But the innovation stops not here. Thus far it might be borne. The human form cannot be wholly changed by all the ingenuity of vanity and fashion. It must still retain its principal attributes, and lose not all its lustre. Not so with manners. They are more plastic. From fashion and human folly they accordingly suffer most. Fashion is the sworn foe of nature, and in this field there is no natural bound to its triumphs.
On the face of the earth, or in the waters, there is no animal to my feelings so wholly hateful as a modern exquisite: a wretch that has put off his natural aspect to put on a clay mask, hard, ungainly, inflexible, of lifeless mud—which no Prometheus could vivify: a thing which can boast neither the humor of the monkey, nor the fierce respectability of the wild beast,—not the usefulness of the tame—still less the dignity and bearing of a man.
Sometime since, after sauntering an evening through a ball room, in which some such caricatures of men were existing, I went home and vented my rage in the following doggerel:
The Indignant Rhymes of a Natural Proser.
| Oh! Muse, assist me in my strain! Your Museship I would entertain With a poetic flagellation: Assist me Muse, to lay the lash on, With pen formed from a dog-wood switch, Fit to chastise a dunce: with pitch For ink, and bull's hide parchment handy; Now aid me, Muse, and we'll chastise a dandy. That petty, puny, paltry, pretty thing— In form a wasp, but destitute of sting; Vain as a peacock, soulless as a gnat, Brainless as soulless, finical as flat: Of apes the ape most awkward and most vile— Jackall of monkeys, and without jacko's wile. The jackall serves none but the noblest beast, But this base thing takes lessons from the least. As Egypt's sons did bow the knee of yore, And worship apes, the eternal God before— He, in god image framed, with godlike mind, Would be a god—of Egypt's monkey kind. A traveller sage! Europe he hath explored— His mistress fashion, and an ape his lord. No dignity finds he in native man, Acting and thinking after nature's plan; No wisdom, save in artificial fools— Nature's apostates—slaves to senseless rules: No beauty sees he, save in gold and lace, A made up figure, and a painted face; And no politeness, save in mere grimace. Go! thou vile satire on the human race; Go! on all fours, and seek thy proper place: Go! thing too mean for any mighty ill— Go! petty monster, "pay thy tailor's bill." |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
PLACED WITH A ROSE UPON A LADY'S CHEEK.
| Roses on roses I bestow; Bright rose! to brighter roses go— Bask in the sunlight of her eyes, Nor dread their fires; the dews which rise In pity for a heart that grieves, Will shed reviving coolness on thy leaves. |