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A Conversational Pleasantry
SOME wit of old—such wits of old there were, | |
| Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care— | |
| By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, | |
| Called clear, blank paper every infant mind: | |
| Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, | 5 |
| Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot. | |
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| The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; | |
| Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. | |
| I (can you pardon my presumption?)—I, | |
| No wit, no genius, yet for once will try. | 10 |
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| Various the paper various wants produce,— | |
| The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. | |
| Men are as various; and, if right I scan, | |
| Each sort of paper represents some man. | |
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| Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; | 15 |
| Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; | |
| He ’s the gilt-paper, which apart you store, | |
| And lock from vulgar hands in the ’scrutoire. | |
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| Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth | |
| Are copy-paper of inferior worth; | 20 |
| Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; | |
| Free to all pens, and prompt at every need. | |
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| The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, | |
| Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, | |
| Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlers choose | 25 |
| To wrap up wares, which better men will use. | |
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| Take next the miser’s contrast, who destroys | |
| Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; | |
| Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; | |
| He ’s a true sinking-paper, past all doubt. | 30 |
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| The retail politician’s anxious thought | |
| Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; | |
| He foams with censure; with applause he raves; | |
| A dupe to rumors and a tool of knaves; | |
| He ’ll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, | 35 |
| While such a thing as foolscap has a name. | |
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| The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, | |
| Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, | |
| Who can’t a jest, a hint, or look endure,— | |
| What is he?—what? Touch-paper, to be sure. | 40 |
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| What are our poets, take them as they fall, | |
| Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? | |
| They and their works in the same class you ’ll find; | |
| They are the mere waste-paper of mankind. | |
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| Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! | 45 |
| She ’s fair, white paper, an unsullied sheet; | |
| On which the happy man whom fate ordains | |
| May write his name, and take her for his pains. | |
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| One instance more, and only one I ’ll bring; | |
| ’T is the great man who scorns a little thing; | 50 |
| Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own, | |
| Formed on the feelings of his heart alone, | |
| True, genuine, royal paper is his breast; | |
| Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best. | |
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