What though it was his warm desire
From days of service to retire;
Though he now hop'd the time drew nigh
To change his humble destiny,
He ask'd permission of his pride
That one more service might be tried,
As in the class he hop'd to move
It might a source of knowledge prove.
—Where could he such examples see
As in an artist's gallery?
For while he look'd at forms and faces
He might learn all the tonish graces, |
Whatever manners could bestow,
What attitudes were best to show;
In short, all that he sought to know. | } |
For the fine folk who visit there
Come deck'd with all becoming care,
That the chaste pencil may not err
From truth of form and character,
Which not alone, while yet they live,
The canvas may be proud to give,
But offer to the admiring eye
Of an unborn posterity! |
| |
"O," he exclaim'd, "this is the plan,
I all its various merits scan,
'Tis half-way to a Gentleman!" | } |
—Nay, to be brief, the following day
Beheld him all in due array, |
And soon alert, submissive, smart,
Well vers'd in all the slang of art;
He to perfection play'd his part. | } |
In mildest tone would just express
The charms a canvas may possess,
Where Loves and Graces seem to smile
And do th' enchanted eye beguile.
Though still he ne'er forgot his duty
To one who might have been a beauty,
There he did not throw out his hints
Of charming smiles and rosy tints,
But to her portrait would refer
For force and grace of character. |
Still his own thoughts ne'er went astray,
He rather told what others say,
What my Lord B. prais'd yesterday. | } |
Thus he contriv'd, it seems, to please
Carmine's fine folk, of all degrees,
And what he gain'd, he now might say,
He got it in an honest way. |
| |
From all he did the Artist thought
He had a real treasure got;
Nor had Quæ Genus any cause
To grumble at domestic laws;
For all who serv'd them were content
With the well-rang'd establishment.
Above, was all that taste could show,
And ease and comfort reign'd below;
For Carmine sought not cost to spare,
And splendid plenty revell'd there.
—O Discretion, what thy powers,
To watch o'er life's fantastic hours,
To check warm nature's glowing heat
When passions in the bosom beat,
And whim and fancy's busy train
Play their vagaries through the brain!
But that comptroller of the will,
That sober judge 'tween good and ill,
Or from his folly or his pride
Quæ Genus seem'd to throw aside. |
This was the spot where he might stay,
Where duty was improving play,
Till hope should paint the wish'd-for way. | } |
But whimsies did his wits employ
The play-game of an idle boy,
For which if, at his earliest school,
Thus he had dared to play the fool,
He would have felt the smarting fate
That does on thoughtless culprit wait.
—The easy, morning duties done,
The after-day was all his own,
When, as it surely may be thought
He might have some improvement sought:
But no, his genius seem'd to chuse
His luckless leisure to amuse,
In changing, when brimfull of glee,
The system of the Gallery;
Would make the pictures change their places,
And with his chalk deform their faces,
(For, from a boy, whate'er he saw,
With a rude outline, he could draw,)
Turn down the portraits in their frames,
And look and laugh and call them names.
Though if no other harm were done,
Unknown he might have had his fun:
But hence the mischief did ensue,
The names he call'd were written too:
In short, he turn'd the painter's school
Completely into ridicule,
And, by a Title or a Scroll,
He strove to stigmatize the whole.
—He would a Lawn-rob'd Prelate place
As if he ogled Cælia's face,
Exclaiming "There's no greater bliss,
No, not in Heaven, than Cælia's Kiss;"
While Cælia might be made to say
"Hands off, my pious Lord, I pray!
Remember what you ought to feel—
The good book says you must not steal;
And steal you will, if you receive it,
For hang me, Fusty, if I give it."
—He then, perhaps, would run his rig,
With Cap and Bells on Judge's Wig;
When thus his fancy might indite,
And in a well turn'd label write,—
"Now should My Lord be in a fury,
And shake that Wig, he'd fright the Jury."
—The portrait of an Aged Dame
Might have this added to her name,—
"Your Crutch-stick tells you scarce can walk,
But still you bore all ears with talk;
A most incorrigible Hag,
Who nothing but your Tongue can wag."
—A married pair together plac'd,
And with their household emblems grac'd,
Though looking in each other's faces,
He would remove to sep'rate places,
And then contrive to make them say,
"How shall we, Sir, this act repay?
Our Home Cabals we now shall smother,
At this nice distance from each other;
Thus far removed we shall agree,—
'Tis just as we both wish to be."
—A Lord Mayor's brow he would adorn
With honours of a double Horn;
Then from a long scroll make him cry,
"Make room for Cuckolds, here comes I."
—A Lawyer, clad in wig and band,
With briefs and papers in his hand,
Quæ Genus would contrive to trace
A Janus with a Double Face,
And each face with a ready tongue
To plead the cause or right or wrong,
Exclaiming in both scrolls—"'Tis We,
And waiting for a Double Fee."
Such was his wit, which sometimes told
Its thoughts in flashes far too bold:
Which the Muse knows would not be meet
For her Chaste Spirit to repeat.
—Thus when the Monkey's hand had done
With this display of idle fun,
And in his vacant hour of sense
Had triumph'd in Impertinence;
He would repair his saucy tricks,
The pictures in their places fix,
Wipe out the mischief of the chalk
And bid the portraits cease to talk;
Then with a military air,
Aloud command them—"As you were."—
—Now it, at least, was once a week,
He did this gay amusement seek,
When Carmine's absence gave the power
Thus to pass off his leisure hour,
As different faces might present
Fresh subjects for his merriment.
But those foul imps who oft molest,
With awkward thoughts, the human breast,
(As the expression's not so civil,
We will not hint it is the devil,)
Will, as their trade is to deceive,
Fast in the lurch their vot'ries leave;
And soon Quæ Genus was betray'd
Into the trap his folly laid. |
| |
One vernal eve, he had o'erflow'd
With chalk and chatter ill-bestow'd,
When call'd off for we know not what,
The unfinish'd mischief was forgot;
And in the morning, ere the clout
Had duly wip'd his folly out,
A party, who from town were going,
Came, just to pay what might be owing:
At the same time to represent
Where all their portraits might be sent.
—One Elder Lady rubb'd her eyes,
With equal anger and surprize,
While she could scarce believe she read,
The Witch of Endor o'er her head.
—Another, not of younger age,
Could not restrain her glowing rage,
When Mother Red Cap was the name
Which chalk had given to the Dame;
And then she scream'd aloud,—"Forsooth,
A Pipe is put into my mouth,
Whose nauseous fumes around me fly
To stamp me with vulgarity!"
—With them there was a sweet young lady,
In beauty's bloom and vernal gay day;
Her portrait in all stature stood,
With all the grace of attitude,
And charms to turn, though not of stone,
A Carmine to Pygmalion.
But she, in all her beauty's pride,
A Wheel-barrow was made to guide,
While ruby lips were seen to cry,
"Sheep's hearts for those who want to buy!"
The marble urn which stood behind her,
Was turn'd into a rude Knife-Grinder,
And at no very far approach
Was seen a passing Hackney Coach,
While all the lawns and groves so sweet
Were scrawl'd into a London Street.
—Anger in diff'rent tones were heard,
And when Carmine in haste appear'd,
Aghast he stood, then vengeance vow'd,
Declar'd his innocence—and bow'd;
But in a few short minutes prov'd
The wicked lines might be remov'd.
If water is not just at hand,
Saliva's always at command,
Which gives the tints a brighter glow,
And leaves a kind of varnish too.
This, with his handkerchief applied,
Soon wip'd the saucy chalk aside.
The Dame exclaim'd,—"Pray look, d'ye see,
Still more affronts, my Lady B——:
This is the height of all disgrace,
The Painter's spitting in my face."
Carmine, without a word, went on,
And when his cleansing skill was shown,
When witticisms disappear'd,
And each offending line was clear'd,
The sudden change appear'd to please,
And angry words began to cease.
But still he thought he ought to show
The threat'ning terms he could bestow.
The maids, each answ'ring to her name,
Aloud their innocence proclaim:
The housekeeper and sturdy cook
Propose to swear on Holy Book,
They could not do it:—Heaven forbid it!
And then they told,—Quæ Genus did it:
On which, the solemn Dames insist
Such Impudence should be dismiss'd. |
But though they saw the alter'd show
Restor'd to all its pristine glow,
They let th' astonish'd artist know | } |
Th' insulted portraits should not stay
Where they then were another day. |
Thus porters, order'd to the door,
Away each fine resemblance bore,
That they might be defac'd no more.— | } |
—The Dames departed in a huff,
With fanning cool'd,—consol'd with snuff:
While Miss, beneath her bonnet's poke,
Smil'd as if she enjoy'd the joke. |