"For four things the earth is disquieted, and five which it
cannot bear." AGUR.
This world is a delightful place to dwell in,
And many sweet and lovely things are in it;
Yet there are sundry, at the which I have
A natural dislike, against all reason.
I never like A TAILOR. Yet no man
Likes a new coat or inexpressibles
Better than I do--few, I think, so well:
I can't account for this. The tailor is,
A far more useful member of society
Than is a poet;--then his sprightly wit,
His glee, his humour, and his happy mind
Entitle him to fair esteem. Allowed.
But then, his self-sufficiency;--his shape
So like a frame, whereon to hang a suit
Of dandy clothes;--his small straight back and arms,
His thick bluff ankles, and his supple knees,
Plague on't!--'Tis wrong--I do not like a tailor.
AN OLD BLUE-STOCKING MAID! Oh! that's a being,
That's hardly to be borne. Her saffron hue,
Her thinnish lips, close primmed as they were sewn
Up by a milliner, and made water-proof,
To guard the fount of wisdom that's within.
Her borrowed locks, of dry and withered hue,
Her straggling beard of ill-condition'd hairs,
And then her jaws of wise and formal cast;
Chat-chat--chat-chat! Grand shrewd remarks!
That may have meaning, may have none for me.
I like the creature so supremely ill,
I never listen, never calculate.
I know this is ungenerous and unjust:
I cannot help it; for I do dislike
An old blue-stocking maid even to extremity.
I do protest I'd rather kiss a tailor.
A GREEDY EATER! He is worst of all.
The gourmand bolts and bolts, and smacks his chops--
Eyes every dish that enters, with a stare
Of greed and terror, lest one thing go by him.
The glances that he casts along the board,
At every slice that's carved, have that in them
Beyond description. I would rather dine
Beside an ox--yea, share his cog of draff;
Or with a dog, if he'd keep his own side;
Than with a glutton on the rarest food.
A thousand times I've dined upon the waste,
On dry-pease bannock, by the silver spring.
O, it was sweet--was healthful--had a zest;
Which at the paste my palate ne'er enjoyed.
My bonnet laid aside, I turned mine eyes
With reverence and humility to heaven,
Craving a blessing from the bounteous Giver;
Then grateful thanks returned. There was a joy
In these lone meals, shared by my faithful dog,
Which I remind with pleasure, and has given
A verdure to my spirit's age. Then think
Of such a man, beside a guzzler set;
And how his stomach nauseates the repast.
"When he thinks of days he shall never more see.
Of his cake and his cheese, and his lair on the lea,
His laverock that hung on the heaven's ee-bree,
His prayer and his clear mountain rill."
I cannot eat one morsel. There is that,
Somewhere within, that balks each bold attempt;
A loathing--a disgust--a something worse:
I know not what it is. A strong desire
To drink, but not for thirst. 'Tis from a wish
To wash down that enormous eater's food--
A sympathetic feeling. Not of love!
And be there ale, or wine, or potent draught
Superior to them both, to that I fly,
And glory in the certainty that mine
Is the ethereal soul of food, while his
Is but the rank corporeal--the vile husks
Best suited to his crude voracity.
And far as the bright spirit may transcend
Its mortal frame, my food transcendeth his.
A CREDITOR! Good heaven, is there beneath
Thy glorious concave of cerulean blue,
A being formed so thoroughly for dislike,
As is a creditor? No, he's supreme,
The devil's a joke to him! Whoe'er has seen
An adder's head upraised, with gleaming eyes,
About to make a spring, may form a shade
Of mild resemblance to a creditor.
I do remember once--'tis long agone--
Of stripping to the waist to wade the Tyne--
The English Tyne, dark, sluggish, broad, and deep;
And just when middle-way, there caught mine eye,
A lamprey of enormous size pursuing me!
L---- what a fright! I bobb'd, I splashed, I flew.
He had a creditor's keen, ominous look,
I never saw an uglier--but a real one.
This is implanted in man's very nature,
It cannot be denied. And once I deemed it
The most degrading stain our nature bore:
Wearing a shade of every hateful vice,
Ingratitude, injustice, selfishness.
But I was wrong, for I have traced the stream
Back to its fountain in the inmost cave,
And found in postulate of purest grain,
It's first beginning.--It is not the man,
The friend who has obliged us, we would shun,
But the conviction which his presence brings,
That we have done him wrong:--a sense of grief
And shame at our own rash improvidence:
The heart bleeds for it, and we love the man
Whom we would shun. The feeling's hard to bear.
A BLUSTERING FELLOW! There's a deadly bore,
Placed in a good man's way, who only yearns
For happiness and joy. But day by day,
This blusterer meets me, and the hope's defaced.
I cannot say a word--make one remark,
That meets not flat and absolute contradiction--
I nothing know on earth--am misinformed
On every circumstance. The very terms,
Scope, rate, and merits of my own transactions
Are all to me unknown, or falsified,
Of which most potent proof can be adduced.
Then the important thump upon the board,
Snap with the thumb, and the disdainful 'whew!'
Sets me and all I say at less than naught.
What can a person do?--To knock him down
Suggests itself, but then it breeds a row
In a friend's house, or haply in your own,
Which is much worse; for glasses go like cinders;
The wine is spilled--the toddy. The chair-backs
Go crash! No, no, there's nothing but forbearance,
And mark'd contempt. If that won't bring him down,
There's nothing will. Ah! can the leopard change
His spots, or the grim Ethiop his hue?
Sooner they may and nature change her course,
Than can a blusterer to a modest man:
He still will stand a beacon of dislike.
A fool--I wish all blustering chaps were dead,
That's the true bathos to have done with them.
_Fraser's Magazine._
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