and strenuous toil;
Of rushing, running to and fro
Of querulous clerks that pant and blow;
Of tidesmen, men of soft appearance,
Skill'd in declining interference;
Of porters, patiently who fag,
Oppress'd with trunk, and box, and bag;
Of carters, and their carts that scamper,
Rattling along with cask and hamper;
Of seamen, confident, conceited,
And leaving port with liquor heated,
One-elevated, joyous, free,
And swaggering, stepping from the quay
Into the vessel, o'er a plank,
Slipp'd-down into the water sank,
That upwards in a fury splash'd;
Ropes, oars to succour him are dash'd,
And boats, with hubbub fell and loud,
Are storm'd by an officious crowd,
More willing, certainly, than able,
To save th' existence of Kit Cable,
A man quite full of flesh and vigour,
If near, you could not miss his figure;
But sought by every eye in vain,
No traces of him now remain.
After a space, however, past
In deep anxiety, at last
His body found, they brought on shore,
And to a neighbouring tavern bore.
The frowzy hostess would complain,
But deems it wiser to refrain,
Pardoning th' entrance of dead guest,
In favour of the living rest.
The sight of death full well she knows
The mind is apt to discompose,
And either joyfulness is bred
At finding we ourselves not dead;
Or sorrow rises, when we view
The corpse of him we haply knew.
The one state or the other causes
In many dryness of the fauces,
Which water never will allay,
Imbibe what quantity they may;
'Tis quench'd alone, or render'd weaker,
By copious draughts of good strong liquor.
Before the attendants think it fit
At Bacchanalian board to sit,
They roar and brawl in fierce debate
How Kit they may reanimate.
Noised round the town the misadventure,
Gossips in shoals begin to enter;
The filthy riff-raff of the port,
Mingled with those of better sort;
Women, who gaze with silly stare,
While infants in their arms they bear,
Unconscious brats, whose gloating lust
Is fix'd upon a mumbled crust,
That, deviously directed, comes
At times in contact with their gums;
Ship-boys with cowls, and matted locks;
Watermen in their long brown cloaks ;
Train-oil men in soil'd linen frocks;
Skippers, with broad and shining face,
Who push their way in bustling pace,
Clad in respectable attire,
They yet with pliant air inquire
From ragamuffin standing near,
How happen'd the mischance, and where.
Dogs too run in-a certain cur,
Who cannot understand the stir,
Panting, and open mouth'd and nosing,
Through legs and petticoats opposing,
Trots on, until he gains the place
Where, arguing upon the case,
Stand in the heat of disputation,
The agents of resuscitation.
He, with an air secure and free,
Exploring what the thing might be,
If 'twere for food, or for diversion,
Snuffs at the sufferer from submersion;
His face, arms, body, all about
Scenting, he still remains in doubt,
When, with a sudden kick assail'd,
At once his thirst for knowledge quail'd,
Yelping he scuds away-a crew
Of barking tykes his flight pursue.
Of varying voices the collision,
At length produces the decision,
That, by the heels the body taken,
Should be suspended, and well shaken.
A practice sage, to ascertain
Whether the vital spark remain ;
If so, 'gainst being thus opprest
"Twill surely enter its protest.
Already, they with eager zeal
Were swinging Cable by the heel,
When came an order that forbade
Farther attempts should here be made
The extinguish'd flame of life to rouse,
Seeing 'twas but a common house,
Unauthorised by any patent
To bring to light the spirit latent.
It also stated, that a place
Existed, whence a legal chase
Arising, truant sprite would meet,
And turn it though in full retreat.
That proper messenger, or bailiff,
Would be at hand to capture stray life,
Furnish'd with writ 'gainst fleeting sense,
And fugitive intelligence.
Th' injunction was convey'd, in short,
That they the body should transport
To the establishment intended
Particularly for lives suspended,
(House of Recovery by name,)
And medical assistance claim.
Check'd now restorative exertion,
The crowd moved off in quick dispersion.
His party, Kit, with brine still moist
And heavy, on their shoulders hoist,
And tow'rds the 'Spital take the road
As fast as may be with their load.
Arrived a ready aid is lent,
And spite of rude experiment,
So lately tried, restored the heat,
And sinking pulse's firmer beat,
Symptoms of consciousness Kit gives, And once more breathes, and moves, and lives.
From each quarter of the town
Passengers, perturb'd, come down,
Flaunting figures making stir,
In their cloaks and caps of fur.
Maudlin comrades, who have ta'en
Parting cups with might and main,
With demeanour frank and free,
Give their escort on the quay.
Ample dame, and slender miss,
Wrapt in shawl and long pelisse,
Mincing tread, or waddling walk,
While engaged in eager talk.
Comes the time to try the heart,
Best of friends at length must part;
Right hand with the right conjoin'd,
Shakes away with fervour kind,-
Nay, both hands of some are taken,
Squeez'd, then eased, then squeez'd and
shaken,
Friendly fist in such a crisis,
Oft no better than a vice is ;
Sensibility no balm
Yields, when leagued with horny palm,-
Instead, she makes, with her effusion,
Your fingers tingle from contusion.
Swaggering blades, with manners rough,
Feelings hearty, voices gruff,
Give their benedicite
In a hoarse half whimpering key.
Damsels in close contact stand,
Murmuring in accents bland,
To each other loves and dears,
While their eyes are fill'd with tears,
Not forgetting, 'mid the show
Of deep valedictory woe,
E'en the most minute direction,
Touching care and circumspection
In the choice of silks and laces,
To be sent from foreign places.
As if he from a cloud had dropp'd,
Or quickly out of earth had hopp'd-
A very maggot, blown with pride,
The Captain comes, with sprawling stride.
A thing no bigger than a goose,
Yet with an air precise and spruce,
Upon the quay he struts about,
Giving his orders with a shout,
Accompanying each high command
With flourish of his tiny hand.
The creature boasts a voice of brass,
And brays with it more loud than ass.
That out of nothing such a thunder
Should come, is surely cause for wonder.
This small, pot-bellied, huffing dwarf
Plays chanticleer upon the wharf-
"Make way, make way," with downward
snip
Tom Thumb now lords it in his ship.
The signal given for embarkation,
The passengers make preparation
To go on board, and soon a row
Of figures on the deck bestow
VOL. XIV.
A fond attention to explore
What friends still linger on the shore.
At present oft occurs the thought
Of something heedlessly forgot;
Or the wish rises in the heart,
Some new-sprung impulse to impart,
Or love-engender'd hope or fear,
To pour into the trusty ear
Of parted friend still standing near.
A meaning look the while convey'd,
Maugre night's interposing shade,
Produces mutual fix'd regard,
When intercourse of words is barr'd;
The mournful smile, and shaking head,
Marking the time for utterance fled.
A numerous and pensive band
Persisting on the deck to stand,
Two strapping youths of sturdy mood,
Who comfort deem the sovereign good;
And sentiment a thing of air,
Which men nor eat, nor drink, nor wear;
Keen hunters of accommodations,
Shrewd spies of easy situations,
Hastily towards the cabin steer,
Duck low their heads, and disappear.
The rest, resolved above to stay
Until the ship gets under way,
Continue earnestly to mark
Sights, sounds, that penetrate the dark.
The organ slowly moves its round,
With rolling, winding, winning sound.
The organist was once elate
With fortune's gifts, but fall'n his state.
His country-haps-I may not tell,
But music loved he passing well.
His muffled form, and vesture poor,
Are suited to his fate obscure.
Youth's stamp hath faded from his face,
Its outlines wherefore should we trace?
Each wintery night he wanders late,
Silent, and sadly desolate.
No fellowship he seeks or owns,
Save with his organ's mellow tones.
Rich, pleasant, slow, the airs it plays,
Discoursing, sure, of other days;
Of situations-feelings deep,
That in the heart have lain asleep;
The warmth, and vivid glow of soul,
Which present modes of life control;
Of persons-places-powerful ties;
All that the wishes wont to prize,
With destiny's dark cloud between;
That have but no! that might have been.
A ballad-singer putting down
The organ's music with her own,
Twangs through her nose a flippant strain,
Suited to servant-wench and swain.
BALLAD.
Oh! Would you hear how Spanish lady
Woo'd and won an Englishman?
Wooing, sweethearts! is a trade ye
Mar with shilly shally plan.
He a master stout and brave was
Of a tight built merchantman;
But sore stress'd by wind and wave was,
When on Spanish coast he ran.
3 X
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