«Пир мудрецов (Дейпнософисты), Том 3»

But to the financier, with costly niceness,

Glociscus rare, or rarity more rare.

Insensible the palate of old age,

More difficult than the soft lips of youth

To move, I put much mustard in their dish;

With quickening sauces make their stupor keen,

And lash the lazy blood that creeps within. —D'Israeli.

Дионисий. (Книга ix. § 69, стр. 638.)

"Know then, the Cook, a dinner that's bespoke

Aspiring to prepare, with prescient zeal

Should know the tastes and humours of the guests;

For if he drudges through the common work,

Thoughtless of manner, careless what the place

And seasons claim, and what the favouring hour

Auspicious to his genius may present,

Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men,

Call we this plodding fricasseer a Cook?

Oh, differing far! and one is not the other!

We call indeed the general of an army

Him who is charged to lead it to the war;

But the true general is the man whose mind,

Mastering events, anticipates, combines;

Else he is but a leader to his men!

With our profession thus: the first who comes

May with a humble toil, or slice, or chop,

Prepare the ingredients, and around the fire

Obsequious, him I call a fricasseer!

But ah! the cook a brighter glory crowns!

Well skill'd is he to know the place, the hour,

Him who invites, and him who is invited,

What fish in season makes the market rich,

A choice delicious rarity! I know

That all, we always find; but always all,

Charms not the palate, critically fine.

Archestratus, in culinary lore

Deep for his time, in this more learned age

Is wanting; and full oft he surely talks

Of what he never ate. Suspect his page,

Nor load thy genius with a barren precept.

Look not in books for what some idle sage

So idly raved; for cookery is an art

Comporting ill with rhetoric; 'tis an art

Still changing, and of momentary triumph!

Know on thyself thy genius must depend.

All books of cookery, all helps of art,

All critic learning, all commenting notes,

Are vain, if, void of genius, thou wouldst cook!"

The culinary sage thus spoke; his friend

Demands, "Where is the ideal cook thou paint'st?"

"Lo, I the man!" the savouring sage replied.

"Now be thine eyes the witness of my art!

This tunny drest, so odorous shall steam,

The spicy sweetness so shall steal thy sense,

That thou in a delicious reverie

Shalt slumber heavenly o'er the Attic dish!" —D'Israeli.

Тот же.

A. The wretch on whom you lavish so much praise,

I swear, by all the gods, but ill deserves it—

The true professor of the art should strive

To gratify the taste of every guest;

For if he merely furnishes the table,

Sees all the dishes properly disposed,

And thinks, having done this, he has discharged

His office, he's mistaken, and deserves

To be consider'd only as a drudge,

A kitchen-drudge, without or art or skill,

And differs widely from a cook indeed,

A master of his trade.—He bears the name

Of General, 'tis true, who heads the army;

But he whose comprehensive mind surveys

The whole, who knows to turn each circumstance

Of time, and place, and action, to advantage,—

Foresees what difficulties may occur,

And how to conquer them,—this is the man

Who should be call'd the general; the other

The mere conductor of the troops, no more:

So in our art it is an easy thing

To boil, to roast, to stew, to fricassee,

To blow the bellows, or to stir the fire;

But a professor of the art regards

The time, the place, th' inviter, and the guest;

And when the market is well stored with fish,

Knows to select, and to prefer such only

As are in proper season, and, in short,

Omits no knowledge that may justly lead

To the perfection of his art. 'Tis true,

Archestratus has written on the subject,

And is allow'd by many to have left

Most choice receipts, and rare inventions

Useful and pleasing; yet in many things

He was profoundly ignorant, and speaks

Upon report, without substantial proof

Or knowledge of his own. We must not trust,

Nor give our faith to loose conjectures thus;

For in our art we only can depend

On actual practice and experiment.

Having no fix'd and settled laws by which

We may be govern'd, we must frame our own,

As time and opportunity may serve,

Which if we do not well improve, the art

Itself must suffer by our negligence.

B. You are indeed a most renown'd professor;

But still you have omitted to point out

The properties of that most skilful cook

Who furnish'd splendid feasts with so much ease.

A. Give but the word, and you shall see me dress

A thrion in such style! and other dainties

To furnish out a full and rich repast,

That you may easily conceive the rest;

Nay, you will think yourself in Attica,

From the sweet fragrance, and delicious taste;

And then the whole so various, and well-dress'd,

You shall be puzzled where to fix your choice,

From the stored viands of so rich a board. —Anon.

Мнесимах. (Книга x. § 18, стр. 663.)

Dost know whom thou'rt to sup with, friend?—I'll tell thee;

With gladiators, not with peaceful guests;

Instead of knives we're arm'd with naked swords,

And swallow firebrands in the place of food:

Daggers of Crete are served us for confections,

And for a plate of pease a fricassee

Of shatter'd spears: the cushions we repose on

Are shields and breastplates, at our feet a pile

Of slings and arrows, and our foreheads wreath'd

With military ensigns, not with myrtle. —Cumberland.

То же.

Know'st thou with whom thou hast to deal?

On sharpen'd swords we make our meal;

The dripping torch, snapdragon-wise,

Our burning beverage supplies;

And Cretic shafts, as sweetmeats stored,

Form the dessert upon our board,

With tid-bits of split javelin:

Pillow'd on breastplates we recline;

Strew'd at our feet are slings and bows,

And crown'd with catapults our brows.—Wrangham.

То же.

Herken my word: wote thou, leve brother min,

Thou shulde in certaine thys daie wyth us din.

Bright swerdes and eke browne our vittaile been;

Torches we glot for sowle, that fyerie bren.

Eftsone the page doth sette upon our bord,

Yfette fro Crete, kene arwes long and broad;

No fetches do we ete, but speres shente,

That gadred ben fro blood ydrenched bente.

The silver targe, and perced habergeon,

Been that, whan sonne is set, we lig upon.

On bowes reste our fete whan that we slepe,

With katapultes crownde, so heie hem clepe.—W. W.

Алкей. (Книга X, § 35, стр. 679.)

To be bow'd by grief is folly;

Nought is gain'd by melancholy;

Better than the pain of thinking

Is to steep the sense in drinking. —Bland.

Алексид. (Книга X, § 71, стр. 709.)

A. A thing exists which nor immortal is,

Nor mortal, but to both belongs, and lives

As neither god nor man does. Every day

'Tis born anew and dies. No eye can see it,

And yet to all 'tis known.

B. A plague upon you!

You bore me with your riddles.

A. Still, all this

Is plain and easy.

B. What then can it be?

A. Sleep—that puts all our cares and pains to flight. —J. A. St. John.

То же.

Nor mortal fate, nor yet immortal thine,

Amalgam rare of human and divine;

Still ever new thou comest, soon again

To vanish, fleeting as the phantom train;

Ever invisible to earthly eye,

Yet known to each one most familiarly.—F. Metcalfe.

Эвбул. (Книга X, § 71, стр. 710.)

A. What is it that, while young, is plump and heavy,

But, being full grown, is light, and wingless mounts

Upon the courier winds, and foils the sight?

B. The Thistle's Beard; for this at first sticks fast

To the green seed, which, ripe and dry, falls off

Upon the cradling breeze, or, upwards puff'd

By playful urchins, sails along the air.—J. A. St. John.

Антифан. (Книга X, § 73, стр. 711.)

There is a female which within her bosom

Carries her young, that, mute, in fact, yet speak,

And make their voice heard on the howling waves,

Or wildest continent. They will converse

Even with the absent, and inform the deaf. —J. A. St. John.

То же.

Know'st thou the creature, that a tiny brood

Within her bosom keeps securely mew'd?

Though voiceless all, beyond the ocean wide

To distant realms their still small voices glide.

Far, far away, whome'er t' address they seek

Will understand, yet no one hears them speak. —F. Metcalfe.

Теодект. (Книга X, § 75, стр. 713.)

A thing whose match, or in the depths profound

Of ocean, or on earth, can ne'er be found;

Cast in no mortal mould its growth of limb

Dame Nature orders by the strangest whim.

'Tis born, and lo! a giant form appears;

Toward middle age a smaller size it wears;

And now again, its day of life nigh o'er,

How wonderful gigantic as before. —F. Metcalfe.

Теодект. (Книга X, § 75, стр. 713.)

We're sisters twain, one dying bears the other:

She too expires, and so brings forth her mother. —F. Metcalfe.

Ксенофан. (Книга XI, § 7, стр. 729.)

The ground is swept, and the triclinium clean,

The hands are purified, the goblets too

Well rinsed, each guest upon his forehead bears

A wreathed flow'ry crown; from slender vase

A willing youth presents to each in turn

A sweet and costly perfume; while the bowl,

Emblem of joy and social mirth, stands by,

Fill'd to the brim; another pours out wine

Of most delicious flavour, breathing round

Fragrance of flowers, and honey newly made;

So grateful to the sense, that none refuse;

While odoriferous gums fill all the room.

Water is served too, cold, and fresh, and clear;

Bread, saffron tinged, that looks like leaves of gold.

The board is gaily spread with honey pure,

And savoury cheese. The altar, too, which stands

Full in the centre, crown'd with flow'ry wreaths;

The house resounds with music and with song,

With songs of grateful praise, such as become

The wise and good to offer to the gods,

In chaste and modest phrase. They humbly ask,

Pouring their free libations, to preserve

A firm and even mind; to do no wrong,

But equal justice to dispense to all;

A task more easy, more delightful far,

Than to command, to slander, or oppress.

At such repasts each guest may safely drink

As much as suits his sober appetite,

Then unattended seek his home, unless

His feeble age requires assistance. Him

Above all others let us praise, who while

The cheerful cup goes round, shall charm the guests

With free recital of acts worthy praise,

And fit to be remember'd; that inspire

The soul to valour, and the love of fame,

The meed of virtuous action. Far from us

The war of Titans; or the bloody strife

Of the seditious Centaurs; such examples

Have neither use nor profit—wiser far

To look to brighter patterns that instruct,

And lead the mind to great and good pursuits. —Anon.

Алексид. (Книга XI, § 9, стр. 731.)

Do you not know that by the term call'd life,

We mean to give a softer tone to ills

That man is heir to? Whether I judge right

Or wrong in this, I'll not presume to say—

Having reflected long and seriously,

To this conclusion I am brought at last,

That universal folly governs all;

For in this little life of ours, we seem

As strangers that have left their native home.

We make our first appearance from the realms

Of death and darkness, and emerge to light,

And join th' assembly of our fellow-men—

They who enjoy themselves the most, and drink,

And laugh, and banish care, or pass the day

In the soft blandishments of love, and leave

No joy untasted, no delight untried

That innocence and virtue may approve,

And this gay festival afford, depart

Cheerful, like guests contented, to their home. —Anon.

Сапфо. (Книга XI, § 9, стр. 731.)

Come, Venus, come!

Hither with thy golden cup,

Where nectar-floated flowerets swim!

Fill, fill the goblet up!

These laughing lips shall kiss the brim—

Come, Venus, come! —Anon.

Пифей. (Книга XI, § 14, стр. 734.)

Here jolly Pytheas lies,

A right honest man, and wise,

Who of goblets had very great store,

Of amber, silver, gold,

All glorious to behold,

In number ne'er equall'd before. —J. A. St. John.

Автор «Фиваиды». (Книга XI, § 14, стр. 735.)

Then Polyneices of the golden locks,

Sprung from the gods, before his father placed

A table all of silver, which had once

Been Cadmus's, next fill'd the golden bowl

With richest wine. At this old Œdipus,

Seeing the honour'd relics of his sire

Profaned to vulgar uses, roused to anger,

Pronounced fierce imprecations, wish'd his sons

Might live no more in amity together,

But plunge in feuds and slaughters, and contend

For their inheritance: and the Furies heard. —J. A. St. John.

(Книга XI, § 19, стр. 738.)

Troy's lofty towers by Grecians sack'd behold!

Parrhasios' draught, by Mys engraved in gold. —J. A. St. John.

Сопатр. (Книга XI, § 28, стр. 742.)

'Tis sweet in early morn to cool the lips

With pure fresh water from the gushing fount,

Mingled with honey in the Baucalis,

When one o'er night has made too free with wine,

And feels sharp thirst. —J. A. St. John.

Алексид. (Книга XI, § 30, стр. 743.)

A. But let me first describe the cup; 'twas round,

Old, broken-ear'd, and precious small besides,

Having indeed some letters on't.

B. Yes, letters;

Eleven, and all of gold, forming the name

Of Saviour Zeus.

A. Tush! no, some other god.—J. A. St. John.

Дамоксен. (Книга XI, § 35, стр. 747.)

A. If this hold not enough, see, the boy comes

Bearing the Elephant!

B. Immortal gods!

What thing is that?

A. A double-fountain'd cup,

The workmanship of Alcon; it contains

Only three gallons. —J. A. St. John.

Ферекрат. (Книга XI, § 62, стр. 767.)

Remark, how wisely ancient art provides

The broad-brimm'd cup with flat expanded sides;

A cup contrived for man's discreeter use,

And sober portions of the generous juice:

But woman's more ambitious thirsty soul

Soon long'd to revel in the plenteous bowl;

Deep and capacious as the swelling hold

Of some stout bark she shaped the hollow mould,

Then turning out a vessel like a tun,

Simp'ring exclaim'd—Observe! I drink but one. —Cumberland.

Архилох. (Книга XI, § 66, стр. 771.)

Come then, my friend, and seize the flask,

And while the deck around us rolls,

Dash we the cover from the cask,

And crown with wine our flowing bowls.

While the deep hold is tempest-tost,

We'll strain bright nectar from the lees:

For, though our freedom here be lost,

We drink no water on the seas. —C. Merivale.

Алексид. (Книга XII, § 1, стр. 818; IV, § 59, стр. 265 и сл.)

You, Sir, a Cyrenean, as I take you,

Look at your sect of desperate voluptuaries;

There's Diodorus—beggary is too good for him—

A vast inheritance in two short years,

Where is it? Squander'd, vanish'd, gone for ever:

So rapid was his dissipation.—Stop!

Stop! my good friend, you cry; not quite so fast!

This man went fair and softly to his ruin;

What talk you of two years? As many days,

Two little days, were long enough to finish

Young Epicharides; he had some soul,

And drove a merry pace to his undoing—

Marry! if a kind surfeit would surprise us,

Ere we sit down to earn it, such prevention

Would come most opportune to save the trouble

Of a sick stomach and an aching head:

But whilst the punishment is out of sight,

And the full chalice at our lips, we drink,

Drink all to-day, to-morrow fast and mourn,

Sick, and all o'er oppress'd with nauseous fumes;

Such is the drunkard's curse, and Hell itself

Cannot devise a greater. Oh that nature

Might quit us of this overbearing burthen,

This tyrant-god, the belly! take that from us,

With all its bestial appetites, and man,

Exonerated man, shall be all soul. —Cumberland.

Анаксилай. (Книга XIII, § 6, стр. 893.)

Whoever has been weak enough to dote,

And live in precious bondage at the feet

Of an imperious mistress, may relate

Some part of their iniquity at least.

In fact, what monster is there in the world

That bears the least comparison with them!

What frightful dragon, or chimera dire,

What Scylla, what Charybdis, can exceed them?

Nor sphinx, nor hydra, nay, no winged harpy,

Nor hungry lioness, nor poisonous adder,

In noxious qualities, is half so bad.

They are a race accursed, and stand alone

Preeminent in wickedness. For instance,

Plangon, a foul chimera; spreading flames,

And dealing out destruction far and near,

And no Bellerophon to crush the monster.

Then Sinope, a many-headed hydra,

An old and wrinkled hag—Gnathine, too,

Her neighbour—Oh! they are a precious pair.

Nanno's a barking Scylla, nothing less—

Having already privately dispatch'd

Two of her lovers, she would lure a third

To sure destruction, but the youth escaped,

Thanks to his pliant oars, and better fortune.

Phryne, like foul Charybdis, swallows up

At once the pilot and the bark. Theano,

Like a pluck'd siren, has the voice and look

Of woman, but below the waist, her limbs

Wither'd and shrunk in to the blackbird's size.

These wretched women, one and all, partake

The nature of the Theban Sphinx; they speak

In doubtful and ambiguous phrase, pretend

To love you truly, and with all their hearts,

Then whisper in your ear, some little want—

A girl to wait on them forsooth, a bed,

Or easy-chair, a brazen tripod too—

Give what you will they never are content;

And to sum up their character at once,

No beast that haunts the forest for his prey

Is half so mischievous. —Anon.

То же.

Away, away with these female friends!

He whose embraces have encircled one,

Will own a monster has been in his arms;

Fell as a dragon is, fire-spouting like

Chimæra, like the rapid ocean-portent,

Three-headed and dog-snouted!—

Harpies are less obscene in touch than they:

The tigress robb'd of her first whelps, more merciful:

Asps, scorpions, vipers, amphisbenæ dire,

Cerastes, Ellops, Dipsas, all in one!—

But come, let's pass them in review before us,

And see how close the parallels will hold.

And first for Plangon: where in the scale place her?

E'en rank her with the beast whose breath is flame.

Like her she deals combustion round; and foreigners

By scores have perish'd in her conflagrations.

One only 'scaped the fair incendiary,

And that by virtue of his nimble steed.

He back'd his baggage, and turn'd tail upon her.—

Have commerce with Sinope, and you'll find

That Lerna's monster was no tale; for like

The hydra she can multiply her members,

And fair Gnathæna is the present offshoot:

Her morning charms for beauties in the wane

Compensate—but—the dupe pays doubly for't.

There's Nanno too:—Nanno and Scylla's pool

Bear close similitude: two swains have made

Already shipwreck in that gulf; a third

Had shared their fortunes, but the wiser boy

Plied well his oars, and boldly stood to sea-ward.

If Nanno's Scylla, Phryne is Charybdis:

Woe to the wretch who comes within her tide!

Engulf'd in whelming waves, both bark and mariner

Are suck'd into th' abyss of quick perdition!

And what's Theano? bald, and bare, and peel'd,

With whom but close-pluck'd sirens ranks she? woman

In face and voice; but in her feet—a blackbird.

But why enlarge my nomenclature? Sphinx is

A common name for all: on her enigma

Is moulded all their speech: love, fealty,

Affection,—these are terms drop clear enough

From them, but at their heels comes a request,

Wrapt up in tortuous phrase of nice perplexity.

(Mimics.)—"A four-foot couch perchance would grace their chamber!

Their needs forsooth require a chair—three-footed,

Or, for the nonce, two-footed—'twould content them."

He that is versed in points and tricks, like Œdipus,

Hears, and escapes perchance with purse uninjured;

The easy fool gapes, gazes, and—hey! presto!

Both purse and person's gone! —Mitchell.

Алексид. (Книга XIII, § 7, стр. 894.)

What abject wretches do we make ourselves

By giving up the freedom and delights

Of single life to a capricious woman!

Then, if she brings an ample fortune too,

Her pride, and her pretensions are increased,

And what should be a benefit, becomes

A bitter curse, and grievous punishment.

The anger of a man may well be borne,

'Tis quick, and sudden, but as soon subsides;

It has a honied sweetness when compared

To that of woman. If a man receives

An injury, he may resent at first,

But he will quickly pardon. Women first

Offer the injury, then to increase

Th' offence, instead of soothing, they inflict

A deeper wound by obstinate resentment—

Neglect what's fit and proper to be done,

But eagerly pursue the thing they should not;—

And then they grow fantastical withal,

When they are perfectly in health complain

In faint and feeble tone, "they're sick, they die." —Anon.

Аристофон. (Книга XIII, § 8, стр. 894.)

A man may marry once without a crime,

But cursed is he who weds a second time. —Cumberland.

Менандр. (Книга XIII, § 8, стр. 895.)

A. While prudence guides, change not, at any rate,

A life of freedom for the married state:

I ventured once to play that desperate game,

And therefore warn you not to do the same.

B. The counsel may be sage which you advance,

But I'm resolved to take the common chance.

A. Mild gales attend that voyage of your life,

And waft you safely through the sea of strife:

Not the dire Libyan, nor Ægean sea,

Where out of thirty ships scarce perish three;

But that, where daring fools most dearly pay,

Where all that sail are surely cast away. —Fawkes.

Алексид. (Книга XIII, § 13, стр. 899.)

As slowly I return'd from the Piræus,

My mind impress'd with all the various pains,

And pungent griefs, that torture human life,

I thus began to reason with myself.

The painters and the sculptors, who pretend

By cunning art to give the form of Love,

Know nothing of his nature, for in truth

He's neither male nor female, god or man,

Nor wise, nor foolish, but a compound strange,

Partaking of the qualities of each,

And an epitome of all in one.

He has the strength and prowess of a man,

The weak timidity of helpless woman;

In folly furious, yet in prudence wise

And circumspect. Mad as an untamed beast,

In strength and hardihood invincible,

Then for ambition he's a very demon.

I swear by sage Minerva and the gods,

I do not know his likeness, one whose nature

Is so endued with qualities unlike

The gentle name he bears. —Anon.

То же.

One day as slowly sauntering from the port,

A thousand cares conflicting in my breast,

Thus I began to commune with myself—

Methinks these painters misapply their art,

And never knew the being which they draw;

For mark! their many false conceits of Love.

Love is nor male nor female, man nor god,

Nor with intelligence nor yet without it,

But a strange compound of all these, uniting

In one mix'd essence many opposites;

A manly courage with a woman's fear,

The madman's phrenzy in a reasoning mind,

The strength of steel, the fury of a beast,

The ambition of a hero—something 'tis,

But by Minerva and the gods I swear!

I know not what this nameless something is. —Cumberland.

Эвбул. (Книга XIII, § 13, стр. 899.)

Why, foolish painter, give those wings to Love?

Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove:

Love hath no wings, or none that I can see;

If he can fly—oh! bid him fly from me! —Cumberland.

Теофил. (Книга XIII, § 14, стр. 900.)

He who affirms that lovers are all mad,

Or fools, gives no strong proof of his own sense;

For if from human life we take the joys

And the delights of love, what is there left

That can deserve a better name than death?

For instance, now, I love a music girl,

A virgin too, and am I therefore mad?

For she's a paragon of female beauty;

Her form and figure excellent; her voice

Melodiously sweet; and then her air

Has dignity and grace. With what delight

I gaze upon her charms! More than you feel

At sight of him who for the public shows

Gives you free entrance to the theatre. —Anon.

То же.

If love be folly, as the schools would prove,

The man must lose his wits, who falls in love;

Deny him love, you doom the wretch to death,

And then it follows he must lose his breath.

Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid

I dearly love, a minstrel she by trade;

What then? must I defer to pedant rule,

And own that love transforms me to a fool?

Not I, so help me! By the gods I swear,

The nymph I love is fairest of the fair;

Wise, witty, dearer to her poet's sight

Than piles of money on an author's night;

Must I not love her then? Let the dull sot,

Who made the law, obey it! I will not. —Cumberland.

Аристофон. (Книга XIII, § 14, стр. 901.)

Love, the disturber of the peace of heaven,

And grand fomenter of Olympian feuds,

Was banish'd from the synods of the gods:

They drove him down to earth at the expense

Of us poor mortals, and curtail'd his wings

To spoil his soaring and secure themselves

From his annoyance—Selfish, hard decree!

For ever since he roams th' unquiet world,

The tyrant and despoiler of mankind. —Cumberland.

Алексид. (Книга XIII, § 14, стр. 901.)

The man who holds true pleasure to consist

In pampering his vile body, and defies

Love's great divinity, rashly maintains

Weak impious war with an immortal god.

The gravest master that the schools can boast

Ne'er train'd his pupils to such discipline,

As Love his votaries, unrivall'd power,

The first great deity—and where is he,

So stubborn and determinedly stiff,

But shall at some time bend the knee to Love,

And make obeisance to his mighty shrine? —Cumberland.

Ивик. (Книга XIII, § 17, стр. 903.)

Sweetest flower, Euryale!

Whom the maids with tresses fair,

Sister Graces, make their care—

Thee Cythera nourish'd—thee

Pitho, with the radiant brow;

And 'mid bowers where roses blow

Led thy laughing infancy. —Bland.

Алексид. (Книга XIII, § 18, стр. 904.)

Dost thou see any fellow poll'd and shaven,

And askest me from whence the cause should come?

He goes unto the wars to filch and raven,

And play such pranks he cannot do at home.

Such pranks become not those that beards do weare:

And what harm is it if long beards we beare?

For so it is apparent to be scene,

That we are men, not women, by our chin. —Molle.

Тимокл. (Книга XIII, § 22, стр. 908.)

Wretch that I am,

She had my love, when a mere caper-gatherer,

And fortune's smiles as yet were wanting to her.

I never pinch'd nor spared in my expenses,

Yet now—doors closely barr'd are all the recompence

That waits on former bounties ill bestow'd. —Mitchell.

Алексид. (Книга XIII, § 23, стр. 908.)

They fly at all, and, as their funds increase,

With fresh recruits they still augment their stock,

Moulding the young novitiate to her trade;

Form, features, manners, everything so changed,

That not a trace of former self is left.

Is the wench short? a triple sole of cork

Exalts the pigmy to a proper size.

Is she too tall of stature? a low chair

Softens the fault, and a fine easy stoop

Lowers her to standard-pitch.—If narrow-hipt,

A handsome wadding readily supplies

What nature stints, and all beholders cry,

See what plump haunches!—Hath the nymph perchance

A high round paunch, stuft like our comic drolls,

And strutting out foreright? a good stout busk

Pushing athwart shall force the intruder back.

Hath she red brows? a little soot will cure 'em.

Is she too black? the ceruse makes her fair:

Too pale of hue? the opal comes in aid.

Hath she a beauty out of sight? disclose it!

Strip nature bare without a blush.—Fine teeth?

Let her affect one everlasting grin,

Laugh without stint—but ah! if laugh she cannot,

And her lips won't obey, take a fine twig

Of myrtle, shape it like a butcher's skewer,

And prop them open, set her on the bit

Day after day, when out of sight, till use

Grows second nature, and the pearly row,

Will she or will she not, perforce appears. —Cumberland.

Эпикрат. (Книга XIII, § 26, стр. 911.)

Alas for Laïs!

A slut, a wine-bibber—her only care

Is to supply the cravings of the day,

To eat and drink—to masticate and tipple.

The eagle and herself are fittest parallels.

In the first prime and lustlihood of youth,

The mountain king ne'er quits his royal eyrie,

But lamb, or straggling sheep, or earth-couch'd hare,

Caught in his grip, repays the fierce descent:

But when old age hath sapp'd his mettle's vigour,

He sits upon the temple tops, forlorn,

In all the squalid wretchedness of famine,

And merely serves to point an augurs tale.

Just such another prodigy is Laïs!

Full teeming coffers swell'd her pride of youth:

Her person ever fresh and new, your satrap

Was more accessible than she;—but now,

That life is flagging at the goal, and like

An unstrung lute, her limbs are out of tune,

She is become so lavish of her presence,

That being daily swallow'd by men's eyes,

They surfeit at the sight.

She's grown companion to the common streets—

Want her who will, a stater, a three-obol piece,

Or a mere draught of wine brings her to hand!

Nay, place a silver stiver in your palm,

And, shocking tameness! she will stoop forthwith

To pick it out. —Mitchell.

То же.

Laïs herself's a lazy drunkard now,

And looks to nothing but her daily wine

And daily meat. There has befallen her

What happens to the eagle; who, when young,

Swoops from the mountain in his pride of strength,

And hurries off on high the sheep and hare;

But, when he's aged, sits him dully down

Upon some temple's top, weak, lean, and starved;

And this is thought a direful prodigy.

And Laïs would be rightly reckon'd one;

For when she was a nestling, fair and youthful,

The guineas made her fierce; and you might see

E'en Pharnabázus easier than her.

But now that her years are running four-mile heats,

And all the junctures of her frame are loose,

'Tis easy both to see and spit upon her;

And she will go to any drinking-bout;

And take a crown-piece, aye, or e'en a sixpence,

And welcome all men, be they old or young.

Nay, she's become so tame, my dearest sir,

She'll even take the money from your hand. —Walsh.

Платон. (Книга XIII, § 56, стр. 940.)

Archianássa's my own one,

The sweet courtesan, Colophónian;

E'en from her wrinkles I feel

Love's irresistible steel!

O ye wretches, whose hunger

Was raised for her when she was younger!

Through what flames, alas,

Must she have forced you to pass! —Walsh.

Гермесианакт. (Книга XIII, § 71, стр. 953.)

Such was the nymph, whom Orpheus led

From the dark regions of the dead,

Where Charon with his lazy boat

Ferries o'er Lethe's sedgy moat;

Th' undaunted minstrel smites the strings,

His strain through hell's vast concave rings:

Cocytus hears the plaintive theme,

And refluent turns his pitying stream;

Three-headed Cerberus, by fate

Posted at Pluto's iron gate,

Low-crouching rolls his haggard eyes

Ecstatic, and foregoes his prize;

With ears erect at hell's wide doors

Lies listening, as the songster soars:

Thus music charm'd the realms beneath,

And beauty triumph'd over death.

The bard, whom night's pale regent bore,

In secret, on the Athenian shore,

Musæus, felt the sacred flame,

And burnt for the fair Theban dame

Antiope, whom mighty Love

Made pregnant by imperial Jove;

The poet plied his amorous strain,

Press'd the fond fair, nor press'd in vain,

For Ceres, who the veil undrew,

That screen'd her mysteries from his view,

Propitious this kind truth reveal'd,

That woman close besieged will yield.

Old Hesiod too his native shade

Made vocal to th' Ascrean maid;

The bard his heav'n-directed lore

Forsook, and hymn'd the gods no more:

Soft love-sick ditties now he sung,

Love touch'd his harp, love tuned his tongue,

Silent his Heliconian lyre,

And love's put out religion's fire.

Homer, of all past bards the prime,

And wonder of all future time,

Whom Jove with wit sublimely blest,

And touch'd with purest fire his breast,

From gods and heroes turn'd away

To warble the domestic lay,

And wand'ring to the desert isle,

On whose parch'd sands no seasons smile,

In distant Ithaca was seen

Chanting the suit-repelling Queen.

Mimnermus tuned his amorous lay,

When time had turn'd his temples grey;

Love revell'd in his aged veins,

Soft was his lyre, and sweet his strains;

Frequenter of the wanton feast,

Nanno his theme, and youth his guest.

Antimachus with tender art

Pour'd forth the sorrows of his heart;

In her Dardanian grave he laid

Chryseis his beloved maid;

And thence returning, sad beside

Pactolus' melancholy tide,

To Colophon the minstrel came,

Still sighing forth the mournful name,

Till lenient time his grief appeased,

And tears by long indulgence ceased.

Alcæus strung his sounding lyre,

And smote it with a hand of fire,

To Sappho, fondest of the fair,

Chanting the loud and lofty air.

Whilst old Anacreon, wet with wine,

And crown'd with wreaths of Lesbian vine,

* * * * * *

E'en Sophocles, whose honey'd lore

Rivals the bee's delicious store,

Chorus'd the praise of wine and love,

Choicest of all the gifts of Jove.

Euripides, whose tragic breast

No yielding fair one ever press'd,

At length in his obdurate heart

Felt love's revengeful rankling dart,

* * * * * *

'Till vengeance met him in the way,

And bloodhounds made the bard their prey.

Philoxenus, by wood-nymphs bred

On famed Cythæron's sacred head,

And train'd to music, wine, and song,

'Midst orgies of the frantic throng,

When beauteous Galatea died,

His flute and thyrsus cast aside;

And wand'ring to thy pensive coast,

Sad Melos! where his love was lost,

Each night through the responsive air

Thy echoes witness'd his despair:

Still, still his plaintive harp was heard,

Soft as the nightly-singing bird.

Philetas too in Battis' praise

Sung his long-winded roundelays;

His statue in the Coan grove

Now breathes in brass perpetual love.

The mortified abstemious sage,

Deep read in learning's crabbed page,

Pythagoras, whose boundless soul

Scaled the wide globe from pole to pole,

Earth, planets, seas, and heav'n above,

Yet found no spot secure from love;

With love declines unequal war,

And trembling drags his conqueror's car;

Theano clasp'd him in her arms,

And wisdom stoop'd to beauty's charms.

E'en Socrates, whose moral mind

With truth enlighten'd all mankind,

When at Aspasia's side he sate,

Still found no end to love's debate;

For strong indeed must be that heart,

Where love finds no unguarded part.

Sage Aristippus by right rule

Of logic purged the Sophist's school,

Check'd folly in its headlong course,

And swept it down by reason's force;

'Till Venus aim'd the heart-felt blow,

And laid the mighty victor low. —Cumberland.

То же.

I.

Orpheus,—Œagrus' son,—thou know'st full well,—

The Thracian harper,—how with magic skill,

Inspired by love, he struck the chorded shell,

And made the shades obedient to his will,

As from the nether gloom to light he led

His love Agriope. He to Pluto's land,

Baleful and cheerless, region of the dead,

Sail'd far away,—and sought th' infernal strand,

Where Charon, gaunt and grim, his hollow bark

(Fraught with departed souls, an airy crowd)

Steers o'er the Stygian billow dun and dark,

And with a voice of thunder bellows loud

O'er the slow pool, that scarcely creeps along

Through sedge, and weedy ooze: but nathless he,

On the lone margent, pour'd his love-sick song,

And charm'd Hell's monsters with his minstrelsy.

Cocytus scowl'd,—but grinn'd a ghastly smile,

Albeit unused to the relenting mood:

Cerb'rus, three-mouth'd, stopp'd short,—and paused the while,

Low-crouching, list'ning, (for the sounds were good)

Silent his throat of flame, his eyes of fire

Quench'd in ecstatic slumber, as he lay.

Thus Hell's stern rulers hearken'd to his lyre,

And gave the fair one back to upper day.

II.

Nor did Musæus, Luna's heav'nly child,

And high-priest of the Graces, leave unsung

The fair Antiope, in accents wild,

As fell th' impassion'd language from his tongue:

Who woo'd of many suitors, at the shrine

Of mystic Ceres, by Eleusis' brow,

Chanted the high response in strains divine,—

And oped the secret springs,—and taught to know

The heav'n-drawn truths, in holy rapture lost.

But nought avail'd her zeal;—in evil hour,

Theme of the lyre below, her hopes were cross'd:

Death cropp'd the stalk, that bore so fair a flow'r.

III.

I tell thee too, that the Bœotian bard,

Sage Hesiod, quitted the Cumæan shore,

A wand'rer not unwilling,—afterward

In Heliconian Ascra seen to soar,

Deathless upon the mighty wings of fame.

'Twas there he woo'd Eœa, peerless maid,—

And strove to achieve her love,—and with her name

Prefaced his verse, with hallow'd lore inlaid.

IV.

Enravish'd Homer, ward of Fate from Jove,

Prince of melodious numbers, toil'd his way

To barren Ithaca,—and tuned, for love

Of chaste Penelope, the am'rous lay;

Forgot his native land, and bade adieu

To wide Ionia, for the island drear,

And wail'd Icarius' house, and Sparta too,

And dropp'd himself the sympathetic tear.

V.

Mimnermus, school'd in hardship, who first taught

To breathe soft airs of elegiac song,

Fair Nanno ask'd, and had; and often sought,

As by her side he blithely trudged along,

The merry wake,—a ready piper arm'd

With mouth-piece aptly fitted: and with worse

Than deadly hate and indignation warm'd,

Hermobius and Pherecles lash'd in verse.

VI.

Antimachus, for beauteous Lyda's love,

Hied him to rich Pactolus' golden tide:

But, well-a-day! his bliss stern Fate unwove;

Short was her doom,—in Pergamus she died,—

And in her grave was laid in prime of age.

He, full of lamentation, journey'd on

To Colophon,—and on the sacred page

Enter'd his tale, and ceased, his mission done.

VII.

And well thou know'st, how famed Alcæus smote

Of his high harp the love-enliven'd strings,

And raised to Sappho's praise th' enamour'd note,

Midst noise of mirth and jocund revellings:

Ay, he did love that nightingale of song

With all a lover's fervour,—and, as he

Deftly attuned the lyre, to madness stung

The Teian bard with envious jealousy.

For her Anacreon, charming lyrist, woo'd,

And fain would win, with sweet mellifluous chime,

Encircled by her Lesbian sisterhood;—

Would often Samos leave, and many a time,

From vanquish'd Teos' viny orchards, hie

To viny Lesbos' isle,—and from the shore,

O'er the blue wave, on Lectum cast his eye,

And think on by-gone days, and times no more.

VIII.

And how, from, steep Colonus' rocky height,

On lightsome pinions borne, the Attic bee

Sail'd through the air, and wing'd her honied flight,

And sang of love and wine melodiously

In choric numbers: for ethereal Jove

Bestow'd on Sophocles Archippe's charms,

Albeit in eve of life,—and gave to love

And fold the yielding fair one in his arms.

IX.

Nay, I aver, in very sooth, that he,

Dead from his birth to love, to beauty blind,

Who, by quaint rules of cold philosophy,

Contemn'd the sex, and hated womankind,—

That he,—e'en he,—with all his stoic craft,

Cave to imperial Love unwilling way,

And, sore empierced with Cupid's tyrant shaft,

Could neither sleep by night, nor rest by day;

What time, in Archelaus' regal hall,

Ægino, graceful handmaid, viands brought

Of choicest savour, to her master's call

Obsequious, or wine's impurpled draught:

Nor didst thou cease, through streets and highways broad,

Euripides! to chase the royal slave,

Till vengeance met thee, in his angry mood,

And deep-mouth'd bloodhounds tore thee to the grave.

X.

And him too of Cythera,—foster child

Of all the Muses, train'd to love and song,—

Philoxenus,—thou knowest,—how with wild

And loud acclaim, (as late he pass'd along

Through Colophon,) and shouts of joyfulness,

The air was riv'n: for thou didst hear the tale

Of Galatea lost, fair shepherdess,

Whom e'en the firstlings of her flock bewail.

XI.

Nor is Philetas' name to thee unknown,

Than whom a sweeter minstrel never was;

Whose statue lives in his own native town,

Hallow'd to fame, and breathes in deathless brass,

Under a platane,—seeming still to praise

The nimble Bittis, in the Coan grove,

With am'rous ditties, and harmonious lays,

And all the art, and all the warmth of love.

XII.

And they of humankind, (to crown my song,)

Who, in th' austereness of their life, pursued

Knowledge abstruse, her mazy paths among,—

And sought for hidden lore,—and ceaseless woo'd

The Muse severe, couching her doctrines sage

In cogent language, marring ev'ry clog

To intellectual sense, on reason's page;—

Or, in the philosophic dialogue,

Moulded th' important truths, they meant to prove,

In milder form, and pleased and reason'd too;—

And these confess'd the mighty power of Love,

And bow'd the neck, nor could his yoke eschew.

XIII.

Pythagoras, the Samian sage, who taught

To solve the knots, perplex and intricate,

Of fair geometry, and whilom brought

Into a narrow sphere's brief compass strait

The stars of heav'n, in order absolute;

With frantic passion woo'd Theano's charms,

Infuriate,—nor ceased his am'rous suit,

Till he had clasp'd the damsel in his arms.

XIV.

And what a flame of love the Paphian queen

Lit, in her wrath, in the enamour'd breast

Of Socrates,—whom of the sons of men

Apollo named the wisest and the best!

He in Aspasia's house each lighter care

Chased from his breast, when at her side he sate

In am'rous parley,—and, still ling'ring there,

Could find no end to love, or love's debate.

XV.

Shrewd Aristippus, Cyrenean sage,

To the Corinthian Isthmus' double shore

Wended his way, his passion to assuage,—

And shunn'd the calm retreats he loved before;

Forsook the far-famed Athens,—inly moved

By Laïs' charms, by Laïs lured astray,—

And in voluptuous Eph'ra lived,—and loved,—

From Academic bowers far away. —J. Bailey.

Часть того же. (Стр. 954.)

With her the sweet Anacreon stray'd,

Begirt with many a Lesbian maid;

And fled for her the Samian strand,

For her his vine-clad native land—

A bleeding country left the while

For wine and love in Sappho's isle. —Anon.

Анакреонт. (Книга XIII, § 72, стр. 955.)

Anacreon.—Spirit of love, whose tresses shine

Along the breeze in golden twine;

Come, within a fragrant cloud,

Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;

And, on those wings that sparkling play,

Waft, oh! waft me hence away!

Love! my soul is full of thee,

Alive to all thy luxury.

But she, the nymph for whom I glow,

The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe;

Smiles at the hoar and silver'd hues

Which time upon my forehead strews.

Alas! I fear she keeps her charms

In store for younger, happier arms!

Sappho.—Oh Muse! who sitt'st on golden throne,

Full many a hymn of dulcet tone

The Teian sage is taught by thee;

But, goddess, from thy throne of gold,

The sweetest hymn thou'st ever told,

He lately learn'd and sang for me. —Thos. Moore.

То же.

Pelting with a purple ball,

Bright-hair'd Cupid gives the call,

And tries his antics one and all,

My steps to her to wile;

But she—for thousands round her vie—

Casts on my tell-tale locks her eye,

And bids the grey-hair'd poet sigh—

Another wins her smile! —Anon.

Алкман. (Книга XIII, § 75, стр. 958.)

Again sweet Love, by Cytherea led,

Hath all my soul possest;

Again delicious rapture shed

In torrents o'er my breast.

Now Megalostrata the fair,

Of all the Virgin train

Most blessed—with her yellow floating hair—

Hath brought me to the Muses' holy fane,

To flourish there. —Bland.

Ивик. (Книга XIII, § 76, стр. 958.)

What time soft Zephyrs fan the trees

In the blest gardens of th' Hesperides,

Where those bright golden apples glow,

Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow,

And new-born clusters teem with wine

Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine;

To me the joyous season brings

But added torture on his sunny wings.

Then Love, the tyrant of my breast,

Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest,

Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms,

And fills my trembling soul with new alarms;

Like Boreas from his Thracian plains,

Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns,

And rages still, the madd'ning power—

His parching flames my wither'd heart devour;

Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er,

Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more. —Bland.

Херемон. (Книга XIII, § 87, стр. 970.)

One to the silver lustre of the moon,

In graceful, careless, attitude reclined,

Display'd her snowy bosom, full unzoned

In all its naked loveliness: another

Led up the sprightly dance; and as she moved,

Her loose robes gently floating, the light breeze

Lifted her vest, and to the enraptured eye

Uncover'd her left breast. Gods! what a sight!

What heavenly whiteness! breathing and alive,

A swelling picture!—This from eyelids dark

Beam'd forth a ray of such celestial light,

As dazzled whilst it charm'd. A fourth appear'd,

Her beauties half uncover'd, and display'd

Her delicate arm, and taper fingers, small,

And round, and white as polish'd ivory.

Another yet, with garment loosely thrown

Across her neck and shoulders; as she moved,

The am'rous zephyrs drew aside her robe,

Exposed her pliant limbs, full, round, and fair,

Such as the Paphian Goddess might have own'd.

Love smiled at my surprise, shook his light wings,

And mark'd me for his victim.—Others threw

Their careless limbs upon the bank bedeck'd

With odoriferous herbs, and blossoms rare,

Such as the earth produced from Helen's tears,

The violet with dark leaves, the crocus too,

That gave a warm tint to their flowing robes,

And marjoram sweet of Persia rear'd its head

To deck the verdant spot.— Anon.

То же.

There one reclined apart I saw, within the moon's pale light,

With bosom through her parted robe appearing snowy white:

Another danced, and floating free her garments in the breeze,

She seem'd as buoyant as the wave that leaps o'er summer seas;

While dusky shadows all around shrunk backward from the place,

Chased by the beaming splendour shed like sunshine from her face.

Beside this living picture stood a maiden passing fair,

With soft round arms exposed: a fourth, with free and graceful air,

Like Dian when the bounding hart she tracks through morning dew,

Bared through the opening of her robes her lovely limbs to view.

And oh! the image of her charms, as clouds in heaven above,

Mirror'd by streams, left on my soul the stamp of hopeless love.

And slumbering near them others lay, on beds of sweetest flowers,

The dusky-petal'd violet, the rose of Paphian bowers,

The inula and saffron flower, which on their garments cast

And veils, such hues as deck the sky when day is ebbing fast;

While far and near tall marjoram bedeck'd the fairy ground,

Loading with sweets the vagrant winds that frolick'd all around. —J. A. St. John.

Сем. (Книга XIV, § 2, стр. 979.)

Poor mortal unmerry, who seekest to know

What will bid thy brow soften, thy quips and cranks flow,

To the house of the mother I bid thee repair—

Thou wilt find, if she's pleased, what thy heart covets there. —J. A. St. John.

Меланиппид. (Книга XIV, § 7, стр. 984.)

But Athené flung away

From her pure hand those noxious instruments

It late had touch'd, and thus did say—

"Hence, ye banes of beauty, hence;

What? shall I my charms disgrace

By making such an odious face?" —Bland.

Пратин. (Книга XIV, § 8, стр. 985.)

What means this tumult? Why this rage?

What thunder shakes th' Athenian stage?

'Tis frantic Bromius bids me sing,

He tunes the pipe, he smites the string;

The Dryads with their chief accord,

Submit, and hail the drama's lord.

Be still! and let distraction cease,

Nor thus profane the Muse's peace;

By sacred fiat I preside,

The minstrel's master and his guide;

He, whilst the chorus strains proceed,

Shall follow with responsive reed;

To measured notes whilst they advance,

He in wild maze shall lead the dance.

So generals in the front appear,

Whilst music echoes from the rear.

Now silence each discordant sound!

For see, with ivy chaplet crown'd,

Bacchus appears! He speaks in me—

Hear, and obey the god's decree!—Cumberland.

То же.

What revel-rout is this? What noise is here?

What barb'rous discord strikes my ear?

What jarring sounds are these, that rage

Unholy on the Bacchic stage?

'Tis mine to sing in Bromius' praise—

'Tis mine to laud the god in dithyrambic lays—

As o'er the mountain's height,

The woodland Nymphs among,

I wing my rapid flight,

And tune my varied song,

Sweet as the melody of swans,—that lave

Their rustling pennons in the silver wave.

Of the harmonious lay the Muse is sovereign still:

Then let the minstrel follow, if he will—

But not precede: whose stricter care should be,

And more appropriate aim,

To fan the lawless flame

Of fiery youths, and lead them on

To deeds of drunkenness alone,

The minister of revelry—

When doors, with many a sturdy stroke,

Fly from their bolts, to shivers broke,

And captive beauty yields, but is not won.

Down with the Phrygian pipe's discordant sound!

Crackle, ye flames! and burn the monster foul

To very ashes—in whose notes are found

Nought but what's harsh and flat,—no music for the soul,—

The work of some vile handicraft. To thee,

Great Dithyrambus! ivy-tressèd king!

I stretch my hand—'tis here—and rapidly

My feet in airy mazes fling.

Listen my Doric lay; to thee, to thee I sing. —J. Bailey.

Алексид. (Книга XIV, § 15, стр. 991.)

Now if a native

Doctor prescribe, "Give him a porringer

Of ptisan in the morning," we despise him.

But in some brogue disguised 'tis admirable.

Thus he who speaks of Beet is slighted, while

We prick our ears if he but mention Bate,

As if Bate knew some virtue not in Beet. —J. A. St. John.

Сем. (Книга XIV, § 16, стр. 992.)

Make way there, a wide space

Yield to the god;

For Dionysos has a mind to walk

Bolt upright through your midst. —J. A. St. John.

Сем. (Книга XIV, § 16, стр. 992.)

Bacchus, to thee our muse belongs,

Of simple chant, and varied lays;

Nor fit for virgin ears our songs,

Nor handed down from ancient days:

Fresh flows the strain we pour to thee,

Patron of joy and minstrelsy! —J. A. St. John.

Алкей. (Книга XIV, § 23, стр. 1000.)

Glitters with brass my mansion wide;

The roof is deck'd on every side

In martial pride,

With helmets ranged in order bright

And plumes of horse-hair nodding white,

A gallant sight—

—Fit ornament for warrior's brow—

And round the walk, in goodly row,

Refulgent glow

Stout greaves of brass like burnish'd gold,

And corslets there, in many a fold

Of linen roll'd;

And shields that in the battle fray

The routed losers of the day

Have cast away;

Eubœan falchions too are seen,

With rich embroider'd belts between

Of dazzing sheen:

And gaudy surcoats piled around,

The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd,

May there be found.

These, and all else that here you see,

Are fruits of glorious victory

Achieved by me. —Bland.

(Книга XIV, § 27, стр. 1004.)

Where is my lovely parsley, say?

My violets, roses, where are they?

My parsley, roses, violets fair,

Where are my flowers? Tell me where. —J. A. St. John.

Филетер. (Книга XIV, § 34, стр. 1011.)

O Zeus! how glorious 'tis to die while piercing flutes are near,

Pouring their stirring melodies into the faltering ear;

On these alone doth Eros smile, within whose realms of night,

Where vulgar ghosts in shivering bands, all strangers to delight,

In leaky tub from Styx's flood the icy waters bear,

Condemn'd, for woman's lovely voice, its moaning sounds to hear. —J. A. St. John.

Атенион. (Книга XIV, § 80, стр. 1056.)

A. What! know you not that cookery has much

Contributed to piety? attend,

And I will tell you how. This art at first

Made the fierce cannibal a man; impress'd

Upon his rugged nature the desire

Of better food than his own flesh; prescribed

Order and rule in all his actions; gave him

That polish and respect for social life

Which now makes up his sum of happiness.

B. Say by what means.

A. Attend and you shall hear.

Time was that men, like rude and savage beasts,

Prey'd on each other. From such bloody feasts

A flood of evils burst upon the world;

Till one arose, much wiser than the rest,

And chose a tender victim from his flock

For sacrifice; roasting the flesh, he found

The savoury morsel good, and better far

Than human carcass, from which time roast meat

Became the general food, approved by all.

In order to create variety

Of the same dish, the art of cookery

Began t' invent new modes of dressing it.

In off'rings to the gods we still preserve

The ancient custom, and abstain from salt;

For in those early days salt was not used,

Though now we have it in abundance; still,

In solemn sacrifices, we conform

To usage of old times: in private meals

He who can season best is the best cook,

And the desire of savoury meat inspires

The invention of new sauces, which conduce

To bring the art of cookery to perfection.

B. You are, indeed, a new Palæphatus.

A. Use gave experience, and experience skill.

As cooks acquired more knowledge, they prepared

The delicate tripe, with nice ingredients mix'd,

To give it a new relish; follow'd soon

The tender kid, sew'd up between two covers,

Stew'd delicately down, and smoking hot,

That melted in the mouth; the savoury hash

Came next, and that disguised with so much art,

And season'd with fresh herbs, and pungent sauce,

That you would think it most delicious fish.

Then salted meats, with store of vegetables,

And fragrant honey, till the pamper'd taste,

High fed with luscious dainties, grew too nice

To feed on human garbage, and mankind

Began to feel the joys of social life;

The scatter'd tribes unite; towns soon were built

And peopled with industrious citizens.

These and a thousand other benefits

Were the result of cookery alone.

B. Oh, rare! where will this end?

A. To us you owe

The costly sacrifice, we slay the victims,

We pour the free libations, and to us

The gods themselves lend a propitious ear,

And for our special merits scatter blessings

On all the human race; because from us

And from our art, mankind were first induced

To live the life of reason, and the gods

Received due honour.

B. Prithee rest awhile,

And leave religion out. —Anon.

То же.

The art of cookery drew us gently forth

From that ferocious life, when void of faith

The Anthropophaginian ate his brother!

To cookery we owe well-order'd states,

Assembling men in dear society.

Wild was the earth, man feasting upon man,

When one of nobler sense and milder heart

First sacrificed an animal; the flesh

Was sweet; and man then ceased to feed on man!

And something of the rudeness of those times

The priest commemorates; for to this day

He roasts the victim's entrails without salt.

In those dark times, beneath the earth lay hid

The precious salt, that gold of cookery!

But when its particles the palate thrill'd,

The source of seasonings, charm of cookery! came.

They served a paunch with rich ingredients stored;

And tender kid, within two covering plates,

Warm melted in the mouth. So art improved!

At length a miracle not yet perform'd,

They minced the meat, which roll'd in herbage soft,

Nor meat nor herbage seem'd, but to the eye,

And to the taste, the counterfeited dish

Mimick'd some curious fish; invention rare!

Then every dish was season'd more and more,

Salted, or sour, or sweet, and mingled oft

Oatmeal and honey. To enjoy the meal

Men congregated in the populous towns,

And cities flourish'd, which we cooks adorn'd

With all the pleasures of domestic life.—D'Israeli.

То же.

Cook. Do you not know that cookery has brought

More aids to piety than aught besides?

Slave. What? is the matter thus?

Cook. Yes, you Barbarian!

It freed us from a beast-like, faithless life,

And hateful cannibalism, and introduced us

To order, and enclosed us in the world

Where we now live.

Slave. How?

Cook. Listen, and I'll tell you.

When cannibalism and many other crimes

Were rife, a certain man, who was no fool,

Slaughter'd a victim and then roasted it.

So, when they found its flesh nicer than man's flesh,

They did not eat each other any longer,

But sacrificed their beasts and roasted them.

And when they once had tasted of this pleasure,

And a beginning had been made, they carried

To greater heights the art of cookery.

Hence, from remembrance of the past, men roast

E'en to the present day the gods' meat-offerings

Without employing salt; for in olden times

It had not yet been used for such a purpose;

So when their taste changed afterwards, they ate

Salt also with their meat, still strictly keeping

Their fathers' custom in the rites prescribed them.

All which new ingenuity, and raising

To greater heights the art of cookery,

By means of sauces, has alone become

The cause of safety unto all of us.

Slave. This fellow is a fresh Palæphatus!

Cook. Then, after this, as time was now advancing,

One person introduced a season'd haggis;

Another stew'd a kid right exquisitely,

Or made some mince-meat, or slipp'd in a fish

Disguised so quaintly that no eye observed it,

Or greens, or pickled fish, or wheat, or honey.

When through the pleasures that I'm now explaining,