Читать книгу The Collected Works of Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb - Charles Lamb - Страница 158

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by C. Dibdin the Younger

(1825)

In this age of hyper-poetic plights, and talent in a frenzy aping genius, it is consolatory to see a little volume of verse in the good old sober manner of Queen Ann's days, when verse walked high, rather than flew, and sought its nutriment upon this diurnal sphere, not rapt above the moon. To a lover of Chess, who at the same time can relish the Rape of the Lock, the poem which forms the distinguishing feature of this volume cannot fail to impart pleasure. It is a mock heroic of course, descriptive of the Game; and the Homeric parodies are adroit and numerous. The names of the mortal combatants, Blanc, Blanche, Croesieroi, Reinelawne, Sir Garderoi, Sir Gardereene, etc. on one side, with Niger, Nigra, Mitrex, Mitre regina, Sir Rexensor, Sir Reginalde, etc. on the other, are happily conceived, and the strife thickens to the conclusion. The Gods and Goddesses are the Games of Chance, or Mixed Chance, Faro, Whist, Loo, etc. in all their attributes, with old Hazard for their Jupiter, a fine gruff, grumbling Dice-compeller, whose dice-box is to him what the awful Homeric chain was to his Prototype. The soft blandishments of Joan, the gentle Pope—

Intriguing Hebe to the God of Game—

wrings from his austere Deity his slow permission for the interference of the Olympeans in the fight below, and accordingly they range on either side, as in the Iliad; and by their infusion of passions, coprices, impulses, peculiar to the nature of their own warfare, confound and embroil the pure contest of skill through five Cantos very entertainingly. We confess we are more at home in Hoyle than in Phillidor; but by the help of the notes, we played the game through ourselves very tolerably. We subjoin an exquisite simile, with which the third Canto commences—a description of the Morning, redolent of Swift and Gay:—

Now Morning, yawning, rais'd her from her bed,

Slipp'd on her wrapper blue and 'kerchief red,

And took from Night the key of Sleep's abode—

For Night within that mansion had bestow'd

The Hours of Day; now, turn and turn about,

Morn takes the key, and lets the Day Hours out;

Laughing they issue from the ebon gate,

And Night walks in. As when, in drowsy state,

Some watchman, wed to one who chars all day, Takes to his lodgings door his creeping way; His Rib, arising, lets him in to sleep, While she emerges to scrub, dust, and sweep.