A CHAPTER ON LOGIC;
Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse.
Occasioned by an observation of Mr. Montague Mathew, in the house of commons, during the last session of parliament, that Mr. Mathew Montague was no more like him, than a horse chesnut was like a chesnut horse.
An Eton stripling, training for the law,
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at law,
One happy christmas laid upon the shelf
His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf.
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arriv'd, and pass'd the usual how d'ye do's,
Inquiries of old friends and college news;
"Well Tom—the road—what saw you worth discerning?
Or how goes study:—what is it you're learning?"
"Oh! logic, sir; but not the shallow rules
Of Locke and Bacon—antiquated fools!
'Tis wits' and wranglers' logic: thus, d'ye see,
I'll prove at once as plain as A B C,
That an eel-pie's a pigeon—to deny it,
Would be to swear black's not black—come let's try it.
An eel-pie is a pie of fish—agreed,
Fish-pie may be a jack-pie.—Well proceed.
A jack-pie is a john-pie; and 'tis done,
For every john-pie must be a pie-john,—" (pigeon.)
"Bravo!" sir Peter cries, "logic for ever!
That beats my grandmother's, and she was clever.
But hold, my boy, since 'twould be very hard,
That wit and learning should have no reward,
Tomorrow, for a stroll, the Park we'll cross;
And there I'll give thee,"—"What?" "My chesnut horse,"
"A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces,
Heav'ns what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"
To bed he went, and slept for downright sorrow,
That night must go before he'd see the morrow;
Dreamt of his boots and spurs, and leather breeches,
Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches;
Left his warm nest an hour before the lark!
Dragg'd his old uncle, posting, to the Park.
Halter in hand, each vale he scour'd at loss,
To spy out something like a chesnut horse;
But no such animal the meadows cropt—
At length beneath a tree sir Peter stopt;
A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell
A fine horse chesnut in its prickly shell.
There Tom, take that—Well, sir, and what beside?
Why since you're booted, saddle it and ride;
Ride what? a chesnut!—Ay, come, get across;
I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse,
And all the horse you'll get—for I can show,
As clear as shunshine, that 'tis really so;
Not by the musty, fusty, worn out rules
Of Locke and Bacon—addle headed fools!
Or old Mallebranche—blind pilot into knowledge;
But by the laws of wit, and Eton college.
All axioms but the wranglers I'll disown,
And stick to one sound argument—your own.
What is the literary world?
It is a kind of fair, full of stalls, wares, and shopkeepers: in which the theologist sells his stuff, which at the same time supplies food and warmth. The critic disposes of his cobweb linen and transparent lawn, of no shelter from the cold. The philologist, his embroidered vests, Corinthian vases, and Phrygian marble. The physician letters and syllables. The lawyer, men. The antiquary, old shoes. The alchymist, himself. The poet, smoke. The orator, paint. The historian, fame—and the philosopher, heaven and earth.
What are the most rare animals in the world?
A rich man contented with his fortune. A man distinguished by genius and not by defects. A courtier grown old. A learned man who knows himself. A virgin who is beautiful to every body but herself. A prime minister who possesses honesty; who has the interest of his country, not that of himself or his associates, at heart.