To gaze with admiration dumb
To fix his eyes, like orbs of marble, there! And let his soul luxuriate in despair. Posterity! Ah, what's a name to thee! What Raphael is, my Allan then shall be.
As the writer of the present notice intends to publish in a separate form the poetical verses of Odoherty, with authentic portraits of his friends, it is not necessary to quote any more of these effusions now. The pleasantry of the Ensign was always harmless, and his very satire was both dart and balsam. He never condescended to personalities, except in one solitary instance, in a song, entitled, "The Young Man of the West," composed upon Mr James Grahame, the famous Anti-Malthusian philosopher.
song he used to sing with great humour, to the tune of "A Cobler there was, &c." but though frequently urged to do so, he never would print it; and on his own manuscript copy there is this note, "Let the Young Man of the West be destroyed," an injunction which has since been scrupulously complied with.
During one of those brilliant evenings at the Dilettanti, which, says our bard in a letter to the present writer, "will for ever live in the memory of all who enjoyed them," the conversation ran upon the Italian improvisatori. Odoherty remarked, that the power which appeared to many so wonderful, was no way uncommon, and offered to recite, or write down currente calamo, a poem upon any given subject. The president proposed "An Elegy, by a Young Lady in a Ball-room disappointed of a Partner," and the Adjutant wrote down the following twenty four-line stanzas in fifty-three minutes nineteen seconds by a stop-watch. Such an achievement throws the admirable Crichton into the shade.
Elegy written in a Ball-room. THE beaux are jogging on the pictured floor, The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels;
And undissembled triumph wreathed my face.
Fancy prospective took a proud survey
Of all the coming glories of the night;
Even where I stood my legs began to play-
So racers paw the turf e'er jockeys smite.
And "who shall be my partner first?" I
As my thoughts glided o'er the coming
beaux;
"Not Tom, nor Ned, nor Jack," I toss-
Nice
grew my taste, and high my scorn
I round the room dispense a wistful glance, Wish Ned, or Dick, or Tom, would crave the honour;
I hear Sam whisper to Miss B., “Dodance," And launch a withering scowl of envy on her. Sir Billy capers up to Lady Di; In vain I cough as gay Sir Billy passes; The Major asks my sister-faint I sigh, "Well after this the men are grown such asses!"
In vain! in vain! again the dancers mingle,
With lazy eye I watch the busy scene,
Far on the pillowed sofa sad and single,
Languid the attitude-but sharp the spleen.
"La! ma'am, how hot!"-" You're quite fatigued, I see;"
"What a long dance !"-" And so you're come to town!"
Such casual whispers are addressed to me, But not one hint to lead the next set down. The third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, are gone,
And now the seventh-and yet I'm asked not once!
When supper comes must I descend alone ? Does Fate deny me my last prayer-a dunce? Mamma supports me to the room for munching,
There turkey's breast she crams, and wing of pullet; I slobbering jelly, and hard nuts am crunching,
And pouring tuns of trifle down my gullet. No beau invites me to a glass of sherry; Above me stops the salver of champaigne; While all the rest are tossing brimmers merry, I with cold water comfort my disdain.
Ye bucks of Edinburgh! ye tasteless creatures! Ye vapid Dandies! how I scorn you all! Green slender slips, with pale cheese-pairing features,
And awkward, lumbring, red-faced boobies tall.
Strange compounds of the beau and the attorney! Raw lairds! and school-boys for a whisker shaving!
May injured beauty's glance of fury burn ye! I hate you-clowns and fools! but hah! -I'm raving!
We shall now take leave, for the present, of Odoherty and the Dilettanti Society, with an extract from his longest and latest poem, entitled "Young's Night Thoughts" (a humorous allusion to the before-mentioned celebrated tavern). Lively as this strain is, we can scarcely read it without tears; for it was, we repeat, the very last of his works here below. The following proem, copied by a
female hand on hot-pressed gilt paper, is intended to explain the great leading object of the poem :
There was a time when every sort of people
Created, relished, and commended jokes;
But now a joker's stared at, like a steeple,
By the majority of Christian folks.
Dulness has tanned her hide to thickness
triple,
And Observation sets one in the stocks,
When you've been known a comic song to
sing,
Write notices, or any harmless thing.
This Edinburgh, Edina, or Dunedin-
('Cleped, in the Bailie's lingo, " the Good
Town;"
But styled " Auld Reekie" by all Celts now treading
Her streets, bows, wynds, lanes, crescents, up and down,
Her labyrinths of stairs and closes threading On other people's business or their ownThose bandy, broad-faced, rough-kneed,
Those horny-fisted, those gill-swigging caddies.)
This Edinburgh some call Metropolis,
And Capital, and Athens of the North-
I know not what they mean. I'm sure of
this,-
Tho' she abounds in men of sense and worth,
Her staple and predominant qualities
Are ignorance, and nonsense, and so forth;
I don't like making use of a hard word,
But 'tis the merest hum I ever heard.
There's our Mackenzie; all with veneration
See him that Harley felt and Caustic drew :
There's Scott, the pride and darling of his
nation,
Poet and cavalier, kind, generous, true.
There's Jeffrey, who has been the botheration
Of the whole world with his glib sharp Review,
And made most young Scots lawyers mad
with whiggery-
There's Leslie, Stewart, Alison, and Gregory.
But these and some few others being named,
I don't remember one more great gun in her;
The remanent population can't be blamed,
Because their chief concern in life's their
dinner.
To give examples I should be ashamed, And people would cry, "Lord! that wicked sinner!"
(For all we gentry here are quite egg-shells, We can't endure jokes that come near "oorsells.")
They say that knowledge is diffused and
general,
And taste and understanding are so common,
Than listen to a criticising woman.
I'd rather see a sweep-boy suck a penny roll,
And as for poetry, the time of dinner all,
Thank God, I then have better things to do.
Exceptions 'gainst the fair were coarse and
shocking-
I've seen in breeches many a true blue
stocking.
Blue Stocking stands, in my vocabulary,
For one that always chatters (sex is nothing)
About new books from June to January,
loathing.
And with re-echoed carpings moves your
I like to see young people smart and airy,
With well dressed hair and fashionable
clothing,
Can't they discourse about ball, rout, or play,
And know reviewing's quite out of their way?
It strikes me as a thing exceeding stupid,
This conversation about books, books, books,
When I was young, and sat midst damsels
grouped,
I talked of roses, zephyrs, gurgling brooks,
Venus, the Graces, Dian, Hymen, Cupid,
Perilous glances, soul-subduing looks,
Slim tapering fingers, glossy clustering curls,
Diamonds and emeralds, cairngorms and
pearls.
On Una that made sunshine in the shade,
And Emily with eye of liquid jet,
And gentle Desdemona, and the maid
That sleeps within the tomb of Capulet
Hearts love to ponder-would it not degrade
Our notion of a nymph like Juliet,
To be informed that she had just read thro'
Last Number of the Edinburgh Review ?
Down Prince's Street I once or twice paraded,
And gazed upon these same eternal faces;
Those beardless beaux and bearded belles,
those faded
And flashy silks, surtouts, pelisses, laces;
Those crowds of clerks, astride on hackneys
jaded,
Prancing and capering with notorial grace;
whimsies,
Dreaming enthusiasts who indulge vain
That they might pass in Bond Street or St
James's.
I saw equestrian and pedestrian vanish
-One to a herring in his lonely shop,
And some of kind gregarious, and more
clanish,
To club at Waters' for a mutton-chop;
Myself resolved for once my cares to banish,
And give the Cerberus of thought a sop,
Got Jack's, and Sam's, and Dick's, and
Tom's consent,
And o'er the Mound to Billy Young's we
I am not nice, I care not what I dine on,
A sheep's head or beef-steak is all I wish;
Old Homer! how he loved the ερυθρον οίνον
It is the glass that glorifies the dish.
The thing that I have always set my mind on
(A small foundation laid of fowl, flesh, fish)
Is out of bottle, pitcher, or punch-bowl,
To suck reviving solace to my soul.
Life's a dull dusty desert, waste and drear,
With now and then an oasis between,
Where palm-trees rise, and fountains gush.
ing clear
Burst 'neath the shelter of that leafy screen;
Haste not your parting steps, when such ap-
pear,
Leave ye to dominies and sticker stibblers,
And all the sedentary generation,
The endless chitter-chatter about scribblers,
And England's melancholy situation.
Let them be still the customary nibblers
Of all that rule or edify the nation;
Leave off the corn-bill, and the law of libel,
And read the Pilgrim's Progress or your Bible.
Repose, ye weary travellers, on the green,
Horace and Milton, Dante, Burns, and
Schiller,
From the poem itself we quote
Dined at a tavern-when they had "the
At Florence, London, Weimar, Rome, Maybole,
the following stanzas, without any And ne'er did poet, epical or tragical,
remarks, convinced that their simple
elegance and unaffected grace stand
in no need of the critics recommend-
ation.
I rose this morning about half past nine,
At Breakfast coffee I consumed pour quatre,
Unnumbered rolls enriched with marmalade
fine,
And little balls of butter dished in water,
Three eggs, two plateful of superb cold chine
(Much recommended to make thin folks
See time's dark lanthern glow with hues
more magical
Than I have witnessed in the Coffin-hole.
Praise of antiquity a bam and fudge I-call,
Ne'er past the present let my wishes roll;
A fig for all comparing, croaking grumblers,
Hear me, dear dimpling Billy, bring the
tumblers.
Let blank verse hero, or Spenserian rhymer,
Treat Donna Musa with chateau-margout,
Chateau-la-filte, Johannisberg, Hocheimer,
In tall outlandish glasses green and blue.
Thanks to my stars, myself, a doggrel-chimer,
Have nothing with such costly tastes to do;
My muse is always kindest when I court her,
O'er whisky-punch, gin-twist, strong beer
and porter.
And O, my pipe, though in these Dandy days
Few love thee, fewer still their love confess,
Ne'er let me blush to celebrate thy praise,
Divine invention of the age of Bess!
Puff, every brother, as it likes him best,
De gustibus non disputandum est.
Pipe! when I stuff into thee my canaster,
With flower of camomil and leaf of rose,
And the calm rising fume comes fast and
faster,
Curling with balmy circles near my nose,
And all the while my dexter hand is master
Of the full cup from Meux's vat that flows,
Heavens! all my brain a soft oblivion wraps
Of wafered letters and of single taps.
I've no objections to a good segar,
A true Havannah, smooth, and moist, and
brown;
But then the smoke's too near the eye by far,
And out of doors 'tis in a twinkling flown;
And somehow it sets all my teeth ajar,
When to an inch or so we've smoked him
down;
And if your leaf have got a straw within it,
You know 'tis like a cinder in a minute.
I have no doubt a long excursive hooker
Suits well some lordly lounger of Bengal,
Who never writes, or looks into a book, or
Does any thing with earnestness at all :
He sits, and his tobacco's in the nook, or
Tended by some black heathen in the hall,
Lays up his legs, and thinks he does great
things
If once in the half hour a puff he brings.
I rather follow in my smoking trim
The example of Scots cottars and their
wives,
Who, while the evening air is warm and dim,
In July sit beside their garden hives;
And, gazing all the while with wrinkles grim,
To see how the concern of honey thrives,
Empty before they've done a four-ounce bag
Of sailors' twist, or, what's less common-
shag.
ECHO, IN TWO POETICAL DIALOGUES.
[The two following classical jeux d'esprit are extracted from the works of the Rev Francis Wrangham (3 vols 8vo. Baldwin & Co. London, 1816), one of the most accomplished of our living English scholars, and distinguished at the university of Cambridge as the successful competitor of the celebrated Tweddell. We intend, in an early Number, to offer some remarks on that class of writers of which we consider him an honourable representative. EDITOR.]
Παντοίων στοματων λαλον εικονα, ποιμέσιν ήδυ
Παιγνιον.
CAN ECHO speak the tongue of every country? Eсно. Try.
Te virginem si fortè poscam erotica?
Ma si ti sopra il futuro questionerò?
Et puis-je te parler sur des choses passées?
Dic mihi quæso virum, vitiis cui tot bona parta :
Whom once Sir Sidney drove with shame from Acre.
T' unlock our India, France would make of Turkey-
Would she then seize Madras, Bombay, Bengal?
And did her chief fly Egypt, when most needed ?
Whom is he like, who thrives but by escaping?
Croyez vous aux histoires, qu'en dit Denon?
What are the arms with which he now fights Britons?
Ususne in istius minus fuit aliquis?
Quid nobis iterat tanto hic jactator hiatu?
Qu'il vienne aussitôt qu'il le veut, ce grand homme !
Nectit at ille moras, pelagusque horrere putatur !
You'd think him then mad, if his forces he march here?
Where does he wish those forces wafted over?
Granted-what would they be, ere led to London?
Can George then thrash by land the Corsican?
Ετεον ερῶ.
Essaye.
BUONAPARTE.
A cur!
Her key.
All.
He did.
Scapin.
Non.
High tones.
All a quiz!
"I hate you."
A grand hum!
Peut-être.
As a March hare.
To Dover.
All undone.
He can.
But what, if he should chance to meet our navy?
Τετῳ γ' αρ' εχθρα γη τε και θαλασσ ̓ εφυ ;
Atqui, ceu Xerxes, nostris fugere actus ab oris-
And hence he swears, he'll ne'er again turn flyer.
How best shall England quell his high pretences?
Et qu'est ce qu'elle montrera, pour calmer cet inquiet?
Ast unco ductus pœnas dabis, improbe, Gallis.
E chi ti vedrà morto, “Ben gli sta" griderà.
-Quæ nec reticere loquenti,
Nec prior ipsa loqui potuit.
Væ!
A few.
A bore is.
Liar!
Paret enses.
Εγχεα.
Gallows.
Agreed-Hurra!
AGAIN I call; sweet Maid, come echo me.
Tell me, of what consists the heart of Gaul:
Her mad caprices in her ancient shape;
Her present taste, for blood and riot eager.
Tell, of what God her sons are now the votaries;
And whose before, so wolvish grown and ravenous:
Wretches, as changeful as the changing ocean !
Au roi, qui les aimoit, ils ont frappé le cou-
Ma sotto i ré erano sempre allégri.
Τις δε τοσην αυτοις ενεπνευσ ̓ Ὑπατε θρησκειαν ;
Aliquid mali molitur in nos consilí:
Cumque illo miles Batavus conjurat amicè.
Where would his Brest fleet in our empire land?
Αλλοθι δ ̓ ὁ γ' ηπειλ ̓ εισβαλεῖν διηνεκῶς.
Quisnam illum à Scotis manet exitus, auspice Moirû?
Spem forsan nullam, Moira ibi jam duce, habet !
Εις Αγγλικον δ'ηκειν ισως νοεῖ τοδι.
How best shall we 'scape this invasion's alarm?
Then, Englishmen, rush to the field, 'tis your duty:
Be no longer the dupes of an Amiens truce.
(Ην δολος, & φιλια· τε δ'εκ φρενος ηλυθεν αυτος ;
Furem ego contundam, qui te rapere audet, agelle :
Angliaque externos facilè opprimet ipsa latrones:
And dost thou wish the throne restored by Moreau?
Then from his height falls dread Napoleon;
(Scilicet hunc Anglus vocat, hunc Hebræus Abaddon!*
And then the world, now scared, will laugh at him:
Il reste donc à souhaiter, que la France lui désobeît.
Buck's Head, April 10, 1818.
I BEG leave to offer a few observations on the second letter of Dr Nicol Jarvie, which has lately made so much noise in this city. The doctor is a wag, and possesses a genuine vein of humour, which, under good management, could not fail of amusing the public. But, like too many wits of the present day,
he wants discretion. Instead of giving
his powers fair play on some subject
of general interest, he has let himself
down by certain personalities which it
is quite impossible to defend or justify.
Some silly people would fain consider
these personalities gross and insulting.
That is by no means the case.
they are, what Dr Nicol Jarvie perhaps
does not suspect them to be, very
childish, or rather, to use an expressive
Scots word, "unco bairnly." There
is also some indelicacy in printing at
full length the christian and surnames
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