 
BY EGERTON WEBBE. "Hal, thou hast the most unsavoury similes."—Falstaff. Since Genius hath the immortal faculty Of bringing grist to other people's mills, While for itself no office it fulfils, And cannot choose but starve amazingly, Methinks 'tis very like the dog's-meat dog, That 'twixt Black Friars and White sometimes I've seen,— Afflicted quadruped, jejune and lean, Whom none do feed, but all do burn to flog. For why? He draws the dog's-meat cart, you see,— Himself a dog. All dogs his coming hail, Long dogs and short, and dogs of various tail, Yea truly, every sort of dogs that be. Where'er he cometh him his cousins greet, Yet not for love, but only for the meat,— In Little Tower Street, Or opposite the pump on Fish-street Hill, Or where the Green Man is the Green Man still, Or where you will:— It is not he, but, ah! it is the cart With which his cousins are so loth to part; (That's nature, bless your heart!) And you'll observe his neck is almost stiff With turning round to try and get a sniff, As now and then a whiff, Charged from behind, a transient savour throws, That curls with hope the corners of his nose, Then all too quickly goes, And leaves him buried in conjectures dark, Developed in a sort of muffled bark. For I need scarce remark That that sagacious dog hath often guess'd There's something going on of interest Behind him, not confest; And I have seen him whisk with sudden start Entirely round, as he would face the cart, Which could he by no art, Because of cunning mechanism. Lord! But how a proper notion to afford? How possibly record, With any sort of mental satisfaction, The look of anguish—the immense distraction— Pictured in face and action, When, whisking round, he hath discovered there Five dogs,—all jolly dogs—besides a pair Of cats, most debonair, In high assembly met, sublimely lunching, Best horse's flesh in breathless silence munching, While he, poor beast! is crunching His unavailing teeth?—You must be sensible 'Tis aggravating—cruel—indefensible— Incomprehensible. And to his grave I do believe he'll go, Sad dog's-meat dog, nor ever know Whence all those riches flow Which seem to spring about him where he is, Finding their way to every mouth but his.— I know such similes By some are censured as not being savoury; But still it's better than to talk of "knavery," And "wretched authors' slavery," With other words of ominous import. I much prefer a figure of this sort. And so, to cut it short, (For I abhor all poor rhetoric fuss,) Ask what the devil I mean—I answer thus, That dog's a Genius. Oliver claimed by his Affectionate Friends |
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