Punch: Punch (40.1861)

j

200

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[Mat 18, 1S61.

PAM AND THE POETS.

beat Men’s Minds in un-
dress present, an improving
study for little men. When
our great ones come out, in
full fig to Grocers’ entertain-
ments, in elegant attire to
Academy dinners and the
like, the speeches of the great
creatures leave nothing to be
desired except the absence
of reporters. Then do they
discourse of Shakspeare,
taste, and the Musical Glasses
in a way that must confirm
the conviction of the snob-
mind that the race of the
Admirable Crichton is per-
petuated among our Upper
Ten Thousand. Even when
a Lord Chancellor makes
such an abominably lumber-
ing speech as that which he
inflicted on Sir _ Charles
Eastlake and his fellow-
sufferers at the Academic
feast the other day, the snob-
mind is not drawn away
from its religion—

“ The lover may

Distrust the look that steals his
soul away;

The babe may cease to think that
it can play

With Heaven’s rainbow ; alchemists may doubt
The shining ore their crucible gives ont;

But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast
To some dear fiction, hugs it to the last.”

and consolation is found in the recollection that, after all. Lord
Campbell is not a real Swell, but only a lucky Scottish lawyer.

But sometimes our real Great Men permit their minds to appear in
undress. Sometimes they speak without looking up their themes, or
having them looked up by affectionate secretaries, and then the world
has an opportunity of knowing the true nature of the creeds of Great
Men. Punch's friend Palmerston (and Punch will call him friend in
spite of a hundred eccentricities more curious than ihe vagary about
to be mentioned, for Pam is a good and brave Pam. and moreover is a
brother satirist, some of whose New Whig Guide is almost up to
Punch's standard) was induced, the other night, to expose his mind in
I an edifying fashion.

Out of the small sum which is at Lord Pam’s annual disposal for
the purpose of helping men of Science and Literature, or of providing
for those whom they might themselves have provided for, if instead of
labouring for mankind they had been bill-brokers, stock-jobbers, adver -
tising quacks, pet parsons, or marine store-keepers, his Lordship has
bestowed £50 per annum upon one John Close, formerly a Butcher,
now a Poet, living in Westmoreland. This individual describes him-
self, seriously (and a gushing poem, presently to be quoted, places
his seriousness beyond a doubt) as “Poet Laureate to His Majesty
the King of Bonny, West Africa” Interrogatory being made to
Lord Palmerston in the House of Commons, on Thursday the 2nd
instant, as to the propriety of squandering public money on a Buffoon,
Lord Palmerston replied that he had received many letters recom-
mending the said Buffoon as a proper person to receive a pension, and
that he considered Close to be “in the same category with Burns.”

| An indignant “Eh, sirs!” probably broke out from his Lordship’s
i Scotch colleague, the Lord Advocate, for Lord Palmerston, amended
i his declaration,—“not equal to Burns, but in the same category.”

So, Mr. Punch, on such a recommendation from his friend, thought
that a better acquaintance with the works and character of this West-
moreland Burns would be desirable. The Poet’s works lie before him,
and the Poet’s character does not lie very deeply hidden in therm

The Westmoreland Burns, fiery, like Pope, Byron, and his other
compeers, seems to have had a difference with the Editor of the London
Critic. Burns himself had differences with many persons, and occa-
sionally castigated his adversaries, but never so dashingly as thus .—

“ In reply to the sneers of the wise Editor of the London Critic [who longs to put
his Fingers in Me. Close's Dish, who never thanked him for the Stamps sent !J he
begs to say that had this Hungry ‘ Critic ’ (! !) only got a slice of the same Royal
Loaf, he would, like Jack Horner, be ‘ sucking his thumbs ’ in a corner, too happy
to say ‘boo to a Goose ! ’ In the meantime we can excuse the contemptible jea-
lousy of a Dog in the Manger who hates ‘ that excellence it cannot reach,’ and
having given this ungrateful ‘sorry dog’ a bone to pick, we leave him to the full
enjoyment of his Spleen.—J. Close.”

Thus gracefully steps Lord Palmerston’s Robert Burns upon

the scene, and such are the epigrams which he launches at those who
offend him. There is some vigour in Holy Willie s Prayer, but its
irony is feeble in comparison to the polished sarcasm of the Butcher-
Burns. Mr. Punch believes that the Editor of the Critic has been
ordered to Madeira, with faint hopes of his ever returning, the con-
tributors have been sent to Malvern Wells, but the lives of the printers
may, it is thought, be saved by a few weeks at Hastings. Such is the
scathing power of genius!

But let us now see genius in “its softer hour.” Here is the poem
in which Lord Palmerston’s Burns dedicates his Poems to the
respectable black man called King of Bonny :—

“ DEDICATION.

“ All hail! Kino Pepple, hail!

I never bent the knee.

Unless to God in prayer,

For help in misery—

My only help was there.

“ All hail ! Kino Pepple, hail!

I’ll bow to thee,

The rightful Majesty
Of Bonny, in fair Africa—

I ’ll bend the knee.

“ All hail! King Pepple, hail !

Welcome to Britain’s land,

I long to kiss the Royal Hand,

And in thy honour’d presence stand.

With pride I’ll write for thee,

As long as life shall be—

True Laureate to Majesty.

“ And when above the skies
In yon celestial clime,

I hope to see Kino Pepple there.

Beyond the realms of time !

“October 10th, 1860.” “J. CLOSE, Poet Laureate.”

How Lord Palmerston must be reminded of the other and lesser
Burns, and his votive poem, and '‘I’ll remember thee, Glencairn.”
How his lordship must exult in the thought that he has done more for
the Butcher-Bard than Ministers in other days did for the Exciseman-
Poet.

Let us hear a little of the English Burns. He publishes a memoir
of himself, and it is signed by “Delta.” There is an awful mystery
about this Delta. Mr. Punch may have his own reason for humbly
thinking that this, like “Sam Dowell,” “Dr. Canton,” “Dr.
Silverien,” &c., &c., may be among what Mr. Delta is pleased to-
call Mr. Close’s nom de plumes. But Delta himself says:—

“ This Enigma will only be known when the disguise is not required—when the
Poet shall have reached the summit of Fortune’s Hill, and need our help no more—
then will the Invisible Cap be cast aside, and all shall know this ‘Delta ’ even as hi
is known."

The reverent parody in italics may justify Mr. Punch in observing
on the cover of the Poems that the work is “under the patronage
of the Bishops of London and Durham, and the Dean of Car-
lisle.” And here is Mr. Close’s final testimony to himself—it is
signed by the mystic Delta—but published by Lord Palmerston’s
Poet as a fitting exposition of his own character and genius

“ In conclusion, we know no man Mr. Close takes for his example—no mode
which he imitates, no beaten path in which he walks; but like all great minds, he
makes one of his own. Genius creates, not imitates. Mr. Close seems in all his
writings to care neither for Queens or Kings, Bishops or Parsons, Squires or Peasants,
but rattles among them as if so many old bones or dry cabbage stalks, and sweeps
them all before him ! But commends us to his sweet Memorials of the dear,
Departed Dead ; in these he touches every heart, and in these alone, we say again, his
Name will never die! As a lady once observed to us, when speaking of these
• Memorials ’—1 Mr. Close sings so sweetly about Heaven, that he makes one long
to be there !”

Glancing through the Poems, in the hope of seeing what had prompted
this Lady’s longiug, it appears to Mr. Punch that the special pleasure
Mr. Close looks to in the upper world is the certainty of meeting
there a certain Dr. Rooke, a Pill-Maker, to whom the Bard addresses
two long poems. Mr. Punch regrets not to have room for them, but
here is a specimen:—

“ His famous ‘ Oriental Pills,’

Ship loads they bear away,

To every quarter of the world
Where Britain holds the sway.

“ Wbat letters from all ranks of men.

Each praise this great, good man.

Who, humble as a little child,

Same as when he began.

“ Where’er the English tongue is spoken,.

Waft his name ye gentle breeze;

Worthy of all mortal praises,

Form’d by God to bless and please.”

The other Burns, too, had his “Dr. Hornbook.” But Robert was a
careless poet, and it never occurred to him to add a certificate that the
Doctor must be all right hereafter, by reason of the excellence of his