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A Fable.
’T IS said of every dog that’s found, | |
| Of mongrel, spaniel, cur, and hound, | |
| That each sustains a doggish mind, | |
| And hates the new, sublime, refined. | |
| ’T is hence the wretches bay the moon, | 5 |
| In beauty throned at highest noon, | |
| Hence every nobler brute they bite, | |
| And hunt the stranger-dog with spite; | |
| And hence, the nose’s dictates parrying, | |
| They fly from meat to feed on carrion. | 10 |
| ’T is also said, the currish soul | |
| The critic race possesses whole; | |
| As near they come, in thoughts and natures, | |
| As two legg’d can, to four legg’d creatures; | |
| Alike the things they love and blame, | 15 |
| Their voice, and language, much the same. | |
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| The muse this subject made her theme, | |
| And told me in a morning dream. | |
| Such dreams you sages may decry; | |
| But muses know they never lie. | 20 |
| Then hear, from me, in grave narration, | |
| Of these strange facts, the strange occasion. | |
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| In Greece Cynethe’s village lay, | |
| Well known to all, who went that way, | |
| For dogs of every kindred famed, | 25 |
| And from true doggish manners named. | |
| One morn, a greyhound pass’d the street; | |
| At once the foul-mouth’d conclave met, | |
| Huddling around the stranger ran, | |
| And thus their smart review began. | 30 |
| “What tramper,” with a grinning sneer | |
| Bark’d out the clumsy cur, “is here? | |
| No native of the town, I see; | |
| Some foreign whelp of base degree. | |
| I ’d show, but that the record ’s torn, | 35 |
| We true Welsh curs are better born. | |
| His coat is smooth; but longer hair | |
| Would more become a dog by far. | |
| His slender ear, how straight and sloping! | |
| While ours is much improved by cropping.” | 40 |
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| “Right,” cried the blood-hound, “that straight ear | |
| Seems made for nothing but to hear; | |
| ’T is long agreed, through all the town, | |
| That handsome ears, like mine, hang down; | |
| And though his body’s gaunt and round, | 45 |
| ’T is no true rawboned gaunt of hound. | |
| How high his nose the creature carries! | |
| As if on bugs, and flies, his fare is; | |
| I ’ll teach this strutting stupid log, | |
| To smell ’s the business of a dog.” | 50 |
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| “Baugh-waugh!” the shaggy spaniel cried, | |
| “What wretched covering on his hide! | |
| I wonder where he lives in winter; | |
| His straight, sleek legs too, out of joint are; | |
| I hope the vagrant will not dare | 55 |
| His fledging with my fleece compare. | |
| He never plunged in pond or river, | |
| To search for wounded duck and diver; | |
| By kicks would soon be set a skipping, | |
| Nor take one half so well a whipping.” | 60 |
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| “Rat me,” the lap-dog yelp’d, “through nature, | |
| Was ever seen so coarse a creature? | |
| I hope no lady’s sad mishap | |
| E’er led the booby to her lap; | |
| He ’d fright Primrilla into fits, | 65 |
| And rob Fooleria of her wits; | |
| A mere barbarian, Indian whelp! | |
| How clownish, countryish, sounds his yelp! | |
| He never tasted bread and butter, | |
| Nor play’d the petty squirm and flutter; | 70 |
| Nor e’er, like me, has learn’d to fatten, | |
| On kisses sweet, and softest patting.” | |
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| “Some parson’s dog, I vow,” whined puppy; | |
| “His rusty coat how sun-burnt! stop ye!” | |
| The beagle call’d him to the wood, | 75 |
| The bull-dog bellowed, “Zounds! and blood!” | |
| The wolf-dog and the mastiff were, | |
| The muse says, an exception here; | |
| Superior both to such foul play, | |
| They wish’d the stranger well away. | 80 |
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| From spleen the strictures rose to fury, | |
| “Villain,” growl’d one, “I can’t endure you.” | |
| “Let ’s seize the truant,” snarl’d another, | |
| Encored by every foul-mouth’d brother. | |
| “’T is done,” bark’d all, “we ’ll mob the creature, | 85 |
| And sacrifice him to ill nature.” | |
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| The greyhound, who despised their breath, | |
| Still thought it best to shun their teeth. | |
| Easy he wing’d his rapid flight, | |
| And left the scoundrels out of sight. | 90 |
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| Good Juno, by the ancients holden | |
| The genuine notre-dame of scolding, | |
| Sat pleased, because there ’d such a fuss been, | |
| And in the hound’s place wish’d her husband; | |
| For here, even pleasure bade her own, | 95 |
| Her ladyship was once outdone. | |
| “Hail, dogs,” she cried, “of every kind! | |
| Retain ye still this snarling mind, | |
| Hate all that ’s good, and fair, and new, | |
| And I ’ll a goddess be to you. | 100 |
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| “Nor this the only good you prove; | |
| Learn what the fruits of Juno’s love. | |
| Your souls, from forms, that creep all four on, | |
| I ’ll raise, by system Pythagorean, | |
| To animate the human frame, | 105 |
| And gain my favorite tribe a name. | |
| Be ye henceforth (so I ordain) | |
| Critics, the genuine curs of men. | |
| To snarl be still your highest bliss, | |
| And all your criticism like this. | 110 |
| Whate’er is great or just in nature, | |
| Of graceful form, or lovely feature; | |
| Whate’er adorns the enobled mind, | |
| Sublime, inventive, and refined; | |
| With spleen, and spite, for ever blame, | 115 |
| And load with every dirty name. | |
| All things of noblest kind and use, | |
| To your own standard vile reduce, | |
| And all in wild confusion blend, | |
| Nor heed the subject, scope, or end. | 120 |
| But chief, when modest young beginners, | |
| ’Gainst critic laws, by nature sinners, | |
| Peep out in verse, and dare to run, | |
| Through towns and villages your own, | |
| Hunt them, as when yon stranger dog | 125 |
| Set all your growling crew agog; | |
| Till stunn’d, and scared, they hide from view, | |
| And leave the country clear for you.” | |
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| This said, the goddess kind caressing, | |
| Gave every cur a double blessing. | 130 |
| Each doggish mind, though grown no bigger, | |
| Henceforth assumed the human figure: | |
| The body walk’d on two, the mind | |
| To four still chose to be confined; | |
| Still creeps on earth, still scents out foes, | 135 |
| Is still led onward by the nose; | |
| Hates all the good, it used to hate, | |
| The lofty, beauteous, new, and great; | |
| The stranger hunts with spite quintessent, | |
| And snarls, from that day to the present. | 140 |
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