"I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom. I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients." Gustave Courbet

28 February 2023

Bobo Stenson, "Improvisation"


Fergus Henderson, Trevor Gulliver, and education ...
At the heart of their relationship – which began through an introduction from an olive oil seller and, inevitably, a long lunch – is a shared faith in the sustaining joys of life. Both men are steeped in what you might call the rigour of gastronomic pleasure. The articles of St John’s faith are all about constancy and conviction, doing good things extremely well. When they first opened the restaurant, with its menu of tripes and bone marrow and welsh rarebit and addictive custard, they were accused of being 200 years out of date, which they took as an enormous compliment.

One of their key beliefs is that a great restaurant should insist on making a human shape to the day, beginning early with the baking of bread, and ending late with a final glass of something special. In an age of working lunches and clean eating, they have held fast to that principle. As a young man Henderson studied architecture – both his parents were architects – and he carried a profound understanding of structure into his eventual vocation. The foundations of that, he suggests to me as he works, were boyhood holidays to the Dordogne, where each morning the family would crack open the Michelin guide and ask the only two questions that ever really mattered: “Where shall we have lunch?” and “Where shall we have dinner?”


An excellent album ...


If we call prodigies or miracles whatever our reason cannot reach, how many of these appear continually before our eyes! Let us consider through what clouds and how gropingly we are led to the knowledge of most of the things that are right in our hands; assuredly we shall find that it is rather familiarity than knowledge that takes away their strangeness.

Michel do Montaigne, born on this day in 1533


The Smiths is right there, insubordinates of an accidental moment in days when there is no sign anywhere of independent artists or a disconnected view.

Morrissey, from Autobiography

27 February 2023

Philip Glass, "The Poet Acts"

Katia Labèque performs ...

Jo Quail, "Adder Stone"

Happy Birthday, Longfellow

Cameron, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1868


Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
      That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
      Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events,
      That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
      Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,
      That makes another's virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
      And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;
      The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
      Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
      That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
      The action of the nobler will; —

All these must first be trampled down
      Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
      The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;
      But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
      The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone
      That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
      Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear
      Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
      As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept
      Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
      Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore
      With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern — unseen before —
      A path to higher destinies,

Nor deem the irrevocable Past
      As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
      To something nobler we attain.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

26 February 2023

Frank Sinatra & The Nelson Riddle Orchestra, "The Most Beautiful Girl In The World"

Yo La Tengo, "Ohm"

Happy Birthday, Cotton

Paul Cotton was born on this day in 1943.

"Indian Summer," with Poco ...

We're now featuring bar cheese, braunschweiger, and rye toast on the salad bar.


Books do not per­ish like hu­mankind. Of course we commonly see them bro­ken in the hab­er­dash­er's shop when on­ly a few months be­fore they lay bound on the sta­tion­er's stall; these are not true works, but mere trash and new­fan­gle­ness for the vul­gar. There are thou­sands of such gew­gaws and toys which peo­ple have in their cham­bers, or which they keep up­on their shelves, be­liev­ing that they are pre­cious things, when they are the mere pass­ing fol­lies of the pass­ing time and of no more val­ue than pa­pers gath­ered up from some dunghill or raked by chance out of the ken­nel. True books are filled with the pow­er of the un­der­stand­ing which is the in­her­itance of the ages: you may take up a book in time, but you read it in eter­ni­ty.

Peter Ackroyd, from The House of Doctor Dee

Black Uhuru, "Whole World is Africa"

Steel Pulse, "Babylon Makes the Rules"

Aswad, "Natural Progression"

The Ark Band, "I Wish"


Judas Priest released their greatest album, Point of Entry, on this day in 1981.

"Desert Plains" ...


Bonneton, La Rue de la Montagne, Saint Geneviève, 1900

Nothing can be as peaceful and endless as a long winter darkness, going on and on, like living in a tunnel where the dark sometimes deepens into night and sometimes eases to twilight, you're screened from everything, protected, even more secluded than usual.

Tove Jansson


Nature always waits in the wings and the winds, ready to pounce with all of its power just at that sloppily contented hour when you foolishly assume it to be plainly tired out. Narcissistic humans do their quite pathetic best to kill nature off, oblivious to their self-reliance on its upkeep, yet nature will only take so much bureaucratic bullying before it snaps a deadly snap - for it does not need your approval, your organised banditry, your prepubescent social laws, your trades of cheapening commerce, your militant preachment, your apologies or blind belief of superiority, as if a presidential seat gives you an intolerable presumption of dominance over this earth's terrain!  Watch, wait, and listen, and soon you'll be bitten.



Carracci, Apostles around the Empty Sepulchre (detail), 1605

Beauty is a form of Genius -- is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in the dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.

Oscar Wilde, from The Picture of Dorian Gray

Mozart, Great Mass in C minor, K. 427/417a

This is the Laudamus te sung by Roberta Mameli, with Ton Koopman and l'Orchestra di Santa Cecilia ...


Renoir, Untitled, n/d

When I've painted a woman's bottom so that I want to touch it, then it is finished.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir


You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies for truth, and hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to strange events of some sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on apple and orange trees instead of fruit, or if roses began to smell like a sweating horse; so I marvel at you who exchange heaven for earth. I don't want to understand you.

Anton Chekhov, from "The Bet"


Sir Roger on the regularizations of the conforming nonconformists ...
Now all human beings, whatever their condition, are social animals, and can live with themselves only if they also live with others. There is implanted in us the need to join things, to be a part of some larger and justifying enterprise, which will ennoble our small endeavours and protect us from the sense that we are ultimately alone. The deficit of membership must therefore be made good, but in another way - without the rite of passage to a higher or more responsible condition. Hence new forms of ‘joining in’ arise. Unlike armies, schools, scout troupes, churches and charities, these new forms of joining in need not involve participation - unless of a rough and undemanding kind that imposes no discipline on those who opt for them. They centre on spectacles rather than activities.

The paradigm instance is the fan club. The modern adolescent will follow the actions of his favoured team or group or idol, and adopt those actions as his own. Hence the emergence of professional sport as a central drama in popular culture. Football, for example, has lost its original character as a form of recreation and become instead a spectacle, through which the fans rehearse their social identity, and achieve a kind of substitute form of membership, not as active participants in a real community, but as passive respondents to the virtual community of fans. The fan is, in some sense, a part of the group, in just the way that the football supporter is a part of his team, bound to it by a mystical bond of membership. Nick Hornby has expressed the point in words that deserve to be quoted:

One thing I know for sure about being a fan is this: it is not a vicarious pleasure, despite all appearances to the contrary, and those who say they would rather do than watch are missing the point. Football is a context where watching becomes doing....when there is some kind of triumph, the pleasure does not radiate from the players outwards until it reaches the likes of us at the back of the terraces in a pale and diminished form; our fun is not a watery version of the team’s fun, even though they are the ones that get to score the goals and climb the steps at Wembley to meet Princess Diana. The joy we feel on occasions like this is not a celebration of others’ good fortune, but a celebration of our own; and when there is a disastrous defeat the sorrow that engulfs us is, in effect, self-pity, and anyone who wishes to understand how football is consumed must realise this above all things. The players are merely our representatives, chosen by the manager rather than elected by us, but our representatives nonetheless, and sometimes if you look hard enough you can see the little poles that join them together, and the handles at the side that enable us to move them. I am a part of the club, just as the club is a part of me... (Fever Pitch)

Of course, the old tribal feelings are there just below the surface, waiting to be activated, and erupting every now and then with their usual tributes to the god of war. Football hooligans are not the peculiar and perverse criminals painted by the press. They are simply the most fully human of football fans - the ones who wish to translate the only experience of membership that has ever been offered to them, into the natural expression of a tribal right. In a sense, the membership offered to the fan - in which a mesmerised passivity neutralizes the desire for action - is the greatest safeguard we have, that modern societies will not fragment into tribal sub-groups, contending for scarce resources in the concrete jungle. And we should therefore be grateful for professional football, and for all the other ways in which an icon of membership is offered to those who might otherwise chase after some adolescent version of the real thing. For when tribal groups emerge in modern conditions, they take the form of teenage gangs, whose initiation ceremonies forbid the transition to the adult world, and are designed to arrest their members in a stage of rebellion. The first concern of such a gang is to establish a right to territory, by violently erasing all rival claims.

The teenage gang is a natural (if destructive) response to a world in which the rites of passage into adulthood are no longer offered or respected. I do not say that such a world is a healthy one. But it is our world, and we have to make the best of it. Pop culture is an attempt to make the best of it - to make oneself at home in a world that is not, in any real sense, a home, since it has ceased to dedicate itself, as a home must dedicate itself, to the task of social reproduction. Home, after all, is the place where parents are. The world displayed in the culture of youth is a world from which the parent have absconded - as these days they generally do. This culture aims to present youth as the goal and fulfilment of human life, rather than a transitional phase which must be cast off as an impediment once the business of social reproduction calls. It promotes experiences which can be obtained without undertaking the burdens of responsibility, work, child-rearing and marriage. Hence sex, and especially sex divorced from any long-term commitment, becomes of paramount importance; so do experiences which involve no cost in terms of education, moral discipline, hardship or love - the paradigm being drug-taking, which has the added advantage that it shuts out the adult world completely, and replaces it with a cloud of wishful dreams. When the adult world is mentioned, it is in order to pour scorn on it as a delusive fiction or a source of tyrannical constraints.

Youth culture is therefore inherently transgressive. It announces itself aways as radical, disconcerting, infuriating, disorienting and lawless. The group Prodigy, currently top of the charts with "Slap My Bitch Up", makes the point explicitly in its techno-slam entitled "Their Law": i.e., the law of adults, which is there to be trampled on. But the explicit incitement contained in such a number should not blind us to the fact that transgression is also institutionalised by pop, so as to become a new conformism. Future Bitch, for example, announcing its debut at the Ministry of Sound, declares its aim "to disorientate its audience, pushing the current cultural scene to its limits and towards the millenium." Future Bitch, it goes on, "is challenging, radical, disconcerting, stimulating, unpredictable, subliminal and unprecedented". And what could be more predictable than that?

Clemens non Papa, "Ego flos campi"

The Marian Consort performs ...


You ask if your verses are good. You ask me this, and have asked others before me. You send them to journals. You compare them with other poems, and are anxious when certain editors reject your efforts. Now (since you would have me advise you) I beg you to forego all this. You are looking outwards, and that above all things you should avoid right now. No one can advise or help you, no one. There is but the one remedy. Go within. Find the reason that you write; see if its roots lie deep in your heart, confess to yourself you would die if you could not write. This above all, ask yourself in the silence of night: must I write? Dig deep for an answer. And if it should be in the affirmative, if you can meet this solemn question with a strong and simple I must, then construct your life in accord with that need; your life in its most trivial, its least important hour, must be sign and witness to this urge.

Then draw closer to Nature. Then, seek to say, as if you were the very first to do so, what you see, experience, love, and lose. Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too common and ordinary; they are the hardest, since it takes great and mature strength to create something of one’s own where a fine and brilliant tradition already exists. Deliver yourself from these general themes and choose those that your own life offers you, day by day; describe your sorrows and desires, your passing thoughts and belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these, with quiet, humble, heartfelt sincerity, and use the things around you to express yourself, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory. If your everyday life seems impoverished, don’t blame it; blame yourself, say to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to invoke its riches; since for the creative there is no such thing as poverty, no poor or indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in prison, one whose walls prevented all sound reaching you from the outside world – would you not still possess your childhood, that precious wealth, that store-house of memories? Turn your attention there. Try to raise the sunken sensations of that gigantic past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a twilit dwelling where the noise others make will pass by, far away. And if from this turning within, from this immersion in your own world, poems arise, you will not even think to ask if your verses are good. You will not even seek to interest the journals in your work: since you will see them as your own dear natural possession, a part of your life, a voice therein. A work of art is good if it is born of necessity. It can only be judged by such an origin: and in no other way. That is why, my dear sir, I have only this advice: go into yourself and view the depths from which your life springs; there at the source you will find the answer to the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer as it is given, without seeking to interpret it. Perhaps you will find your calling as an artist. Take that fate upon yourself, then, and bear its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world unto themself, and find everything there within the self, and in that Nature to which they are connected.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet


Look!  Look!  Torey Akers shrieks that we can't make her care about Renoir ... but then wonders, Since when do Republicans care about painting?, eventually writing 4,550 words on the subject (the first of which is. "So").

You and your penis better listen up, bub.

Duruflé, Requiem, Op.9

The Choir of Trinity College Cambridge, directed by Stephen Layton, performs, featuring mezzo-soprano, Katherine Gregory, and baritone, Florian Störtz, Accompaniment by cellist, Myrtille Hetzel, and organist, Harrison Cole ...


An excellent album ...


25 February 2023

Aaron Raitiere, "Single Wide Dreamer"


Only music clarifies, reconciles, and consoles. It’s a faithful friend, protector, and comforter, and for its sake alone, life in this world is worth living. Who knows, perhaps in heaven there will be no music. So let us live on the earth while we still have life!

Peter Tchaikovsky


An excellent album ...

"Mother Rebel" ...

Yes, "Hold On"


Jimmy Buffett, "Death of An Unpopular Poet"


Housed in the North West Tower of York Minster, "Great Peter" is the fourth largest bell in England; the others being "Great Paul," at St. Paul’s Cathedral, "Great George," at Liverpool Cathedral, and "Big Ben," at Palace of Westminster.

Rather than being a part of the peal of change-ringing bells that are housed in the North East Tower though, Great Peter is the single bell that marks the hour at the culmination of the clock chime; the boom of its toll, so sonorous, it can be heard across the length and breadth of the city.

Depicted: Great Peter being delivered by Taylor’s Bell Foundry in 1927.

Thank you, londonista59


Scorpions released Lovedrive on this day in 1979.

The title track ...


Kurt points to wisdom from Henry Ford ...
If you keep on recording all of your failures you will shortly have a list showing that there is nothing left for you to try – whereas it by no means follows because one man has failed in a certain method that another man will not succeed.

Happy Birthday, Renoir

Renoir, Apples and Walnuts, 1870

There are quite enough unpleasant things in life without the need to manufacture more.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, born on this day in 1841


From The Paris Review’s, “The Art of Poetry,” No. 27 ...
Elizabeth Spires
I heard a story that you once spent a night in a tree at Vassar outside Cushing dormitory. Is it true?

Elizabeth Bishop
Yes, it was me, me and a friend whose name I can’t remember. We really were crazy and those trees were wonderful to climb. I used to be a great tree climber. Oh, we probably gave up about three in the morning. How did that ever get around? I can’t imagine! We stopped being friends afterwards. Well, actually she had invited two boys from West Point for the weekend and I found myself stuck with this youth all in—[her hands draw an imagined cape and uniform in the air]—the dullest boy! I didn’t know what to say! I nearly went mad. I think I sort of dropped the friend at that point.  I lived in a great big corner room on the top floor of Cushing and I apparently had registered a little late because I had a roommate whom I had never wanted to have. A strange girl named Constance. I remember her entire side of the room was furnished in Scottie dogs—pillows, pictures, engravings and photographs. And mine was rather bare. Except that I probably wasn’t a good roommate either, because I had a theory at that time that one should write down all one’s dreams. That that was the way to write poetry. So I kept a notebook of my dreams and thought if you ate a lot of awful cheese at bedtime you’d have interesting dreams. I went to Vassar with a pot about this big—it did have a cover!—of Roquefort cheese that I kept in the bottom of my bookcase.  I think everyone’s given to eccentricities at that age. I’ve heard that at Oxford Auden slept with a revolver under his pillow.


An excellent album ...

24 February 2023

Kevin Fowler, "How Country are Ya?""

Happy Birthday, Homer

Homer, The Lone Boat, North Woods Club, Adirondacks,1892

A painter who begins and finishes indoors, that which is outdoors, misses a hundred little facts, a hundred little accidental effects of sunshine and shadow that can be reproduced only in the immediate presence of Nature. This making of studies and then taking them home is only half right. You get composition, but you lose freshness; you miss the subtle and, to the artist, the finer characteristics of the scene itself.

Winslow Homer, born on this day in 1836.

21 February 2023

Happy Birthday, Roger

Ranking Roger was born on this day in 1961.

The Beat, "Rough Rider" ...

Happy Birthday, Auden

As a poet – not as a citizen – there is only one political duty, and that is to defend one’s language from corruption. And that is particularly serious now. It’s being so quickly corrupted. "Speech is the mother of thought, not the hand-maiden." When it is corrupted, people lose faith in what they hear, and that leads to violence. As a citizen obviously one has a host of political duties. The issues are too obvious to go into. But that’s as a citizen. My only duty as a poet is to defend the use of language.

W.H. Auden, born on this day in 1907


An excellent album ...


 Wyeth, Jupiter, 1998

From earthsky.org ...
Bright planets and the moon this week!
Venus and Jupiter are the two brightest planets visible from Earth. And – throughout February 2023 – they’ve been easy to spot in the sunset direction during evening twilight. Dazzling Venus and bold Jupiter have crept closer together all month, with Venus shining as the brighter world. Around the evenings of February 21 and 22, you’ll see an even more spectacular scene in the evening twilight sky, as the young moon – a waxing crescent – joins the show.

Beausoliel, "Theogene Creole"

Un lagniappé pour les bon temps ... 

20 February 2023

Yes, "Lift Me Up"


George MacDonald Fraser on the (continued) offensiveness of the Good, Old Truth ...
We were freer by far 50 years ago - yes, even with conscription, censorship, direction of labour, rationing, and shortages of everything that nowadays is regarded as essential to enjoyment.

We still had liberty beyond modern understanding because we had other freedoms, the really important ones, that are denied to the youth of today.

We could say what we liked; they can't. We were not subject to the aggressive pressure of special interest minority groups; they are. We had no worries about race or sexual orientation; they have. We could, and did, differ from fashionable opinion with impunity, and would have laughed PC to scorn, had our society been weak and stupid enough to let it exist.

We had available to us an education system, public and private, that was the envy of the world. We had little reason to fear being mugged or raped (killed in war, maybe, but that was an acceptable hazard).

Our children could play in street and country in safety. We had few problems with bullies because society knew how to deal with bullying and was not afraid to punish it in ways that would send today's progressives into hysterics.

We did not know the stifling tyranny of a liberal establishment, determined to impose its views, and beginning to resemble George Orwell's Ministry of Truth.

Above all, we knew who we were and we lived in the knowledge that certain values and standards held true, and that our country, with all its faults and need for reforms, was sound at heart.

Not any more. I find it difficult to identify a time when the country was as badly governed as it has been in the past 50 years.

We have had the two worst Prime Ministers in our history - Edward Heath (who dragooned us into the Common Market) and Tony Blair. The harm these two have done to Britain is incalculable and almost certainly irreparable.

Whether the public can be blamed for letting them pursue their ruinous policies is debatable.

Short of assassination there is little people can do when their political masters have forgotten the true meaning of the democracy of which they are forever prating, are determined to have their own way at all costs and hold public opinion in contempt.

I feel I speak not just for myself but for the huge majority of my generation who think as I do but whose voices are so often lost in the clamour.

We are yesterday's people, the over-the-hill gang. (Yes, the old people - not the senior citizens or the time-challenged, but the old people.) Those of ultra-liberal views may take consolation from this - that my kind won't be around much longer, and then they can get on with wrecking civilisation in peace.

But they should beware. There may well be more who think like me than the liberal Left establishment likes to think. When my views were first published in book form in 2002, I was not surprised that almost all the reviewers were unfavourable. I had expected that my old-fashioned views would get a fairly hostile reception, but the bitterness did astonish me.

I had not realised how offensive the plain truth can be to the politically correct, how enraged they can be by its mere expression, and how deeply they detest the values and standards respected 50 years ago and which dinosaurs like me still believe in, God help us.


The world was introduced to The Smiths on this day in 1984.

And still we're asking, "What Difference Does It Make?" ...

The Beat, "Ackee 1 2 3"

Dave does it ...

The Church, "Is This Where You Live"


Washed up by the foam-waved sea ...


The CD image remains heart-sinkingly abysmal compared to the majesty of the LP sleeve. These things count.



It is precisely the colouring, the atmosphere, the unclassifiable individual details of a story, and above all the general purport that informs with life the undissected bones of the plot, that really count.

J.R.R. Tolkien


Old books that have ceased to be of service should no more be abandoned than should old friends who have ceased to give pleasure. 

Sir Peregrine Worsthorne

Thanks again to my friend, Kurt, I'm off ...

Haydn, Symphony No. 6 in D major, "Le Matin", Hob. I:6

Giovanni Antonini leads Il Giardino Armonico ...

Happy Birthday, Pye

Arnold, Henry James Pye, 1808



  By gay Amusement's soul-subduing power
  To chear the mournful or the vacant hour,
  In fancy's freakful gambols to delight,
  Or wage with active limbs the mimic fight,
  In earlier times, to breasts mature unknown,
  Were cares of playful infancy alone;
  Nor did soft dissipation's art assuage
  The toils of manhood, or the pains of age. 
  Not from mankind alone these rules we draw,
  Oft warp'd by prejudice from nature's law:
  But brutes, who with unbiass'd step pursue
  The eternal canons they from instinct drew,
  Confirm beyond a doubt this striking truth,
  That sports are native attributes of youth.
  The lamb frisks wanton o'er the dewy ground,
  The kitten hunts its tail in fruitless round;
  But o'er the down the ewes all pensive stray,
  And grave grimalkin silent waits her prey,
  Save when maternal fondness bids her share
  The frolick pastimes of her youthful care.
  Even so, ere social compact bids arise
  Unnumber'd wants, and every want supplies,
  Of childhood's joys no evanescent trace
  Delights man's sullen solitary race;
  For, if his eager footstep haunt the wood,
  He urges not the chace for sport but food;
  Fierce as the hungry pard, with ravening haste,
  Joyless and fell, he prowls the gloomy waste.
  And if perchance in polish'd times we find
  Pleasure more inmate of the female mind,
  Say what forbids our serious thought to draw
  The smiling preference from nature's law,
  And view the mother's fondness that beguil'd
  By kindred sports the sorrows of her child?
  Far, far from me be that malignant train,
  Who scowl severe on pleasure's silken reign; 
  Oft may her magic touch with sportive power
  Chear the dull languor of the tedious hour;
  For hours there are, when the o'er-labor'd sense
  Shrinks from the serious toil or thought intense.
  Oft to Amusement's visionary sway
  The real ills that poison life give way.
  In Lydia's plains, so tells the enchanting page
  Of Hist'ry's aweful sire the Carian sage,
  In Lydia's plains, what time with wasting hand
  Remorseless famine ravaged all the land,
  And the starv'd native on Pactolus' shore
  Ey'd the shrunk wave and curs'd the useless ore,
  By sports of art inventive fancy sought
  To turn from pinching want the tortur'd thought; 
  Their fascinating power the mind engag'd,
  And hunger for a while unheeded rag'd.
  How will Amusement's foes delight to trace
  The dreary leisure of the savage race,
  Or with imagination's eye pervade
  The lonesome refuge of the Indian's shade,
  When all the labors of the chace are o'er,
  Hunger appeas'd, and sleep can lull no more!
  Or let them picture to their aching sight
  The lengthen'd horrors of a polar night,
  Where, till returning spring dissolves the snow,
  No dawning light shall gild the mountain's brow,
  Nor can the native ply his needful toil,
  Chace the rough bear or turn the ungrateful soil; 
  Chearless and unemploy'd, condemn'd to wear
  In listless apathy the wintry year.
  When agriculture to the fertile plain
  Lur'd from the barren waste the improving swain,
  Soon partial property, with selfish plan,
  Her favorites cull'd, and sorted man from man.
  Then lusty labor bade the harvest rise
  To sate the lazy owner's pamper'd eyes;
  Who, deeming useful toil beneath his care,
  Pass'd all his hours in indolence and war,
  Or sought in peace by dangerous sports to gain
  A mimic semblance of the martial plain,
  Rov'd 'mid the forest haunts with wild delight,
  And wag'd with beasts of prey the unequal fight, 
  Or with his fellow warriors joy'd to wield
  In friendly strife the weapons of the field,
  In sportive exercise the javelin threw,
  Pois'd the long lance, or bent the twanging yew.
  Hence Grecia's chiefs the prize triumphant bore
  From Pisa's groves or Isthmus' wave-worn shore,
  While garlands of eternal fame inspire
  The kindling raptures of a Pindar's lyre,—
  Hence in the tournament the mail-clad knight
  Provok'd his peers to dare the listed fight,
  Urg'd his barb'd courser to the swift career,
  And broke in beauty's cause the ashen spear,
  While to the warbling harp's responsive string,
  Applauding bards the victor's triumph sing.
  Nor was the humbler swain, who till'd the ground,
  Condemn'd to labor's unremitting round;
  For, when the plenteous produce of the soil
  Stor'd in full garners pays his annual toil,
  Or when their fleecy weight his flocks resign,
  Or laughing autumn swells the purple vine,
  As pious cares his grateful mind employ,
    He consecrates the hallow'd hours to joy;
    Stretch'd on the turf the blazing hearth around,
    While by the talking eld the bowl is crown'd, 
    With sinewy limbs the rustic youth contend,
    Or to the mark the unerring javelin send,
    And from the village maid's approving eyes
    The jocund victor gains the fairest prize.
    When opulence assum'd his golden reign,—
    With luxury and science in his train,
    And beauty, man's fastidious empire o'er,—
    Join'd in the scenes she only judg'd before,
    The vacant hours to gentler toils invite,—
    Than the rude image of the bleeding sight;
    Each coarse delight to softer joy gives place,
    And sports of labor yield to sports of grace.—
    Responsive to the lyre's inspiring sound,
    In mingled measure now they beat the ground, 
    Now on the chequer'd field with silent care
    Attentive wage the sedentary war.
    Even manlier exercise the arts despoil
    Of half its danger, and of half its toil:
    No more the knight, in shining armour dress'd,
    Opposes to the pointed lance his breast;
    Scarce does the skilful fencer's bosom feel
    The pliant pressure of the bated steel;
    For the stupendous quoit or craggy stone,
    Afar with emulous contention thrown,
    Deliver'd with inferior force is seen
    The bowl slow-rolling o'er the shaven green; 
    Or else, defended from inclement skies,
    The ball rebounding from the racket flies;
    Or o'er the cloth, impell'd by gentler skill,
    The ivory orbs the net insidious sill.
    Even in those rougher transports of the chace,
    Where nature's genuine form we seem to trace,
    And art appears unequal to supply
    Assistance to the calls of luxury,
    For the wild tenants of the wood and plain
    Still their primæval character retain,
    Still will their wiles the experienc'd hunter foil,
    And still fatigue attend on cold and toil;
    Even in the forest-walks has polish'd care
    Taught healthful sport a gentler form to wear. 
    Swoln opulence is not content to stray
    In anxious search thro' many a tedious day,
    Where constant hopes the eager thought employ,
    And expectation doubles every joy:
    But the wing'd tribe, by care domestic bred,
    Watch'd with attention, with attention fed,
    Where'er the sportsman treads in clouds arise,
    Prevent his wish, and sate his dazzled eyes;
    And each redoubled shot with certain aim
    Covers the ensanguin'd field with home-bred game—
    Transporting joy! to vulgar breasts unknown,
    Save to the poulterer and cook alone;
    Who search the crouded coop with equal skill,
    As sure to find, almost as sure to kill. 
    No more the courser with attentive eyes
    'Mid the rank grass and tangled stubble pries,
    Till, many an hour in watchful silence pass'd,
    A moment's frenzy pays his toil at last.
    No chearful beagle now, at early dawn,
    Explores with tender nose the dewy lawn,
    Avows the recent path with carol sweet,
    And trails the listening leveret to her seat;
    Stretch'd on the couch the lazy sportsmen lie,
    Till Sol ascending gilds the southern sky,
    And leave the hind, with mercenary care,
    To seek the refuge of the lurking hare. 
    Dullest of all pursuits, why mention here
    The chace inglorious of the stall-fed deer?
    When even that generous race who justly claim
    Toilsome pre-eminence of sylvan fame,
    Who joy to lay with sanguine vengeance low
    The sheepfold and the henyard's treacherous foe;
    Even they who us'd, ere morn's first opening light,
    To trace the skulking felon of the night,
    With slacken'd vigor now their sports delay,
    Till Phoebus pours the orient beams of day.
    Nor does the drag, evaporating soon,
    Beneath the warmer influence of noon, 
    Frustrate their hopes; for, bearing in their mind
    That well-known adage, "Those that hide can find,"
    Sure of success, the covert they explore,
    For foxes turn'd adrift the night before.
    But say, is this the pastime of the fields,
    Where panting expectation rapture yields?—
    Coldly the certain victim we pursue,
    And losing doubt we lose the transport too.
    If such the texture luxury has thrown
    O'er scenes confin'd to ruder man alone,
    What shall we find them when the gentler fair
    Mix with the band and every pleasure share?—
    Not those bold dames who join the rustic train,
    Chear the staunch hound, the fiery courser rein; 
    Or those to point the feather'd shaft who know,
    And joy "to bear, and draw the warrior bow."
    O may Britannia's nymphs such arts despise,
    Content alone to conquer with their eyes!
    For Omphale as ill the lion's spoil
    Becomes, as Hercules the distaff's toil;
    But such as haunt the seats of courtly fame,
    Where female charms the first attention claim,
    And their contending powers the arts employ
    To ravish every sense with every joy.—
    The splendid theatre's refulgent round,—
    With pomp, with elegance, with beauty crown'd.—
    Not that I mean whose homelier scenes invite
    To tales of grief, of humour, of delight, 
    Where Shakespear's honied style enthralls the ear,
    Wakes the loud laugh, or draws the heart-felt tear—
    Shakespear! ador'd in these degenerate days,
    To whom we hymns inscribe, and temples raise,
    Worship his image, and neglect his plays.—
    Ah! who the evening's festal hours will quit
    For scenes of tragic woe or comic wit?—
    Scenes of a purer polish must engage
    The loose attention of a courtly age;
    Scenes where satiric point ne'er gives offence,
    Or verse disturbs its placid stream with sense;
    Where from Hesperian fields the eunuch train
    Trill with soft voice the unimpassion'd strain,
    In measur'd cadence while the dancers art
    Wakes without words the feelings of the heart. 
    Delightful joys! of universal power,
    Suited to every taste and every hour,
    Since the loose drama no connexion ties,
    And all may judge who trust their ears and eyes.—
    See in majestic swell yon festive dome,
    Like the Pantheon of imperial Rome,
    And where as many fabled forms unite,
    Visions of bliss or demons of affright.
    Or, sought in vernal hours, that ampler space
    Where beauty's steps the eternal circle trace,
    And midnight revelry delights her soul
    With breezes redolent of tea and roll,
    In fragrant steam while thro' the crouded room
    The Arabian berry yields its rich perfume, 
    And 'mid the murmurs of the mingled throng
    Unheeded music swells the slighted song;
    Or, Lent's delight, the Oratorio dull,
    Of yawning connoisseurs and coxcombs full;
    When, plays profane deny'd, our ears explore
    The pious freaks of Alexander's whore;
    The rout repeated with incessant call,
    The formal concert, and the mirthless ball.—
    Say is this joy?—Yes, to the virgin's heart
    First stung by potent love's resistless smart;
    Who 'mid the empty croud of silken beaux
    Her glance on one distinguish'd fav'rite throws;
    Yes, to the insidious wretch whose guilty care
    Hunts artless virtue into vice's snare, 
    Whose every thought and action is address'd
    To wound a parent's or a husband's breast,
    Or that more gross tho' less pernicious tribe
    Who venal beauty's joyless favors bribe;
    Yes, to the rural nymph of distant plains
    Who three sweet months of charming London gains;
    Yes, to the youth escap'd from smoke and trade
    To shew the western town his stol'n cockade:—
    To these, where passion gently soothes the breast,
    Or vice affords their joys a guilty zest;
    Or novelty, fair pleasure's youthful queen,
    Gives fresh allurements to each splendid scene,
    To these, in fancy's varying mirror shown,
    Amusement charms with beauties not its own.— 
    To all the rest, with listless mind who fly
    To midnight crouds from languor's leaden eye,
    To the full circle run from home-felt care,
    Then start to meet the ghastly spectre there,
    The night of revel wears as dull away
    As to th' o'erlabor'd hind the tedious day.—
    Of these our joys how transient then the state,
    Since still disgust must on possession wait!
    Pleasure we all pursue with eager pace,
    Yet lose the quarry when we lose the chace;
    Thro' fancy's medium when our view we bend,
    Ten thousand charms the ideal form attend;
    Shewn plainly to our disappointed eyes
    The enchantment breaks, and every beauty flies.— 
    The sprightly boy who draws in shadowy plan
    The future pleasures of the envied man,
    His father's hounds in all his brothers views,
    And warm a visionary fox pursues;
    Or else, like Hecat', mounted on a broom
    His fancied racer spurs around the room;
    Tho' airy phantoms then his mind employ,
    Yet then he feels more true substantial joy
    Than all the sports of ripen'd age shall gain
    From Meynell's hunt, or fam'd Newmarket's plain.
    Yet not alone to rich Augusta's towers,
    A nation's wealth where dissipation showers;
    Or Bladud's walls, in rising splendor dress'd,
    Proud of the healing fount, and frequent guest; 
    Or those unnumber'd shores where fashion laves
    Her jaded limbs in ocean's briny waves;—
    Not to these seats, for courtly haunts design'd,
    Is pleasure's universal reign confin'd:
    Britannia scarcely owns a town so small
    As not to boast its periodic ball,
    Where, when full-orb'd, Diana pours her light,
    And gilds the darkness of the wintry night,
    The village beaux and belles their hours employ—
    In the full swing of fashionable joy:—
    Aside the unfinish'd handkerchief is thrown,
    And the fair sempstress adjusts her own;
    The apothecary quits the unpounded pill,
    Even the attorney drops his venal quill, 
    And, as his eyes the sprightly dance behold,
    Forgets to drain the widow's purse of gold.—
    To these 'tis joy.—But even the courtly train,
    Anxious the dregs of pleasure's bowl to drain,
    When, fully sated with each splendid show
    That elegance and grandeur can bestow,
    To rural solitude they fly, will there
    This faint reflection of amusement share.
    When from Southampton's or from Brighton's shore,
    Which charm'd when London's revelry was o'er,
    The fading beauty of autumnal hours,
    Recalls the sportsman to his native bowers, 
    To tell his neighbours all the toils of state,
    Recount of public cares the enormous weight,
    And how he slumber'd thro' the long debate;
    His wife and daughters quit the Gothic hall
    To taste the raptures of the rustic ball.
    The high-born misses, insolent and vain,
    Scorn while they mingle with the homely train,
    Still at the top, in spite of order, stand,
    And hardly touch a mean plebeian hand;
    While madam, eager 'mid the card-room's strife,
    Insults the lawyer's and the curate's wife,
    Now smiles contemptuous, now with anger burns,
    And domineers and scolds, and cheats by turns;
    Pleas'd on the village gentry to retort
    Slights she receives from dutchesses at court.
    But what are these, by starts alone pursu'd,
    These partial errors of the moon?—when view'd
    By that assemblage of each rustic grace,
    That cynosure of joy, a county race;
    Where, with fatigue and dulness in her train,
    Provincial pleasure holds her proudest reign?
    O that my Muse in equal verse could tell
    Each varied object which she knows so well!—
    The crowded ordinary's loud repast,
    The frequent bumper swallow'd down in haste,
    The rattling carriage driven with drunken speed,
    The bawling hawker, and the restive steed,
    The proffer'd bet with interjection strong,
    And the shrill squallings of the female throng; 
    The sounding hoof, the whip's coercive sound,
    As the fleet coursers stretch along the ground,
    When the repeated oath and menace loud
    Warn from the listed course the pressing croud;
    The various horrors of the narrow lane,
    As the promiscuous heaps the town regain,
    Where coaches, waggons, horsemen, footmen, all
    Rush eager to the alehouse, or the ball;
    The fragrant toilette of the crouded room,
    The stables and the kitchen's mix'd perfume;
    The minuet's sober note till midnight drawn,
    The gayer dance beyond the hour of dawn,
    While the vex'd gamester at his rubber hears
    The eternal tune still droning in his ears; 
    The supper, circling toast, and choral lay,
    Protracted far into the solid day;
    The interrupted sleep, till noon again
    Rouse to the early feast the drowsy train,
    And to the bev'rage of the Indian weed
    The smoking haunch and mantling bowl succeed.—
    Is this Amusement?—Ask the county knight,
    Press'd into pleasure in his own despight,
    Who, quitting all the placid joys of home
    For seven months session in St. Stephen's dome,
    Compell'd each office of fatigue to share,
    And every quarter fill the Quorum's chair,
    Must all these mingled forms of mirth partake,
    Drink, dance, and gamble for his country's sake; 
    Ask him if days in dull committees spent,
    Or sleepless nights to oratory lent,
    Tho' litigation waste the morning's hours,
    Or fancy crown the eve with eastern flowers;
    Ask him if months that toils like these employ,
    Are half so hard as this oppressive joy.
    Yet to the village sons who throng the ground,
    Sent forth in numbers from each cottage round,
    Who leave awhile untill'd the fertile soil,
    And snatch a respite from diurnal toil,
    These varied sports a real joy afford,
    No art can give the pleasure-sated lord.
    Behold the transports of yon festive scene,
    Where the wide country on the tented green 
    Its inmates pours, impatient all to share
    The expected pleasures of the annual fair!—
    See to the amorous youth and village maid
    The pedlar's silken treasury display'd;
    The liquorish boy the yellow simnel eyes,
    The champion's cudgel wins the envied prize;
    The martial trumpet calls the gazers in
    Where lions roar, or fierce hyenas grin.—
    Responsive to the tabor's sprightly sound
    Behold the jingling morrice beat the ground,
    The neighing courser sleek and trick'd for sale,
    Grains in his paunch and ginger in his tail;
    The dwarf and giant painted to the life,
    The spirit-stirring drum, and shrill-ton'd fife, 
    Prelusive to the warlike speech that charms
    The kindling heroes of the plain to arms.—
    Here bliss unfeign'd in every eye we trace,
    Here heart-felt mirth illumines every face,
    For pleasure here has never learn'd to cloy,
    But days of toil enliven hours of joy.
    Joy, how unlike its unsubstantial shade
    Which faintly haunts the midnight masquerade,
    Where the distorted vizard ill conceals
    The deep ennui each languid bosom feels,
    And, but for shame, each vot'ry of delight,
    Fatigued with all the nonsense of the night,
    Would, like Squire Richard, seek with sated eye
    Wrestling and backsword for variety.
    Nor do I fable—worn with constant care
    Of fev'rish riot and fantastic glare,
    From splendid luxury our youth resort
    To all the roughness of barbarian sport,
    And leave each softer elegance of town
    To share the pastime of the rustic clown;
    Croud to behold, on the forbidden stage,
    Christian and Jew in bloody fight engage,
    Amusement in a fractur'd shoulder spy,
    And gaze with rapture on a batter'd eye.
    Nor this alone: reflection's form to shun
    To scenes of business indolence will run.
    Fatigu'd and cloy'd, of rest impatient still,
    What crouds the senate's loaded gall'ry fill! 
    From Siddons' tears and Jordan's smile they fly
    To long harangues, impell'd by novelty;
    As pleas'd when dulness lulls, with cadence deep,
    Knights, citizens, and burgesses to sleep,
    As when, aroused in freedom's hallow'd cause,
    Unsullied praise the Son of Chatham draws,
    And eloquence, with more than Grecian art,
    Decks the pure dictates of a Cato's heart.
    Of British politics, ah selfish pride!
    Which joys like these to female ears deny'd;
    Till beauty's champion, with attentive care,
    Turn'd out a Nabob to divert the fair,
    And now they hear his chosen band dispense
    The cream of opposition eloquence.
    But say, what fashionable form appears,
    Whose vacant brow reflection's aspect wears?
    Who rolls the eye with senseless sapience full,
    In trifles wise, and venerably dull?—
    I know him well.—In midnight fumes enclos'd
    Of the Virginian weed, while Folly doz'd,
    Dulness advanc'd with Aldermannic tread
    In solemn silence to the ideot's bed,
    And in the produce of the stol'n embrace
    The father's sense, and mother's wit we trace:
    Both with a parent's love their offspring kiss'd,
    Presag'd his future fame, and call'd him Whist.
    Far from the courtly race, in private bred,
    With rural swains his early youth he led, 
    The chearing solace, by the wintry fire,
    Of the fat parson or the drunken squire;
    Till, when each livelier game could charm no more,
    And dear Quadrille itself became a bore,
    Capricious taste, with novel nonsense fraught,
    To town this scientific stranger brought,
    Taught him the courtly circle's smile to share,
    Till fashion bade him reign sole monarch there.
    Struck with amaze, his sprightlier rivals fly
    The chilling torpor of his gorgon eye:
    Spadille no longer rears his sable shield,
    Pam drops his halberd and forsakes the field.—
    See where around the silent vot'ries sit,
    To radiant beauty blind, and deaf to wit; 
    Each vacant eye appears with wisdom fraught,
    Each solemn blockhead looks as if he thought.
    Here coward insolence insults the bold,
    And selfish av'rice boasts his lust of gold;
    Ill-temper vents her spleen without offence,
    And pompous dulness triumphs over sense.
    Should some intrusive infant in the room
    Disturb with jocund voice the general gloom,
    The parent's eye, with short-liv'd frenzy wild,
    Reproves the frolic of his wiser child.—
    O strange extreme of fancy's wayward mood!
    Distemper'd pleasure's sickly change of food,
    Which, loathing every taste of known delight,
    Provokes with trash her blunted appetite.— 
    Yet, if this stretch of studious thought be joy,
    Let schemes of use the anxious mind employ,
    Turn Wingate's solid pages, or explore
    The untried depth of mathematic lore;
    Or else with Herschell's telescopic eye
    Trace new-found planets thro' the vaulted sky;
    Or, if the cold blood curdling round the heart,
    Deny of science this sublimer part,
    On politics awake the learn'd debate,
    For every Briton knows to mend the state;
    Nor strive in serious trifles to excel,
    Which childhood even might blush to know too well.
    Far from fantastic fashion's giddy range,
    Far from the dulness of fastidious change,
    Pleasure, by fancy's airy fingers dress'd,
    Object of every wish in every breast,
    Holds her abode; nor shall o'erweening pride
    Her roseate smiles in gloomy accent chide.—
    O may I oft partake her genial hour,
    Join in her train, and bless her friendly power;
    Oft taste the pure unsullied scenes of joy,
    Where wit and beauty mingled charms employ;
    The free libation of the temperate bowl,
    "The feast of reason, and the flow of soul;"
    The theatre, where truth, by genius dight,
    Holds her broad mirror to the conscious sight; 
    The heart-felt thrilling of the warbled lay,
    The dancing measures of the young and gay;
    The manlier sports, where hope, by doubt repress'd,
    With expectation fires the panting breast,
    And languor on the upland brow inhales
    New health and vigor from the morning gales;
    The evening walk, when spring adorns the glades,
    Or summer's foliage all the forest shades;
    The joyous hours, when winter bids retire
    To the warm comfort of the social fire;
    The honest laugh, which care's stern brow unbends;
    The brilliant jest, which shines but ne'er offends;
    The tender strain, the hymn to Bacchus roar'd
    In choral transport round the festive board; 
    The catch, which oft in vain the songsters try,
    While one is still too low, and one too high,
    Till, after many a fruitless effort pass'd,
    The harmonious discord is produc'd at last;
    Even cards, if cards can e'er the mind engage,
    Divested quite of avarice and rage,
    Even cards some drowsy interval may chear,
    But ne'er in wisdom's borrow'd robe appear;—
    And, only source of pleasure's keenest zest,
    May some pursuit still animate the breast;
    From whence, returning to the sportful hour,
    Amusement charms with renovated power.
    For let the Muse, in her concluding strain,
    This truth impart to pleasure's votive train;— 
    Urg'd to excess all human bliss must cloy,
    And joy perpetual ceases to be joy.

Henry James Pye, born on this day in 1745