A Century of Parody and Imitation

by Unknown

THE FLYING TAILOR.

Further Extract from 'The Recluse,' a Poem.

(WORDSWORTH)

If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead

Into that green and flowery burial-ground

That compasseth with sweet and mournful smiles

The church of Grasmere,—by the eastern gate

Enter—and underneath a stunted yew,

Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk,

On the left-hand side, thou wilt espy a grave,

With unelaborate headstone beautified,

Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps

'Neath which the children of the valley lie.

There pause—and with no common feelings read

This short inscription—'Here lies buried

The Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!'

Him from his birth unto his death I knew,

And many years before he had attain'd

The fulness of his fame, I prophesied

The triumphs of that youth's agility,

And crown'd him with that name which afterwards

He nobly justified—and dying left

To fame's eternal blazon—read it here—

'The Flying Tailor!'

It is somewhat strange

That his mother was a cripple, and his father

Long way declined into the vale of years

When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe

Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass

Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up

The sickly wretch, she to the father said,

'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect?

The mother being, as I said before,

A cripple, and the father of the child

Long way declined into the vale of years.

But mark the wondrous change—ere he was put

By his mother into breeches, Nature strung

The muscular part of his economy

To an unusual strength, and he could leap,

All unimpeded by his petticoats,

Over the stool on which his mother sat

When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables,

Or meek performing other household tasks.

Cunning he watch'd his opportunity,

And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence,

Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig,

More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool.

What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frog

Over the breech'd and unbreech'd villagers

He shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say?

Vainly so named. What though in attitude

The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race

When issuing from the weed-entangled pool,

Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields,

A jocund people, bouncing to and fro

Amid the odorous clover—while amazed

The grasshopper sits idle on the stalk

With folded pinions and forgets to sing.

Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was;

But sure his bounds across the village green

Seem'd to my soul—(my soul for ever bright

With purest beams of sacred poesy)—

Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill,

When, close-environed by the tinchels chain,

He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky,

Then o'er the many-headed multitude

Springs belling half in terror, half in rage,

And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind

Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top.

No more of this—suffice it to narrate,

In his tenth year he was apprenticed

Unto a Master Tailor by a strong

And regular indenture of seven years,

Commencing from the date the parchment bore,

And ending on a certain day, that made

The term complete of seven solar years.

Oft have I heard him say, that at this time

Of life he was most wretched; for, constrain'd

To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board,

The natural circulation of the blood

Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt

So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise

Up from his work he could not, but fell back

Among the shreds and patches that bestrew'd

With various colours, brightening gorgeously,

The board all round him—patch of warlike red

With which he patched the regimental-suits

Of a recruiting military troop,

At that time stationed in a market town

At no great distance—eke of solemn black

Shreds of no little magnitude, with which

The parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing,

That in the new-roof'd church he might appear

With fitting dignity—and gravely fill

The sacred seat of pulpit eloquence,

Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faith

The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit

Of atheist drying up each argument,

Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn

Their point against himself, and overthrow

His idols with the very enginery

Reared 'gainst the structure of our English Church.

Oft too, when striving all he could to finish

The stated daily task, the needle's point,

Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch,

Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mail

In vain defended, and the crimson blood

Distain'd the lining of some wedding-suit;

A dismal omen! that to mind like his,

Apt to perceive in slightest circumstance

Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress

And feverish perturbation, so that oft

He scarce could eat his dinner—nay, one night

He swore to run from his apprenticeship,

And go on board a first-rate man-of-war,

From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool,

Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew

Composed of many nations, 'mid the roar

Of wave and tempest, and the deadlier voice

Of battle, he might strive to mitigate

The fever that consumed his mighty heart.

But other doom was his. That very night

A troop of tumblers came into the village,

Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,—on wire,

On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intent

To please the gaping multitude, and win

The coin from labour's pocket—small perhaps

Each separate piece of money, but when join'd

Making a good round sum, destined ere long

All to be melted, (so these lawless folk

Name spending coin in loose debauchery)

Melted into ale—or haply stouter cheer,

Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame

Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought

From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd,

Skulking by night round headland and through bay,

Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge

Of cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men,

And with her sweeps across the foamy waves

Moving most beautiful with measured strokes.

It chanced that as he threw a somerset

Over three horses (each of larger size

Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop

Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise

Considerably bruised, especially

About the loins and back. So he became

Useless unto that wandering company,

And likely to be felt a sore expense

To men just on the eve of bankruptcy,

So the master of the troop determined

To leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'd

That if there was a man among the crowd

Willing to fill his place and able too,

Now was the time to show himself. Hugh Thwaites

Heard the proposal, as he stood apart

Striving with his own soul—and with a bound

He leapt into the circle, and agreed

To supply the place of him who had been hurt.

A shout of admiration and surprise

Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'd

The little field, where near a hundred people

Were standing in a circle round and fair.

Oft have I striven by meditative power,

And reason working 'mid the various forms

Of various occupations and professions,

To explain the cause of one phenomenon,

That, since the birth of science, hath remain'd

A bare enunciation, unexplain'd

By any theory, or mental light

Stream'd on it by the imaginative will,

Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine,

The Penetralia of the immortal soul.

I now allude to that most curious fact,

That 'mid a given number, say threescore,

Of tailors, more men of agility

Will issue out, than from an equal show

From any other occupation—say

Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like.

Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive

This subject to illustrate; nor, while I give

My meditations to the world, will I

Conceal from it, that much I have to say

I learnt from one who knows the subject well

In theory and practice—need I name him?

The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms,

Illustrious more for leaping than for song.

First, then, I would lay down this principle,

That all excessive action by the law

Of nature tends unto repose. This granted,

All action not excessive must partake

The nature of excessive action—so

That in all human beings who keep moving,

Unconscious cultivation of repose

Is going on in silence. Be it so.

Apply to men of sedentary lives

This leading principle, and we behold

That, active in their inactivity,

And unreposing in their long repose,

They are, in fact, the sole depositaries

Of all the energies by others wasted,

And come at last to teem with impulses

Of muscular motion, not to be withstood,

And either giving vent unto themselves

In numerous feats of wild agility,

Or terminating in despair and death.

Now, of all sedentary lives, none seems

So much so as the tailor's.—Weavers use

Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add,

Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move

Without the body—as the waving branch

Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk.

Not so the Tailor—for he sits cross-legg'd,

Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals,

In bed, or when he takes his little walk

From shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes,

Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere,

Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns,

Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheel

Bruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones.

Here then we pause—and need no farther go,

We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail.

Now let me trace the effect upon his mind

Of this despised profession. Deem not thou,

O rashly deem not, that his boyish days

Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore

With bashful feeling of apprenticeship

The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul

Derived no genial influence from a life,

Which, although haply adverse in the main

To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power,

Yet in its ordinary forms possessed

A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts,

Moulded his appetences and his will,

And wrought out, by the work of sympathy,

Between his bodily and mental form,

Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity!

Perfect—complete—and fading not away.

While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit,

Shaping of various garments, to his mind

An image rose of every character

For whom each special article was framed,

Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul

Was like a storehouse, filled with images,

By musing hours of solitude supplied.

Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut

Of villager's uncouth habiliments

With greater readiness, than did his mind

Frame corresponding images of those

Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper

In many a mystic notch for ay retain'd.

Hence, more than any man I ever knew,

Did he possess the power intuitive

Of diving into character. A pair

Of breeches to his philosophic eye

Were not what unto other folks they seem,

Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw

The symbol of the soul—mysterious, high

Hieroglyphics! such as Egypt's Priest

Adored upon the holy Pyramid,

Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old,

But raised by wise philosophy, that sought

By darkness to illumine, and to spread

Knowledge by dim concealment—process high

Of man's imaginative, deathless soul.

Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life

Which stern necessity had made his own,

Did he not recognise a genial power

Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard

Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely,

And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees

He saw a beauty and a majesty

In this despised trade, which warrior's brow

Hath rarely circled—so that when he sat

Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast

A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun,

And felt that orb, in all his annual round,

Beheld no happier nobler character

Than him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy.

Thus I, with no unprofitable song,

Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood,

Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes

Of him the Flying Tailor. Much remains

Of highest argument, to lute or lyre

Fit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice;

And when, by timely supper and by sleep

Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task,

With lofty hopes,—Reader, do thou expect

The final termination of my lay.

For, mark my words,—eternally my name

Shall last on earth, conspicuous like a star

'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits,

Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd,

Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews,

Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed

Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives

On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood.