Burnet's Own Times

and did; and the court got what they wanted. I had all this from an eminent member of the House of Commons, who was then in parliament.

We have made the foregoing extracts almost at hazard, and could have given a much larger number of a similar nature, and equally a musing, had our time and our limits permitted the extension of this article. Enough, however, has been done to show the general character of the additions to Bishop Burnet's work. Of the author himself, his new editor thus speaks: "He was, as it must be acknowledged even by his enemies, an active and meritorious bishop, and to the extent of his opportunities a rewarder of merit in others. He was orthodox in points of faith, possessed superior talents, as well as very considerable learning; was an instructive and entertaining writer, in a style negligent indeed and inelegant, but perspicuous; a generous, open-hearted, and in his actions, good-natured man; and, although busy and intrusive, at least as honest as most partisans." In respect to his veracity, his editor confesses, that he too frequently appears to have been no patient investigator of the truth, where either party zeal or personal resentment was concerned, and that he seems to have written under the influence of both those feelings, even whilst he was delineating the characters of some of the most virtuous persons of the age in which he lived. We thoroughly agree in this character of our author, and are even willing to exculpate him from intentional want of accuracy in his statements of men and things. We are, indeed, convinced that he was often misled by others, who, either out of amusement or for mischief, imposed upon his credulity, and invented scandals which they well knew he would not fail to regisIf there was any ter for truths. part of the Bishop's book with which we should be more particularly inclined to quarrel, it would be in his acrimonious remarks on persons of his own profession. Even the best and wisest of the English church are spoken of in terms far below their merits, whilst the great body of the clergy is at once accused of inactivity

faction

must be remembered, however, that these objects of Bishop Burnet's censure were, almost exclusively, faithful to the House of Stuart, a crime of no mean magniour author's estimation, tude in whose antipathy to that unfortunate family is discernible throughout his whole work, and was so in all his conduct. We are not aware that the following anecdote has ever appeared in print, though we transcribe it from a very good manuscript authority. Burnet, in 1710, preached before the corporation of Salisbury, in the church of St. Thomas, in that city. His text was on the 13th of Romans, and his sermon on the authority of princes, and the doctrine of resistance. He was, (says our writer,) very bold, and went contrary to the best expositors, and, at last, growing probably too personal in his observations on the conduct and character of the exiled family, Mr. Mayor and the Aldermen took their hats off the pegs, went out of the church, with the rest of the congregation, and left his lordship to preach to the walls.

Burnet and his works were not only attacked during the life of the author, but innumerable were the squibs that appeared on his decease: with one of them we shall conclude the present article.

Here Sarum lies,

Of late as wise
And learn'd as was Aquinas;
Lawn sleeves he wore,
But was no more
A Christian, than Socinus.

Oaths pro and con

He swallow'd down,
Lov'd gold like any lay man;

Wrote, preach'd, and pray'd,
But yet betray'd

The church of God for Mammon.

Of ev'ry vice

He had a spice,

Altho' a reverend prelate:
Yet liv'd and dy'd,
If not bely'd,

A true dissenting zealot.

If such a soul

To Heaven is stole

And 'scap'd old Satan's clutches,
We'll then presume

There may be room

For Marlborough and his Dutchess.

OLYMPIAN REVELS, A DRAMATICLE.

SCENE.---An Author's Garret.

LITHERWIT and TRAMONTANE.

Litherwit. Aha! aha! very good, very mad indeed, and an authentic description of celestial merry-making. Olympian Orgies!-ha! ha! a choice subject for the exercise of the goosequill; what man in a million would have thought of it! Admirably extravagant! Literally and alliterally, 'tis a divine divertimento.

Tramontane. 'Tis good, believe me.

Litherwit. Better than the best bacchanal ever roar'd by a priest: thou'rt fit to be Coryphæus to a more vagabond troop than ever frighted the echoes of Rhodope or Pangaus.

Tramontane. I am fain to think Dithyrambus the demon bestrides my pineal.

Litherwit. Truly, I do think thou art possessed. Thou owest none of thy inspiration to that naughty beverage, wine; phew!

Tramontane. A tint from the goblet hath not written "wine" upon the parchment of my lips, since I have worn the laurel.

Lither wit. Pity, that instead of a poet, thou wert not Ganymede to a vintner: thou might'st then have stolen more cups of wine than thou now quaff'st flagons of Hippocrene. Yet, 'tis sweet drinking, that same visionary fountain; ah! thou luxurious fellow! thou dainty fellow !

Tramontane. 'Tis marvellous small bibble though.

Litherwit. Pure, pure.

Tramontane. And methinks, a cup of inspiriting Portugal, a glass of red courage, now and then, would exalt mine enthusiasm to the very pinnacle of poetic phrenzy.

Litherwit. "Twould be superfluous infuriation: thou hast the natural knack of madness in thee; give thee wine, and a strait-waistcoat would not hold thee.

Tramontane. Shall I make my thunder tattle upon thy ear-drums, and my lightning play about thy shoebuckles?

Lither wit. Translate yourself.

Tramontane. I have a Thunder-storm in my breeches-pocket.

Litherwit. God shield us! Give me my hat! Thou'lt be singed like a widgeon, if it should burst. Give me my hat!

Tramontane. Why man, 'tis made of paper.

Litherwit. Nay then, 'tis combustible. Give me my hat, I say! I would be loth to be blown, bareheaded, over the moon. My hat, I say! Five flights to descend from thy perilous neighbourhood!

Tramontane. Good master Litherwit, 'tis as innocent a storm as ever spent its fury in verse.

Litherwit. O-I have a nose; I can smell out poetry which others wouldn't know if they saw it. "Tis a hurricane of the brain you speak of, my head to your half-crown! Am I oracular?

Tramontane. Even so, to speak the solemn truth. Shall I fulminate?

Litherwit. Nay, lad, the bedlamite Banquet once more, the celestial Carnival! Let your gods play their infernal tricks over again. Then shalt thou tickle us with thy storm, then shalt thou bray till the echoes groan. Come, sir! a Corybantian howl to prepare our ears for more horrible astonishment. Now, lad! The bousing Gods.'

Tramontane. The bousing Gods sat late:

And many a cheek in ruddier crimson burn'd,
Blush'd darker many a lip with pitchy wine,
And trembled in the gripe full many a bowl,
Ere the immortal rout began. 'Twas a night
Of revelry, Olympian revelry:

Jove had proclaim'd a banquet; in a flash

298

Olympian Revels, a Dramaticle.
Down fell the valves of his imperial dome,
Torn from eternal hinges by the crowd

Of shouldering deities; in they drave, pell-mell,
Major and minor, shoals of thirsty gods:
Heav'n had convivialists convenient; Air
Grew light and calm, its shapeless trackless steeds
Disburthen'd of their domineering chivalry;
Earth from its dark recesses tumbled forth
Ten thousand sleepy dingy sons of Heav'n;
Grove, hill, and valley, fountain, lake, and stream,
Fane, shrine, and altar, oracle, and cave,

Hearth, house, and garden, every niche and nook,
Where an immortal could find room to snore,

Sent one, hot-foot, to Heav'n; glad Ocean spawn'd
Its gray-blue gods; Hell belch'd up dark divinities.

Litherwit. Bless us! what a diabolical piece of work it must have been! What clattering of hoofs, what tossing of horns, what whisking of tails! What elbowing, squeezing, smothering, toe-treading, and pocket-picking! What shouting, screaming, squabbling, nose-pulling, fighting, and swearing! Such a valuable museum too! Such a choice collection of natural curiosities! Birds, and beasts, and reptiles, and fishes, monsters, men, and original deities, all higgledy-piggledy, heads and tails, mingled together! Lord! what a bellowing and a cater wawling! What a heavenly concert of animal noises! braying, grunting, barking, bleating, growling, chattering, hooting, and hissing! 'Twas a goodly congregation.

Tramontane. Heav'n scarcely held the theocratic multitude,

And huge Olympus rock'd beneath their tread.

Litherwit. Well, well, get on; skip me over the kisses and compliments; Momus had nearly capsized poor Jove, as he kiss'd his toe like a good Catholic; we've had enough of that foolery; get on. No more of the weather, or the beauty of the prospect; come to the roast-beef and plum-pudding at

once.

Tramontane. With all my heart.

Creaking and shaking, rumbling and grumbling,
In roll'd an endless table, long enough

And full enough to make grim Saturn smile.
The chuckling Satyrs lick'd their hairy lips,
And Cerberus' watery eyes ran o'er with joy,
At sight of such good cheer; while each fond guest
Swallow'd his silent spittle: Mors began

To grind his teeth, and Time to whet his scythe:
Old Neptune, gathering up his garments green,
Shook his tri-prong'd harpoon, and mark'd his fish:
Mars drew his bilboa; an enormous boar,
A grizly monster, seem'd in act to spring,
Although held down by skewers, from the broad lanz
Where god Tom-cook had laid him, roasted whole;
Mars drew his blade however, (th' enemy,
Show'd such a deadly pair of tusks,-grinn'd too
With such vivacity ;) and stood prepared:
Pale Cynthia, huntress-maid, her glittering spear
Bore to his aid; he gave her growling welcome,
Mutt'ring, "the devil take you!" Cynthia smiled,
Pale planetary maid! like the full moon,

And kept her ground, and brandish'd still her spear.
Litherwit. Ay, cater-cousin to the dagger of Sir Hudibras:

"It was a serviceable dudgeon,

Either for fighting, or for drudging."

And the other poor devils, I suppose, had to make shift with their claws and teeth, feeding like so many Turks or wild Indians?

Tramontane. The Cloud-compeller slily edged his stool

Nearer the board, mid whispers of "Fair play!"

Which if he heard he heeded not. The guests
Grew fidgetty, and burn'd upon their chairs;
Whilst murmuring reprobation damn'd the mode
Of dining at past five; of waiting too

For soups and sauces, while hot haunches cool'd,
And chines, that seem'd so hungry to be eaten :

Some swore 'twas past the hour, and huff'd; while some,
To seem as if they didn't care, ask'd half

A question, and got half an answer; some

Spoke one way, look'd another; or b'ing pull'd
By th' button-hole, scarce knew which way to turn
Their sad distracted optics, leering still,

Oblique, at th' smoking orbs and platters gay.
Litherwit. Down fell the handkerchief! whip, spur, and away !
Tramontane. Softly; 'tis too good to be hurried."

Tongues dropt off, one by one; and when the Hours,
Greasy and blowsy, red-faced and dry-eyed,
Brought in the last tureen, all stood like shapes
In breathless adamantine action carved,

Strain'd foot, swell'd neck, white eye: all stood agape:
A holy silence reign'd throughout the hall;

A pin might b' heard to fall, a mouse to trot;

And time seem'd standfast, till the word,-" Fall to!"

Lither wit. Said no Grace? O! the heathens!

Tramontane. Hurry, hurry! helter-skelter !

Litherwit. Excellent: go on to the ptisan.

Tramontane. Then you wont ha' the description o' the devourables?
Litherwit. No; the potations, the mad pranks!

Tramontane. 'Tis the very best part; let me

Hurry, hurry! helter-skelter!

Litherwit. No!-no!-no!-Hss!...ss...ss...

Tramontane. Nor the pastry? nor the sweet-meats? nor the choice fruit after dinner? The best part, I assure you, the very best part o' the whole business.

Lither wit. No, I say. To Bedlam! to Bedlam, as fast as your legs can

carry you.

Tramontane. 'Slid!-the best part; now the very best part;-only

hear

Hurry, hurry!

Litherwit. Whil-il-il! whil-il-il!

Bom-bom-bom-bom!

(Stops his ears.) Tramontane. Well! well! I've done. If against thy will, thou wilt mortify thy imagination, and forego the delight of contemplative luxury; why -ds lid! an hundred and fifty esculent verses! a dinner of a hundred and fifty substantial lines, to be lost for the mere expence of opening one's mouth! Well! de gustibus.-Ahem! where?-ay—

-ate what she could,

The rest she pockets for the brats at home.

Lither wit. Ay, that's the last trick o'the feast; where old Tethys cribb'd all the stray nuts and oranges for the little monsters under the sea. Go on, and be choak'd! wilt thou never leave gormandizing? Tramontane. Then 'gan the wassail. Jove sent round the wine Like a right hospitable fellow; drank

As much as any three himself, but still

Sent round the wine. Chaos, who broach'd a quirk

In metaphysics, set all tongues agog,

And babble! babble! babble! fill'd the room:
Some politics, some scandal, talk'd; of Church
And State, the wiseacres ; of Foreign Parts,
The flimsy-tucker'd tribe; while swallow'd down
In floods of wine, horses and hawks and hounds
Engross'd the long-ear'd tutelar landlords. Love,

And petticoats, and novels, frippery, plays,
The follies of the day, faux-pas, bon-ton,

Sighs, flames, and tortures, hearts, and darts, and songs
'Bout crooks and brooks and sheep and shepherd-swains,
And shepherdesses in blue sashes and smart hats,
Titter, and chatter, satire, and small wit,

Pour'd from the sweet-mouth'd sex: the hum grew strong,
And quiz, and buz, and ha! ba! ha! rose high.

Litherwit. Go on, thou wordy villain! thou hundred-tongued, brazenthroated, Babel-mouth'd, long-winded, animal speaking-trumpet! thou hair-dressing, gossipping, garrulous, ten-syllabled son of a French barber! Go on, thou

Tramontane. "Wine!"-" Wine!"-" More wine!"-" Another cup!” "More wine!"

"More nectar!"- -"Zounds! you've spilt the half!"

"More wine!"

"Here!"-" Here!"-
'—"A bumper !"-" Here, girl! here!"
"More wine!"

Mingled by many voices, hoarse and shrill,
Mistuneful and sonorous, swell'd the din
Up to the rolling pitch of thunder. Now
The grape began to ooze through pory lip,

Red cheek, and misty eyne. The dew ran down
The sooty brow of Erebus in streams,
Washing white channels: Old Oceanus

Swill'd, gulp'd, and fumed, his panting bulky sides
Swoln with the undulating liquor: Po

Drank till the wine came out at's nose: and Tellus,
Better than half-seas o'er, still soak'd her clay.

Litherwit. Bravo! old Mother Alma. Thou'rt a staunch one!

Some

thing dull of the two; something of a clodpoll; but thou might'st have
passed for a prudent housewife, notwithstanding, had'st thou not brought
so many fools into the world. Well?

Tramontane. Those who will stand to drink, must fall. Young Hebe
First, an unseason'd cask, began to reel:

Sly Hebe, at the sideboard, ere she fill'd
For others, tippled (rather much) herself;
And as she bore the Thunderer's weighty bowl,
Tript by an awkward cloud, she fell, and show'd
Her ankle 'bove the clock: the gods laugh'd loud,
And their sweet minister for aye withdrew,
Blushing yet deeper than the wine she spill'd.

Litherwit. Out-and-alas! poor Hebe! 'Twas a sad mischance; she lost a good place; but let maids take warning, and hereafter drink in their beds, where there's none to take note of them but their own conscience, and that they may drown in the first bumper, if the nectar be honest and squeezed of a Cogniac raisin.

Tramontane. But still no pause slacken'd the deep carouse:
Gay Bacchus roll'd his puncheon in the midst,
And straight bestrode it with immortal legs
(Short, but immortal); beating time with's heels
On its broad ribs, to a Bacchanal he sung:
His temples lost in ivy-leaves, his cheeks
Flush'd with the sanguine juice he loved so well;
Two flowing bowls, with clustering leaves entwined
Of that imperial shrub, he held on high,
Whilst from his eyes the jocund torrents roll,
And loud "Euhoë!" shakes the sounding dome :
Louder and louder shouts the jovial boy,

Till every flagon rings; quaffs in one breath

Both bell-shaped bowls, and dongs their booming wombs
Like clangoring cymbals mid his own wild hills.

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