HERBERT STOCKHORE, THE MONTEM POET LAUREATE. A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE,
As he appeared in the Montent Procession of May, 1823.
BY BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, AND ROBERT TRANSIT
Bending beneath a weight of time,
And crippled as his Montem ode,
We found the humble son of rhyme
Busy beside the public road.
Nor laurel'd wreath or harp had he,
To deck his brow or touch the note
That wakes the soul to sympathy.
His face was piteous as his coat,
'Twas motley strange; e'en nature's self,
In wild, eccentric, playful mood,
Had, for her pastime, form'd the elf,
A being scarcely understood—
Half idiot, harmless; yet a gleam
Of sense, and whim, and shrewdness, broke
The current of his wildest stream;
And pity sigh'd as madness spoke.
Lavater, Lawrence, Camper, here
Philosophy new light had caught:
Judged by your doctrines 'twould appear
The facial line denoted thought.{1}
But say, what system e'er shall trace
By scalp or visage mental worth?
The ideot's form, the maniac's face,
Are shared alike by all on earth.
"Comparative Anatomy—"
If, Stockhore, 'twas to thee apply'd,
'Twould set the doubting Gallist free,
And Spurzheim's idle tales deride.
But hence with visionary scheme,
Though Bell, or Abernethy, write;
Be Herbert Stockhore all my theme,
The laureate's praises I indite;
He erst who sung in Montem's praise,
And, Thespis like, from out his cart
Recited his extempore lays,
On Eton's sons, in costume smart,
Who told of captains bold and grand,
Lieutenants, marshals, seeking salt;
Of colonels, majors, cap in hand,
Who bade e'en majesty to halt;
1 It is hardly possible to conceive a more intelligent,
venerable looking head, than poor Herbert Stockhore
presents; a fine capacious forehead, rising like a
promontory of knowledge, from a bold outline of countenance,
every feature decisive, breathing serenity and
thoughtfulness, with here and there a few straggling locks
of silvery gray, which, like the time-discoloured moss upon
some ancient battlements, are the true emblems of antiquity:
the eye alone is generally dull and sunken in the visage,
but during his temporary gleams of sanity, or fancied
flights of poetical inspiration, it is unusually bright and
animated. According to professor Camper, I should think the
facial line would make an angle of eighty or ninety degrees;
and, judging upon the principles laid down by Lavater, poor
Herbert might pass for a Solon. Of his bumps, or
phrenological protuberances, I did not take particular
notice, but I have no doubt they would be found, upon
examination, equally illustrative of such visionary systems.
Told how the ensign nobly waved
The colours on the famous hill;
And names from dull oblivion saved,
Who ne'er the niche of fame can fill:
Who, like to Campbell, lends his name.{2}
To many a whim he ne'er did write;
When witty scholars, to their shame,
'Gainst masters hurl a satire trite.{3}
But fare thee well, Ad Montem's bard,{4}
Farewell, my mem'ry's early friend
2 The author of "the Pleasures of Hope," and the editor of
the New Monthly; but-"Tardè, quo credita lodunt,
credimus."
3 It has long been the custom at Eton, particularly during
Montem, to give Herbert Stockhore the credit of many a
satirical whim, which he, poor fellow, could as easily have
penned as to have written a Greek ode. These squibs are
sometimes very humorous, and are purposely written in
doggrel verse to escape detection by the masters, who are
not unfrequently the principal porsons alluded to.
4 The following laughable production was sold by poor
Herbert Stockhore during the last Montem: we hardly think we
need apologise for introducing this specimen of his muse:
any account of Eton characteristics must have been held
deficient without it.
THE MONTEM ODE. May 20, 1823.
Muses attend! the British channel flock o'er,
Call'd by your most obedient servant, Stockhore.
Aid me, O, aid me, while I touch the string;
Montem and Captain Barnard's praise I sing;
Captain Barnard, the youth so noble and bright,
That none dare dispute his worthy right
To that gay laurel which his brother wore,
In times that 1 remember long before.
What are Olympic honours compared to thine,
0 Captain, when Majesty does combine
With heroes, their wives, sons and daughters great,
To visit this extremely splendid fête.
Enough! I feel a sudden inspiration fill
My bowels; just as if the tolling bell
Had sent forth sounds a floating all along the air
Just such Parnassian sounds, though deaf, I'm sure I hear.
May misery never press thee hard,
Ne'er may disease thy steps attend:
Listen, ye gents; rude Boreas hold your tongue!
The pomp advances, and my lyre is strung.
First comes Marshal Thackeray,
Dress'd out in crack array;
Ar'nt he a whacker, eh?
His way he picks,
Follow'd by six,
Like a hen by her chicks:
Enough! he's gone.
As this martial Marshall
Is to music partial,
The bandsmen march all
His heels upon.
He who hits the balls such thumps,
King of cricket-bats and stumps,—
Barnard comes;
Sound the drums—
Silence! he's past.
Eight fair pages,
Of different ages,
Follow fast.
Next comes the Serjeant-Major,
Who, like an old stager,
Without need of bridle
Walks steadily; the same
Dolphin Major by name,
Major Dolphin by title.
Next struts Serjeant Brown,
Very gay you must own;
With gallant Mr. Hughes,
In well-polish'd shoes;
Then Sampson, who tramps on,
Strong as his namesake.
Then comes Webb, who don't dread
To die for his fame's sake.
Next shall I sing
Of Serjeant King,
And Horace Walpole,
Holding a tall pole,
Who follows King and Antrobus,
Though he's "pulchrior ambobus."