Читать книгу Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 368, June 1846 - Various - Страница 2
REYNARD THE FOX. 2
ОглавлениеThe natural history of the Cockney has been frequently illustrated, and never so successfully as in time past in the pages of Maga. But nature is inexhaustible in all her creations. You might study a lifetime, and yet not fully master the properties of one of those little Infusoria that wriggle or spin about in a phial of foul or fair water, and a still wider subject of study is of course supplied by any larger animal, such as a Cockney, placed as he is a little lower than the angels, and half-way down, or there abouts, between a man and a chimpanzee.
Upon careful inquiry it would probably be found, that in most nations the population, though all purporting to be men and women, consists in a good measure of beings that stand several degrees below the point of humanity. France, among several specimens of a higher order, has occasionally shown that a considerable proportion of its inhabitants was a hideous cross between the tiger and the baboon. Holland has had its Grotius and its Erasmus, but the otter and the beaver breed make up the mass of those who go by the name of Dutchmen. There has been no want in Germany of clear-sighted men, but the mole, the bat, and the owl furnish a large contingent to the ranks of its literati. In other nations we see a greater or less preponderance of the wolf or the bear, the goat or the goose, the ass, the hog, or the hippopotamus. Such being the universal condition of the world, we should rather be proud than otherwise, that, in England, we can boast of a secondary tribe, made, perhaps, by some of nature's journeymen, but that yet imitate humanity so respectably, so amiably, and so amusingly, as the Cockney must be admitted to do.
A Cockney is by locality very much what a tailor is by trade. Though a remote sub-multiple of a man, he is enterprising, indefatigable, cutting his way to his object through every thing with a ready tongue and a quick wit. Yet he is deficient in some qualities indispensable to the species homo. Courage the Cockney undoubtedly possesses, because he is always among those who are said to rush in where others fear to tread. But veneration is utterly wanting in his composition; and here the resemblance to the tailor is conspicuous; as we never knew a single snip that had the slightest reverence for any thing under heaven – if, indeed, the assertion should not be made in still broader terms. In the tailor this effect, defective, comes by an obvious cause. The intolerable liberties which the vulgar fraction is permitted to take with people's persons, divesting the best and bravest of us of the halo of heroism that surrounds us at a distance; and the fact that the great mysteries of dress, the paraphernalia of our dignity and decency, and the chief emblems of our manhood and domestic authority, emerge exclusively from the hands of this insignificant but indispensable maker of men, are enough to extinguish within him all sentiment of respect for any thing human or divine. The Cockney arrives at a similar state of easy and impudent non-chalance by a different process. Littered in London, and living there all his life, he is proud of its position among cites; and he comes, by a natural process of reasoning, to ascribe its importance to its connexion with his own person and people, and to see nothing better or greater in the universe than himself and what belongs to him. The feeling grows with his growth, and is fed by a full indulgence in all the good things with which the land of Cockayne abounds, and which the most morose of mortals must admit to be eminently conducive to self-complacency.
The Cockney, thus devoid of all diffidence in himself, is prepared for every thing in the scale of human thought or action; pleasuring or politics, theatricals or theology, an Epping hunt or an Epic poem. In literature we may say of him, nearly in the words applied by Dr Johnson to Goldsmith, that there is scarcely any kind of composition that he does not handle, and none that he handles which he does not adorn with graces all his own.
It is wonderful, however, to see with what success a Cockney can sometimes disguise himself. He will write you a book, in which, several pages on end, you think you are reading the thoughts of some ordinary mortal. But the cloven foot always appears before you are done with him. In poetry, indeed, you can go but a short way till the cat is let out of the bag. That unfortunate letter R! No lessons in elocution, no change of climate, can eradicate the deep-seated mischief of its mispronunciation in a Cockney whose years of pupilarity have been passed on the spot of his birth.
These remarks have been elicited by a disappointment we have recently suffered, in being led to purchase the book referred to at the commencement of this article. We saw it advertised by an alluring title – "Reynard the Fox – a renowned Apologue of the Middle Ages reproduced in Rhyme." We bought the book, and were delighted with its appearance. A quaint, antique, cream-coloured binding – a golden vignette on the outside, of the fox making his obeisance to Noble the king of the beasts, and the lioness his spouse – a beautiful paper and type within, with red and blue illuminations interspersed at the heads of chapters and paragraphs; – all this combined to whet our appetite for a delicious treat. We read the preface and introduction, if not with pleasure, at least with patience, and with wonderfully few misgivings as to the truth, the worst feature in them being the tendency to Carlyleism, to which, however offensive in itself, custom has made us somewhat callous. But we had not perused a page or two of the reproduction in rhyme itself, when we discovered that we were wandering in the regions of Cockneyland, with one of its most distinguished natives for our guide.
Our immediate purpose is to offer an exposition, not of the old Reynard, but of its present "reproduction." We may say, however, that we think the original work is one peculiarly ill-suited to be appreciated or reproduced by one of Mr Naylor's compatriots. It is a product of true genius, humour, and sagacity. The author must have looked at beasts and men with a keen eye, and from the vantage ground of a contemplative mind; and he has worked out his thoughts in a plain and simple style of illustration, and embodied them in easy and natural language. There is much merriment in his work, but no straining after wit. There is all the knowledge of the day that an accomplished man could be expected to possess, but no parade of learning. There is no quaintness in the style, and no effort in the verse. The age of Hudibras had not come; and that of the Ingoldsby Legends, or Miss Kilmansegg, was still further off. The old Flemish writers of Reynard exhibit judgment as well as talent, and their Low Saxon successor, though himself a reproducer, has asserted a claim both to freedom and originality. The quiet, sensible, unaffected treatment of their subject, which these old versifiers exhibit, where the topics offered so much temptation to burlesque and extravagance, is the thing of all others least likely to be comprehended or relished in the meridian of Bow Bells.
But, then, Goethe has successfully translated the book; and, therefore, Mr Naylor must do the same. This is a common mode of syllogising in Cockayne. Homer, Dante, Milton, Goethe, Wordsworth, have done such and such things, and therefore a Cockney is to do them also. Whatever may be the precise minor premise involved in this argument, we venture to suggest a doubt of its soundness. Mr Naylor tells us he has followed Alkmar's and Goethe's example, "mindful ever of the requisitions insisted on by Novalis in all paraphrastic translations, that they should convey accurately an idea of the first type, whilst, at the same time, the translator made his author speak after that appreciation of his work which exists in his own mind, no less than according to the poet's original conception." Mr Naylor may have succeeded in making his author speak after that appreciation of his work which exists in his own mind; but if the "first type" of Reynard had been no better than the reproduction gives us an idea of, the shapeless and sickly cub would not have lived an hour into the thirteenth century.
Before Mr Naylor resolved on reproducing Reynard in English rhyme, he should have inquired whether it was not already as well done as he was likely to do it. In his elaborate enumeration of his predecessors in the task of translation, he thus writes: – "There is also said to be a translation of Reynard into English doggerel, by one Soltau, a German" – "known," as he adds in a note, "as the translator of Hudibras into German." We have now before us the translation so slightingly alluded to, published at Hamburg in 1826. In all external and physical recommendations, this homely volume is far inferior to the London reproduction; but we shall immediately give our readers an opportunity of judging whether the doggerel of "one Soltau, a German," is not at least as good as that of "one Naylor, a Cockney."
Take the opening of the poem, which, in the original, is full of freshness and spirit, with all the joyousness of a holiday scene.
Soltau
"It happen'd on a Whitsunday,
When woods and fields look'd green and gay,
When balmy flow'rs and herbs were springing,
And feather'd folks were sweetly singing;
The morn was fine, the weather clear,
And fragrant odours fill'd the air,
When Noble, sov'reign king of beasts,
Proclaim'd a court and public feasts.
His loyal subjects, lords and commons,
Obey'd their master's royal summons;
And many a valiant knight and squire
To court repair'd in grand attire,
With their attendants, great and small —
'Twas difficult to count them all."
Naylor
"Now Pentecost, the feast, by some
Call'd 'merry Whitsuntide,' was come!
The fields show'd brave, with kingcups dight,
And hawthorns kercheft were in white:
Her low-breathed lute the fresh'ning rill
Unto the waken'd woods 'gan trill;
Whilst, hid in leafy bower remote,
The cuckoo tuned his herald-note;
The meads were prankt in gold and green,
And 'leetel fowles' of liveried sheen,
Their pipes with Jubilate! swelling,
From bush and spray were philomelling —
The breeze came balmy from the west,
And April, harness'd in her best,
The laughing sun led forth to see —
When Noble (lion-king was he,
And sceptre sway'd o'er bird and beast,)
Held ancient ways, and kept the feast,
The trumpets clang'd loud proclamation —
The couriers coursed throughout the nation —
Full many a Brave and many a Bold
Came hastening in troops untold."
The German translator here keeps precisely within the same compass of fourteen lines with his "first type," while the Londoner has one-half more. But this is not the main difference. The German is neater and more natural, and nearer the spirit as well as the letter of his model. All the trash in the new reproduction about hawthorns "kercheft in white," the low-breathed lute of the rill trilling, the cuckoo and his herald note, the 'leetel fowles' swelling and philomelling, and April harnessed in her best, are mere frippery sewed on by the reproducer, to make the venerable old garment look finer in the eyes of his co-Cockneys.
We next give the two translations of that part of the poem which represents the Cock's complaints against Reynard, for killing his daughter, and which is supposed to give so accurate a representation of the form of process in the Middle Ages in an accusation of murder.
Soltau
"Gray scarce had done, when Chanticleer
The Cock in mourning did appear;
Two sons accompanied their sire,
Like him in funeral attire,
With hoods of crape and torches lighted,
And doleful lays they both recited.
Two others follow'd with a bier;
Mournful and slowly they drew near,
With heartfelt sighs and deepest groan,
Their fav'rite sister to bemoan.
"The Cock in tears the throne approach'd,
And thus his sad harangue he broach'd:
'My Liege, have pity on a man,
The most distressed of his clan,
Who, with his children here before You,
Is come, for vengeance to implore You
On Reynard, who, with fell design,
Hath done great harm to me and mine.
When hoary Winter left the plain,
And Spring smiled on the world again,
When leaves were budding, daisies springing,
And tuneful birds in thickets singing,
The sun at dawn of morning found me
With my young family around me;
Ten sons and fourteen daughters fair,
Breathing with joy the genial air,
All of one breed, and full of life,
Brought up by my good prudent wife.
Protected by a massy wall
And six bold mastiffs, stout and tall,
They lived, in spite of Reynard crafty,
Within a cloister-yard in safety.
"But lo! our enemy contrived
Our joy, alas! should be short-lived.
In hermit's garb the traitor came,
With letters, written in your name,
Where strictest orders were express'd,
To keep peace between bird and beast.
He said, he scorn'd the joys of sense,
And led a life of penitence,
To expiate his former guilt,
And streams of blood, which he had spilt;
He vow'd, in future he would eat
No poultry, nor forbidden meat.
"All joyful, to my little crew,
To tell the happy news I flew,
That Reynard friar's garments wore,
And was our enemy no more.
Now for the first time we did venture
Out of our gate. A dire adventure
Awaited us; for whilst we stray'd
And sported on a sunny glade,
Reynard, conceal'd below a bush,
Upon us suddenly did rush;
One of my hopeful sons he slew,
And of my fairest daughters two. —
Five only out of twenty-four
Are left; the rest he did devour.
My daughter Rake-up, on this bier,
Slain by the murderer, lies here;
He bit her neck off yesterday —
Revenge her death, my liege, I pray.'
"'Sir Gray,(quoth Noble,) did you hear?
Fine things of th' hermit-fox appear.
Was't thus, that with his fasts he meant it?
Sure as I live he shall repent it!
"'Good Cock, we've heard your mournful tale,
And we your daughter's fate bewail;
Thus, first of all, we'll see the honour
Of funeral rites bestow'd upon her;
Next with our Council we shall further
Consult, how to revenge this murther.'"
Naylor
"He ceased; and scarce a sand had run
When Chanticleer and all his clan
Appear'd in court: right in the van
A pullet's corse accompanied,
'Clept Dem'selle Scratchclaw ere she died;
By Reynard's bite decapitated —
This wise the tidings were related.
Close to the throne the Cock drew nigh:
Deep anguish dimm'd his upturn'd eye:
Two little Bantams, right and left,
Wept bitter tears, as birds bereft.
Sir Flapwing was of high degree,
As fine a bantling as you'd see
'Twixt Amsterdam and Paris, he.
Sir Strain-neck was the other 'clept,
And, like the first one, proudly stept.
Before them each a torch they bear,
Alike the same; for twins they were.
Young Cocks yet twain bare up the pall,
And help'd the wail with voices small.
Then Chanticleer, before the King
Commenced, in tones deep harrowing:
'Ah, gracious Lord and King! give ear
To my disastrous tale! The tear
Of pity shed on us who stand
For justice, suppliants at your hand.
Sire! thus it chanced; – The frosted beard
Of Winter scarce had disappear'd;
Scarce had the thorny brake put by
Its hosiery of fleece, and I
As happy felt as though a chicken;
About me, strutting, crowing, picking,
In comeliness my little ones:
I counted up ten stalwart sons;
Of daughters, too, a wondrous store, —
Plump Ortolans, and full a score.
My dame, the thoughtful prudent Hen,
Had train'd their youth beneath her ken
All virtues cardinal to practise,
Best learned from mothers, as the fact is.
Our house was in the convent yard,
High wall'd around: six dogs stood guard; —
All kept for our peculiar care,
By night and day to shield us there.
Now, gracious Liege! mark what I tell.
Reynard, (the knave!) with cockle-shell
And pilgrim's staff, wellworn, appears,
Bearing a packet: as he nears,
I note your royal seal, and read
Announcement of the truce decreed:
No more, he said, he played the royster,
But sought repentance in a cloister:
Observed the rule o' th' strictest sect,
His sins to purge with sure effect;
Whereby myself might to the end
My life secure and fearless spend.
Said he, 'flesh diet I have sworn
Never to touch from night to morn.' —
Unto my children all, I stated
The royal message, then related
How Reynard had assumed the cowl,
And left off hankering after fowl.
Myself I led them far and wide,
When lo! the Fox's guile defied
My anxious cares: in that same hour
He'd mark'd a victim for his power!
Perdu behind a bush he lay,
And took, before mine eyes, his prey!
The best of all my brood he seized,
And ate her up. The morsel pleased
His scoundrel maw – 'twas dainty meat —
And soon he sought another treat. —
Full four-and twenty hopeful chicks
As e'er peck'd corn from out fresh ricks
Were mine, – and now, as I'm alive,
The villain's kill'd them all but five!
Pity, O King! my sorrowing tale:
Grant succour in this hour of wail!
But yesterday, the huntsman's cry
Surprised him in the act to fly
With Scratchclaw's body, which you see
Kill'd by his murd'rous tooth – ah me!
'Tis here as witness of my woe —
Oh that my hardhap to your heart may go!'
Enraged, the King: 'Sir Badger, ho!
The monk your uncle (troth!) doth know
To keep his fast, – the holy man! —
Match me the like of this who can?
What need of further question here?
Draw nigh and listen, Chanticleer!
Ourself your daughter dead will see
Entomb'd with all solemnity
Of dirge and mass, in her last slumber,
And vigils also without number.
This done, from these our lieges true
We'll crave their help and counsel too,
Touching the murder and the vengeance due.'
To Bruin then the King thus spake:
'Bruin! look well you undertake
This journey with dispatch – 'Tis I,
Your Sov'reign, calls upon you – fly!
Be wise and wary: Reynard's guile
Is practised in each crafty wile.'"
Neither of the translators is here very good, and Naylor is perhaps as near hitting the nail on the point (to use the phrase of a friend of ours of the Fogie Club) as his competitor. He still gives us, however, a great many silly superfluities, though some of them we have ventured to cut out.
Finally, as our readers may begin to think they have enough of this, we shall close our comparative view by some quotations from the Wager of Battle, by which the Wolf and the Fox ultimately terminate their disputes.
Soltau
"The trumpets then began to sound,
And next the wardens did appear,
And call'd the champions forth, to swear.
Growler advanced, his oath to take;
He swore, that Reynard was a rake,
A murd'rer, and a treach'rous wight,
For which assertion he would fight.
"Then Reynard in his turn did swear,
That Growler was a perjurer;
To prove his charge, he did defy him,
Because he basely did belie him.
"The wardens then admonish'd both,
To fight with honour and good troth.
This being done, the lists were clear'd,
Where both the combatants appear'd.
"The combatants with equal rage
And fury now began t'engage.
The Wolf, by dint of strength and art,
Attack'd the Fox with leap and start;
But Reynard, being shrewd and light,
Avoided him by cunning flight,
And while he ran, he did not fail
To water well his rugged tail.
When Growler meant to hold him fast,
He nimbly veer'd about at last,
And with his tail the dust and dirt
He full into his face did flirt.
Whilst Growler rubb'd his eyes with pain,
Reynard his flirts renew'd again,
Till Growler was quite spent at last,
And by the throat he held him fast.
'Sir Wolf,(he said,)if heretofore
Poor lambs and kids you oft have tore,
It is high time now to repent,
Before your last breath you have spent,
And with contrition to behave,
If you would wish your soul to save.'
"In this provoking style he spoke,
Striving his enemy to choke;
But Growler was for him too strong,
And broke loose from his hold erelong;
Though ere he got out of his jaws,
Reynard gall'd him with teeth and claws;
One of his eyes was almost out,
And streams of blood ran down his snout.
"As soon as he his blood did view,
At Reynard in a rage he flew;
He got him under, and his paw
He seized, and held it in his jaw.
'You caitiff, your last hour has come,
(Said he,) and you'll meet with your doom.
'T shall not avail you now, to shear,
To flirt, kick up a dust, and smear.
I'll make you pay for all your lies,
And for the damage of my eyes.'
"Whilst Growler kept hold of the paw,
Sly Reynard with his other claw
Seiz'd him in such a tender part,
That it made Growler howl with smart,
And forced him soon to ope his jaw,
And to let go the imprison'd paw.
Reynard now tugg'd, and pull'd, and tore,
And made the Wolf spit blood and gore;
He brought him senseless to the ground,
And dragg'd him through the lists around.
"When this his wife and friends perceived,
They were much terrified and grieved.
Then pray'd the king to use his right,
And to suspend the bloody fight.
"The king took their request to heart,
And bade the champions straight to part,
To whom the leopard and the ounce,
As wardens, did his will announce.
"Reynard," they said, "the king has sent
To let you know 'tis his intent
To put an end to all your strife.
He bids you to spare Growler's life;
For 'twould be a pity after all,
If either of you both should fall.
Meantime all, who are present, say
That you at last have won the day.'"
Naylor
"Hark! hark! the tuckets sound on high!
'He comes! Sir Isengrim!' they cry.
The Wolf and all his kith and kin
Approach in long array! The din
Their multitudinous trampling made
Resounded like a cavalcade
Of mailèd warriors on the march,
Or winds that, through a wood of larch,
The groaning branches swing and sway,
And thunder out and roar alway.
Still forward they their course observe,
Neither to right nor left they swerve;
But onward to the lists the band
March up, then halt, and take their stand.
When first the Wolf – 'I here repeat
The Fox a villain is, and cheat!
I brand him murderer to boot!
Adulterer! with heart, as soot
Is, black! that solemn truth do I
Wager on hazard of this die!'
Then Reynard – 'What the Wolf alleges
Are lies! I'll prove it! and my pledge is
The victory, which I by battle,
This day will gain o'er yon base cattle!'
The marshal of the lists then cried:
'The right shall by the might be tried,
What fair and fetis is, that do!
The god of battles prosper you!'
He said, then towards the side withdrew.
The rest soon follow'd; save the two,
Who occupied alone the space,
And stood for action face to face!
The marshal now, with plumed hat on,
Beside the barrier stood; his baton
Of office thrice he whirled aloft;
And not a soul or spake or cough'd.
'Oyez! oyez! oyez!' he cried,
'Will each of ye the issue bide?'
'We will!' they answer. 'Are ye ready?'
'Yes!' 'Yes!' – 'Then LAISSEZ ALLER!' said he.
Reynard address'd him then to fight;
And Isengrim commenced to bite
The air, and show'd his teeth, by way
Of prelude to the coming fray;
Next, rear'd his snout, and brought the jowl
To Reynard's level; one loud howl
He utter'd, ere he crouch'd, then bounded
To where the Fox, no whit astounded
By noises so unknightly, stood;
For raising lofty as he could
His voice, the foe the terms defied.
'Come on,' he resolutely cried.
The struggle was commenced! The sternest
There present felt it was right earnest;
The Fox, as smaller of the two,
Was favourite; and when he drew
'First claret,' at that tapping action
The mob express'd their satisfaction;
Exclaiming, 'go it! ten to oneUpon the varmint little 'un!'
By this time had Dan Phœbus clomb
The summit of his glowing dome,
And Isengrim his power to feel
Began, which made the Wolf to reel.
He mourn'd his hapless want of claws,
His teeth, too, batter'd by the paws
Of Reynard, woefully he miss'd;
For grasp'd within his well-clench'd fist,
The Fox a flint stone firmly held,
With which he deftly aim'd and fell'd
One after t'other every fang,
Till down his weasand, at each bang,
Successively they flew. This thing
To Isengrim so punishing,
Set him forthwith to calculate
The odds on his superior weight,
How best it might the foeman tell on —
Which done, he threw himself pêle-mêle on
The Fox, to bear him down intending.
But Reynard saw: instead of spending
His strength in any vain endeavour
'Gainst Isengrim, he waited ever
Upon the Wolf – so this time he
Perceived the rushing enemy,
And as he near'd him slipp'd aside.
The Wolf came on with awful stride,
But meeting not with Reynard there,
He buffeted the yielding air
Instead, found no impediment,
His force him to the barrier sent,
Where toppling heels o'er head he went
With emphasis – a heavy flop,
'My eyes,' the mob cry, 'what a whop!'
Then Reynard to the Wolf stepp'd close,
And said aloud, 'How lik'st the dose?
Friend Isengrim, there yet may be
For pardon opportunity
Ere thou departest, only speed ye,
Or else the wandering ghosts, I rede ye,
Of all the lambs and kids thou'st slain
Will haunt thee through the wide champain
Whither thou'rt ebbing fast, down yonder;
But softly, is he kill'd I wonder?'
For so it seem'd. Through that vast crowd
A pin drop had resounded loud.
Thought Reynard, he has got it now!
I'll rest awhile, for any how
If he the fight again begin
I'll try the trick upon his shin.
Stunn'd lay the prostrate Wolf quite still
And stiff, nor moved a peg until
His squires, much fearing for his life,
Rush'd in, preceded by his wife;
And lifting him upon their knees,
They gave him salts to make him sneeze,
Which thirteen times he did repeat,
Then started lively to his feet.
A feeling of relief ran through
The crowd, whose visages look'd rue,
To think their fun forestall'd and spent
By that untoward accident.
Again the tuckets sound – again
The dauntless heroes give the rein
To their revenge. The Fox now charges
The Wolf, and both his eyes enlarges,
With right and lefters planted well,
And punches on the nob that tell;
So hard and fast the bangs and thumps,
You'd thought that firemen at their pumps
Were working —
– crafty Reynard quick
Deliver'd him a villain kick
Right in the midriff – down he dropp'd!
Like some tall forester when lopp'd
By stroke of woodman's axe. 'Twas all
He spake, not groaned in his fall,
Outstretch'd upon the ground there lay
The Wolf – he'd fainted clean away.
No herald's voice, no tucket's cheer,
The noble Isengrim could hear;
An all but victor lately, now
Prostrated, palsied by one blow;
Nay, not so, by a kick unknightly,
Foul aim'd, yet for the mark too rightly,
Alas, its only merit that!
But what cared Reynard, it was pat,
And told, and did its business well;
'Twas every thing desirable.
The fight was o'er – the Wolf dragg'd out
More dead than living, 'mid the shout
Of rabble, whilst the heralds cry
'Largesse,' the others 'Victory.'
The air with noise and din resounded.
The friends of Isengrim, confounded,
Slunk off, whilst Reynard's stay'd; indeed
The very people who agreed
The Fox's death a public good
Had been, now 'mong the foremost stood,
By acclamations to attest
Regard outheroding the rest!"
We have not the heart to criticise this last and greatest effort of the reproducer. Its slang speaks for itself, and certainly carries along with it an undeniable "certificate of origin".
A good translation of any thing is perhaps an impossibility. But it must be confessed, that the attempt of the German foreigner is highly creditable to him, and, with a little amendment, would probably afford our countrymen as fair an idea of the original as they are ever likely to see. Certain it is, that Mr Naylor has not improved upon it.
If our readers think, that in the samples we have given of Mr Naylor's beauties, we have not sufficiently brought forward some of the more striking peculiarities of the Cockney school, we shall meet this complaint by presenting them with the subjoined anthology, the fragrance of which we think will satisfy their highest anticipations.
"The first in consequence at court,
As foremost in the public thought."
"Your cap and gloves you've left in pawn,
Thus adding ribaldry to scorn."
"What visitors had been? they tell her
How Reynard call'd, and said, 'nice fellow.'"
"Malkin should fall! and now the fork
By Martin turn'd to tomahawk."
"No sooner had the foe withdrawn
To howl around the priest forlorn."
"Besides, he must have more than thought once
Upon the very vast importance."
"Of solemn asses half-a-score,
Who kick, when tickled with a straw!"
"I left him trapp'd, and then made sheer off:
His sufferings you can't form idea of."
"From underneath the frame I draw
The pin that propp'd it: with a roar."
"Their eggs upon a heap of straw,
Then loitering hindermost, the more."
"When it was bruited round the court
How Reynard was by greybeard brought."
"Grimalkin there one eye had lost,
His scalp from Bruin's head been forced."
"With any thing, in short, to fasten
Guilt on him – burglary – e'en arson!"
"Than at the words the Queen, alarm'd,
Nigh swoon'd before her fears were calm'd."
"The son dishonour'd: not a straw
It weigh'd with him, to think how sore."
"There dwelt my father; him they sought,
And plotted, whilst they soak'd his port."
"To practise after my papa—
Through life my light and exemplar!"
"Another life to lead he's sworn:
And will to-morrow at the dawn."
"Then, turning to the Queen, besought
Her majesty in merry sport."
"Quoth Reynard, as with sudden thought
Before the portal stopping short."
"We have so many a sally-port,
And cul-de-sac, we can't be caught."
"Send far and near the heralds forth,
By blast of trump to tell my wrath."
"At Rome, I on our banker draw,
And when that's gone, I send for more."
"That none dared venture! This he saw
And felt his pluck return once more."
"But I've no claws
And therefore am not fit for wars."
"By envy eaten up, they saw
Me prosper; looking all before."
"And ever, when they walk'd abroad
Each arm'd with hunting-whip and cord."
If any of our readers doubt the authenticity of some of the rhymes above set down, we are willing that they should buy the book, as we have done, and ascertain for themselves.
Merciful as we are by nature, and growing more and more so every day by age, we yet feel that the enormities we have now denounced are beyond endurance. Such poetry as this, neither gods, men, nor booksellers should tolerate; and with the highest respect for the very excellent publishers who have assisted in the birth of this production, and to whom we owe so many useful and admirable contributions to knowledge and literature, we do venture humbly to submit, that their peculiar duty makes them somewhat more responsible for what is thus brought forth, than ordinary obstetrical practitioners can be for what they may help into the world. There is no reason that such a bantling should be born at all, and at least we would recommend the continuance of gestation for nine times the Horatian period. Seriously speaking, we always regret to miss the general security which the title-page should give us, that in what we buy, we shall have something for our money. A bad or inferior book may, inadvertently, issue from the most respectable quarter. But when a work is ushered into the light with such pomp and pageantry of paper, printing, and getting up, as are here lavished, we hold that the public have a right to expect that it has received the imprimatur of some discerning judge, and to enforce the implied warranty that the inside, as well as the outside, is a merchantable commodity in the market of Parnassus.
But the publisher's part of it is the least of the evil. It is obvious that the natives of Cockneyland are forgetting themselves. A new generation has sprung up that do not remember the castigations bestowed on their fathers of yore, and which for a time kept them in tolerable subjection. A young Londoner, who happens to have enthusiasm, or industry, or information, on a particular subject, may deserve commendation for the laudable direction of his private studies; but is he, therefore, entitled to haspire to write, and not to write merely, but to write poetry, and to disfigure a venerable old poem under pretence of reproducing it? That is a different question, which needs to be seriously and decidedly dealt with. This is not the first time, within a brief period, that we have been compelled to make an example of similar delinquencies; and, as sure as the crutch is in yonder corner, it shall not be the last, if the nuisance be not speedily and completely abated.
