Accolades and Barbs: William Herschel in Poetry and Satire

Abstract

The relationship between poetry and science is an appropriate matter to elucidate at the outset, as poetry does not often appear amongst the usual topics considered in scholarly works on the history of astronomy. In the context of William Herschel (Fig. 7.1) studies, the topic has been almost entirely ignored. Here I will look briefly at the works of two of England’s most eminent writers. The philosopher Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) considered curiosity “a delightful appetite of knowledge, and a basic impulse towards learning.” As Reik explains in his study of Hobbes, “It is the intellectual passion which makes us educable, which is ultimately responsible for our development of language and science, and it is the fulfillment of this ‘lust of mind’ [in the words of Hobbes] that poetry promises.”¹ In his tract Answer to the Preface of Gondibert of 1650, Hobbes specifically address the works of great men. While his specific focus was on heroic poems, it can certainly be read here as applying to Herschel and the many worthy aspects of his career.

As the description of great men and great acts is the constant design of a poet; so the descriptions of worthy circumstances are necessary accessions to a poem, and being well performed, are the jewels and most precious ornaments of poesy.²

Appendices

References

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• 162 footnote 144, p. 36-37.

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Appendix 1: The Royal Astronomer, &C.

As how, a star-gazer cannot smell the rose of beauty and con. The blue star-book, at one and the same time.

• What Phoebus, ho!–thou god of quavers,

•   Of ballads sung from three-leg’d crickets,

• What has befell thy tuneful shavers?

•   Have all thy babes, Sol, got the rickets?

• No bag-pipe, lute, or Jews’-harp shrill,

•   No music-grinding organ speak;

• No flagelet, horn, pan, or quill,

•   To Herschel’s praise no fiddle squeak!

• God of the bowels of the cat,

•   This is the oddest of all odd things!

• Odd as one eye–a three cock’d hat–

•   One goose–nine taylors–and seven bodkins!

• Zooks, Phoebus!–why’s thy belfry dumb,

•   Where poets us’d to ring for wagers?

• What makes thy nine sweet bells so mum?

•   To Herschel’s praise no grand bob-majors?

• Star-gazing, Sir! What, not one note?

•   Methinks ’tis dev’lish hard upon ye,

• That shut is ev’ry tuneful throat,

•   Is it for lack of love or money?

• What, not one Muse of all the nine

•   To thee, O gazer! strike the lyre?

• Jades! not of praise a single line!

•   What dev’l hath silenc’d ev’ry wire?

• Great, Sir, for wonder, or for grief,

•   With much ado I lift my head

• Of Poetry, what, not one leaf?

•   The thing’s enough to strike me dead!

• On such a theme, that no Muse ope’s

•   Her mouth, I cannot guess the cause;–

• What ails, ye bards, your tuneful chops?

•   What hath thus giv’n ye all lockt-jaws?

• ’Slife! inch by inch, from head to heel

•   Of Herschel, boys, ye shou’d have sung!

• Silent each bard as spitchcockt-eel,

•   A dead wife, or a dry’d neat’s tongue!

• Sons of the tuneful art, O say

•   At once the reason frank and freely,

• Why not one bard will found his A–

•   But locks his voice up in his belly?

• Where’s merry Pindar? he who cracks,

•   With merc’less hand, his lyric whip

• On kings, queens, artists, laureats backs,

•   And makes the Antiquarians skip?

• Teaches grown gentlemen, like peas

•   Upon tobacco-pipes, to caper,

• And dance like scorch’d lice, bugs, or fleas*¹,

•   Upon a sheet of burning paper.

• Silent is laurel’d Tom? Will. Mason?

•   Hayley? Pye? Crusca? Dame Piozzi,

• Who whilom clapp’d so bold a face on,

•   And at th’ Italian cast a goat’s eye?

• Dumb Seward? Williams? Hannah Moore?

•   Who, in a courtly part of speech,

• With envy viewing Yearly, soar

•   Above her, nam’d her DRUNKEN BITCH?

• Where’s Woodstock’s tuneful flogging shaver?

•   He, who of learning drives the nail

• With birchen hammer, Parson Mavor,

•   Into each throbbing school-boy’s tail?

• Anstey*² with mortar choak’d? and he*³

•   Silent, who roar’d in verse a BULL!

• Who trac’d the Sofa’s pedigree

•   Up to the primitive joint-stool?

• All mute as fishes, dead, and dumb,

•   As if DEATH’s Foot were on their throats,

• Had bid them cry for ever mum–

•   To trill no more the plaintive notes?

• Why then, behold, Tom Plumb, unknown

•   Among Apollo’s roaring boys,

• Step forth:–make room, my lads, for one

•   Who means to make some little noise!

• Herschel, thou shalt not want a fiddle–

•   If thou hast worth, the world shall know it.

• Hoping thou wilt not say I did ill–

•   Lo! May I crave to be thy poet?

• I’ll tell the world, and all her sons,

•   In a full peal of thy great name;

• Out of Apollo’s nine vast Guns,

•   I’ll thunder glory, praise, and fame!

• Hors’d upon Panegyric’s back,

•   I’ll lift thee, Herschel, to the moon–

• Higher than e’er Lunardi’s hack

•   Soar’d yet, yclep’d an air-balloon:

• Higher than e’er the cannon-ball,

•   Which once was fir’d into the air,

• And ne’er again to earth did fall,

•   And which thou now may’st view–a star!

• Your fitting up whole nights together,

•   Sleeping like bats, or owls, by day,

• Sweeping the heav’ns in frosty weather,

•   Leaving your wife to sleep or pray,

• Curse the clear nights, and wish for clouds,

•   Curse moon, stars, husband, telescope,

• And wish in flames, with all its goods,

•   And spy-glasses, your working-shop;

• Are, Herschel, rich and fruitful themes,

•   Rare veins and mines of poesy;

• Wou’d furnish out the sweetest dreams,

•   Herschel, between my Muse and me;

• Of which, anon, we mean to treat;

•   But first, ’tis meet that Muse and I

• Raise, Sir, upon poetic feet,

•   The wond’rous tube with which you spy.

• That cannon which, from world below,

•   Thou level’st -a good waggon-load!

• At the clear heav’ns above, that glow

•   With some four thousand stars and odd.

• With which you thro’ yon’ crystal wall

•   Shoot into heav’n your curious eye,

• And can, with perfect ease, see all

•   That’s done by people in the sky.

• With which you found a star ne’er lost;

•   And made us all with wonder swoon

• At burning Etna’s, that did roast

•   All people near them, in the moon.

• Of which the angels well aware,

•   When after meals they wing aside,

• Behind a thunder-cloud take care,

•   In such a case, their bums to hide.

• O Muse! the wonders of his tube,

•   Sing thou to ages yet to come!

• The glass of which, with many a rub,

•   Was polish’d only with his thumb!*⁴

• Fair gentlemen, now in the womb

•   Of time, fast button’d up from day,

• With indefatigable thumb,

•   Tell how be rubb’d whole years away!

• Tell them his belly was in debt

•   Long time for all its butter’d crumbs,

• Which, whilst he polish’d glass, it ate,

•   Supply’d and spread by other thumbs!

• For, as the smoothed glass did glow

•   Beneath his thumbs, Sir, let me tell ye,

• Those thumbs had something else to do

•   Than wait upon their KING, the belly.

• Next to his wife, as next in love,

•    After his telescope, she stands,

• Turn thou thy song, my tuneful dove;

•   She next in turn thy song demands.

• Without the help of spying-glass,

•   He saw the dame with naked eye;

• And for the rich Uptonian*⁵ lass

•   Of purest, breath’d the purest sigh.

• Dim wou’d appear a starless sky;

•   Dim, without gold, rich Wor’ster china;

• Dim were a lass without an eye;

•   Dimmer yet still without a guinea.

• Keen saw the Gazer this–A star

•   The widow rich in guineas shone;

• Quoth Herschel, hand on heart–“my fair!

•   “We’ll wed, no more be said or done.

• “Some lovers fire you off a TIRE

•   “Of oaths,–what mummery!– ’Odsblood,

• “Lo! once, and once for all I swear–

•   “I love thee, dame, so help me God!”

• Thus brief and sweet he spake, and place

•   Took in the widow’s heart for one.

• Reader! the thing, without wry face,

•   Was finish’d–soon as ’twas begun.

• ’Tis said the stars, with vast amazement,

•   That night did marvel where he was!

• Each peeping from its little casement

•   With wond’ring eyes, and wond’ring face.

• ’Tis said, the stars did dance and sing!

•   You, reader, might, I saw nor heard ’em:

• So will not swear to such a thing;

•   For that, thou know’st, wou’d be absurdum.

• But, if the stars did skip like frogs,

•   I’ll swear, Sir, with an honest face,

• Not one of all the dancing dogs

•   Hath leap’d into another’s place.

• What ballad else they might have sung,

•   Faith, I can’t tell; but this I know,

• That not one star, the stars among,

•   Sang the Black Joke, or Mary Rose.

• Sev’n times the Gazer sprang from bed,

•   Says Fame, and left the widow’s side,

• Thrusting from window forth his head,

•   To view the stars above him glide!

• Fame’s a damn’d liar–known of old–

•   I need not tell the sons of men–

• With her false trumpet to make bold–

•   Reader, she’d truly said sev’nteen.

• O heav’nly Muse! what married man,

•   On’s wedding night, e’er made some pother?

• From bed quick to his casement ran,

•   Without being fluxt some way or other?

• Miser of stars, as others gold,

•   He oft stept out of bed to tell ’em;

• Keeping strict watch, lest robbers should–

•   Damn’d dogs!–come fly by night and steal ’em.

• Herschel, high steward of the stars

•   Made over all to him in trust,

• Kept good look out amongst his wares,

•   To see that ne’er a star was lost.

• Herschel, I own, thou hadst, that night

•   Hard work, thus bound to double duty–

• To see that all thy stars were right

•   At once, and pay thy debt to beauty.

• Suppose some fingering Mercury

•   Had nimm’d from heav’n a fiver penny;

• One little twinkler, Herschel?–why–

•   ’T had ne’er been miss’d among so many.

• O keeper of the ethereal park!

•   Well stock’d with rams, and bulls, and horses;

• The beasts had wander’d in the dark,

•   Broke thro’ their pales, or ta’en strange courses.

• The Bear*⁶, from his fast-fixed pole

•   To which he’s stak’d, had burst his chain;

• Ere I from bridal-bed had stole,

•   To bring old Bruin back again.

• The Scales*⁶ been purloin’d by a grocer,

•   To weigh out butter, cheese, or candles;

• The brace of Pointers*⁶ by a poacher,

•   Against the law a gun that handles:

• The Wagg’ner*⁶, by advance of wages

•   Been tempted to have left the sky,

• At Winsor market cry’d “Green-gages,”

•   Or, “Cherry-ripe, ho! come and buy?”

• The Virgin*⁶ too, by some old strumpet,

•   Been coax’d and wheedl’d to’ve come down,

• Had been proclaim’d by blast of trumpet–

•   “A wonder! seen for half a crown!”

• A barber, Herschel, shoul’d have stole

•   The wig of Berenice*⁶ so fair,

• To’ve grac’d on earth some duchess’ pole

•   Unfruitful in a crop of hair;

• Ere I had left the lost warm side

•   Of bride, upon her wedding night,

• With eyes, as saucers, staring wide,

•   To see if all above were right.

• Old women, Herschel, with their brooms,

•   Had swept down aprons-full of stars;

• Disfurnish’d all the azure rooms

•   Of golden urns, and silver jars.

• Young bloods, with silken-tassell’d sticks,

•   Broke every lamp in heav’n that hung;

• Lamp-lighters seiz’d the oil and wicks–

•   To earth each ravish’d lantern flung!

• Angels unchain’d, again got loose,

•   With planets pelted one another,

• Had broke the back of Pegasus*⁶,

•   Hurl’d master Pollux*⁶ at his brother:

• Tied Bull*⁶ and Dragon*⁶ tail to tail,

•   Halloo’d the Dog*⁶ about their ears:

• Upon a COMET broil’d the Whale*⁶;

•   And made rough music of the spheres.

• Play’d butter’d peas upon the Lyre*⁶;

•   And taught the Bears*⁶ to rigadoon;

• O’erturn’d the Waggon*⁶ in the mire;

•   Spik’d back to back the sun and moon!

• Turn’d Berenice’s perriwig

•   The hinder part thereof before;

• Seiz’d Hercules*⁷ his club so big,

•   Broke ope’ of Heav’n the very door!

• Skin’d the old Ram*⁷, and wrapp’d his fleece

•   About the neck of scowling NED;

• Planted the horns–a better brace–

•   Than those already on his head.

• Put Venus*⁷, stript first to her skin,

•   To bed to blushing Billy Pitt;

• Seiz’d the bright Crown*⁷, and beat it in–

•   To make the ring his finger fit.

• Herschel, the stars, Heavn’s golden grain,

•   Had been put all into a sack;

• By hawker, up to Windsor ta’en,

•   And fold at eighteen-pence a–peck;

• Ere I had left the widow’s breast,

•   That pillow soft of soft delight!

• Budg’d half an inch from Cupid’s nest,

•   For all the stars that grace the night.

• But, Herschel–so the world, alas!

•   Declares–thou think’st it much too hard,

• To lose one night torn from thy glass,

•   With wife in nuptial pleasures shar’d.

• If this be true, upon my soul,

•   Thy wife I must commiserate;

• And if the woman’s not a f––l,

•   Herschel, she will adorn*⁸ that pate.

• A man of law, by band and gown,

•   A bishop’s by lawn sleeves exprest:

• By his cockade a soldier’s known;

•   Th’ astronomer by Dian’s crest*⁹.

• Dear madam! much I’m sorry for ye,

•   And much for you in heart I feel!

• And hope, by publishing your story,

•   To bring a grist into your mill.

• Dame, bring thine action in the court

•   Of Love; the Muse shall plead thy cause–

• The man deserves to answer for’t,

•   Who dares thus break king Cupid’s laws.

• As thou thine evidence shall give,

•   Five hundred and odd lashes, he

• Shall strait be sentenc’d to receive

•   At the carts-arse of poetry.

• But dame, perhaps things aren’t so bad–

•   I’m told, he says to Heav’n this prayer:

• “O Lord that ruleth over-head,

•   “O change my wife into a star!

• “O fix her somewhere in the skies;

•   “And, if such good luck might betide us,

• “Thro’ spy-glass, in thy servant’s eyes,

•   “She’d far out-shine the Georgium Sidus.”

• A pretty pray’r! methinks you cry–

•   Sweet madam! so indeed it is;

• What proof of husband’s amity,

•   To wish his wife in heav’nly bliss!

• Ah! well he knows you to excel

•   All women in celestial grave,

• That, whilst some with their wives in hell,

•   He prays for you a better place.

• Ah! well I ween great Herschel knows,

•   No earthly husband can do duty

• To your wide merits full–no spouse

•   Pay what is due to so much beauty.

• To wish in heav’n so good a woman,

•   Springs from pure conjugal regard,

• Since worth, like your’s, he’s sure that no man–

•   But only Heaven can reward!

• It is not for the paltry pleasure

•   Of nailing wife in oak so stout,

• With spikes of full a yard in measure,

•   For fear the woman shou’d get out.

• It is not for the joy of heaping

•   A ton of marble on her bones,

• That on death’s bed, ma’am, they may sleep in

•   Sweet peace beneath the quilt of stones.

• Not for the satisfaction, ma’am,

•   Of weeping o’er thy much-lov’d urn;

• For that indeed’s not worth a damn! –

•   But, O, that wife shall ne’er return

• To drink the bitter cup of life,

•   And eat the bitter bread of care,

• Vex her dear soul in worldly strife,

•   Hence leaps of joy the sparkling tear!

• O! the first bliss on earthly sphere,

•   Which husband’s soul alone can know,

• That she on earth he held so dear,

•   Is snatch’d, at last, from human woe!

• Th’ extatic thought! that his dear wife

•   With saints in song her rapture joins,

• That blest with everlasting life

•   She everlasting joy combines!

• You miss’d the meaning of this pray’r,

•   Which, well explain’d, is found most kind,

• And which, dear ma’am, is monstrous far

•   From being with ill-nature join’d.

• But Herschel, by the star of noon!

•   Thy wife I pity from my soul:

• Who, whilst you gaze up at the moon,

•   Hop, step, and jump from pole to pole,

• I fear spends many a stupid night!

•   “Ah, me!” on lonely pillow sighing,

• “That I shoul’d ever wed a wight

•   “So vastly fond, alas, of spying!”

• O Royal Gazer, lack-a-day!

•   I must proclaim the thing too bad,

• Thus from her bed whole nights to stray–

•   Enough to drive a WIDOW mad!

• On cloudy nights–you polish glass:

•   On starlight nights–you gaze in air:

• Were I thy wife, in such a case

•   I shoul’d run madder than March hare.

• Grant that for half a night you do

•   As you are bound by Hymen’s laws–

• Once in a month, perhaps, or so–

•   Yet for complaint there’s still wide cause;

• For half a night!–against Love’s God,

•   Thou are a miserable sinner!

• An alderman, Sir, better wou’d

•   Be satisfi’d with half a dinner!

• A doctor’s fist with half a fee;

•   With half a pudding, Sir, a parson;

• Less satisfied than ye would be,

•   Criticks! –without a rhyme for–arson–.

• Nan Moore with half a grove of bays;

•   And she, who published her FOLLIES*¹⁰,

• A play, which, by b’ing damn’d, was prais’d,

•   With half a house, poor Lady Wallace!

• A greedy wife with half the breeches–

•   With half his bribe a pettifogger–

• He, who with birch tres linguas teaches,

•   With half an arse th’ Etonian FLOGGER*¹¹.

• For dinner, Banks, with half a bat;

•   With half a child a cannibal;

• A rav’nous bard with half a sprat;

•   Queen Kate with half a pot of ale*^12.

• With half a man a hungry shark;

•   With half his mast a German swine;

• An empty kite with half a lark;

•   Warton with half his butt of wine!

• “Mens’ names, by swarths, the world’s sharp tongue,

•   “Doth, like a scythe, at once mow down

• “Without distinction–right or wrong.”–

•   ’Tis given to scandal, Sir, I own.

• To hold ’twixt wife and spying-glass

•   Your dish, as may become you, even,

• Is a hard matter, Sir, I guess:–

•   The thing’s scarce possible, by Heav’n!

• By night your wife, or else the stars,

•   Must, one or t’other, be forsaken:–

• At once–or you shall pull my ears, –

•   You cannot both ways save your bacon.

• You are dilemma’d, Sir:–you owe

•   The stars three hundred pounds-a-year*¹³,

• Wife a good jointure: ’twixt the two

•   You must sign bankrupt, Sir, I fear.

• No man at once can shave and fiddle;

•   Jig a courant, and couch an eye;

• Ride horse full trot, and thread a needle;–

•   Nor you at once, Sir, kiss and spy.–

• No bard on earth, how keen soever,

•   Can pen an ode, and mend his breeches;

• Betwixt the two, the tuneful shaver

•   Must spill his verse, or spoil his stitches.–

• Of bishops, Sir, not one in seven,

•   How staunch soe’er and good the man,–

• Can lift, at once, his soul to heav’n,

•   And sop his crust i’ th’ dripping-pan.

• Nor you, or else I aim awry

•   My arrow widely of the scope,

• At once so pat, Sir, have an eye

•   To widow, and to telescope.

• If, Sir, you can do both at once–

•   Forward, may I ne’er dine or sup hence;–

• The C–––––y–loving Q–– of F–––

•   Shall show her b–– for four and two-pence.

• To purchase such a husband, Sir,

•   That Pitt shou’d pay down all her riches!

• She’d better bought, or much I err,

•   In gingerbread, the COCK and BREECHES.

•       Explicit Tom.

•       –––––––––––––

•       Peroratio.

• Thou’rt a good temper’d dog!–nay, come–

•   Thou wilt not bite me?–I’m but stroking.

• Herschel, thine hand–Lord! merry Tom

•   Means thee no harm in all his joking.

•     ABRACADABRA.

•     F I N I S.

•     ––––––

Footnotes in the original text:

•  *1. In this simile, the Poet alludes to a merry species of gambling, as it is practiced in most of the fashionable jails in Great Britain: half a dozen, or more gentlemen, join in a sweep-stakes, each entering his RACER at the post. The signal for starting is setting fire to the race-course, or sheet of paper.–N.B. The bug, flea, or louse, that shall be burnt through his proper laziness, shall be adjudged distanced by the steward of the race.

•  *2. The Bath Sons of Brick and Mortar have absolutely built poor Mr. A. out of doors! They gave him his choice, either to run for his life, or tarry and be intombed. Mr. A. wisely chose the former.

•  *3. Cooper, author of the Sofa, a Poem.

•  *4. The Poet has been informed, by good authority, that for whole days and nights together, has this unwearied Astronomer sat polishing of glass with his thumbs! and, mirabile dictu! lest the work might cool from interruption [sic], his breakfasts, dinners, and suppers were lifted into his mouth by a servant paid for the purpose!

•  *5. The Royal Gazer married Mrs. Pitt, a widow, and rich, of Upton, near Slough.

•  *6. Signs and Constellations in Heaven.

•  *7. Planets and Constellations.

•  *8. Some read “ad-horn thy pate.”---Fortasse melius [perhaps better].

•  *9. The new moon she wears on her forehead thus---☾

• *10. The Poet alludes to Lady Wallace’s Follies of Fashion, a Comedy, which, though damn’d, was not worth a damn.

• *11. The Reverend Doctor Davies, head master of Eton School.

• *12. The Empress of Russia tosses of a shipful of Burton Ale per annum.

• *13. The Doctor’s star-gazing wages from the Crown.

The poet employs obsolete phrases, or words now not well known:

• “Jig a courant, and couch an eye” means: to dance a jig and remove a cataract.

• “Bob-major” is the method ringing of bells

• “cock and breeches” is old slang for sturdy little man

• “pettifogger”: a person who quibbles over details, a hair-splitter

• “sprat”: a small herring

A list of people whose names appear in the poem or footnotes:

• Anstey, Christopher (1724–1805), English poet who wrote the satirical The New Bath Guide in 1766.Banks, Joseph (1743–1820), President of the Royal Society.

• Catherine, Empress of Russia (1684–1727).Crusca, Della (1755–1798), pseudonym of the English poet Robert Merry.Davies, Jonathan (c.1736–1809), Headmaster of Eton College from 1773 to 1792.

• Hayley, William (1745–1820), English poet.

• Lunardi, Vincenzo (1754–1806), Italian balloonist.

• Mason, William (1724–1979), English poet.

• Mavor, W., co-author of Classical Poetry (1807).

• Moore, Hannah (1745–1833), English poetess.

• Pindar, Peter (1738–1819), the pseudonym of John Wolcot, English satirist.

• Pitt, Mary (1749–1832) first married John Pitt in 1773. He died in 1786. She married William Herschel in 1788.

• Piozzi, Hester Lynch (1741–1821) poetess, born in Wales.

• Plumb, Tom: pseudonym of an English satirist.

• Pye, Henry James (1744–1813), Poet Laureate of England from 1790 to 1813.

• Seward, Anna (1742–1809), English poetess.

• Warton, Thomas (1728–1790), Poet Laureate of England from 1785 to 1790.

• Wallace, Lady Eglantine (died 1803). Her comedy “Follies of Fashion” dates from 1788. It was acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.

• Williams, Anna (1706–1783), English poetess.