The entire city of Baltimore in the early 20's was not unlike the Hell Fire Club of Charles Churchill and John Wilkes (ca 1760) and like Churchill, Henry Louis Mencken was an observer of actors and writers. They received a satirical drubbing.
In particular a review of HLM's early years is most revealing as described in "The Skeptic" by Terry Teachout, Harper Collins, pp 38. As Mencken, read widely, one must wonder if he saw himself as another Churchill. (In fact, he tried poetry but gave it up for prose.)
Like Churchill, Mencken lived vicariously as a voyeur. Mencken's friend, Dresser lived a life style, matching that of John Wilkes and other members of the Hell Fire Club. Wilkes never repaid the courtesy of recording the debt that was owed to the writer-poet, and Dresser was a taker as well. Both Dresser and Wilkes came from the better part of society and Mencken and Churchill were from the working class, perhaps this is the answer(?).
Churchill was seen by his fellows in crime, thusly:
Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one;
Short his career, indeed, but ably run;
Churchill; himself unconscious of his powers;
In penury consum'd his idle hours;
And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown,
Was left to spring by vigour of his own.
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought
Ad dint of genus to an affluent lot,
He laid his head in luxury's soft lap
And took, too often, there his easy nap.
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,
'Twas negligence in him not want of worth,
Surly and slovenly, and bold, and coarse,
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force,
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit.
Always at speed, and never drawing bit,
He struck the lyre in such a careless mood
And so disdain'd the rules he understood,
The laurel seem'd to wait on his command,
He snatch'd it rudely from the Muse's hand.
Table Talk, by Cowper as quoted in The Poetical Works of Charles Churchill with Explanatory Notes, and an Authentic Account of His Life, 1804, pp lii, London, C. and R. Baldwin, Bridge-Street, Blackfrairs.
Of the many poems written by Charles Churchill, none give a better glimpse of his life than The Times. The editor of The Poetical Works protest that Churchill was too sarcastic in his view of life; that he besmirched the reputation of those who at this late date could not defend themselves and accordingly, the editor made no effort to identify many of those about whom Churchill wrote in this poem. (The editor must have surely known the people and events.) Here the puritanical cast of the editor is revealed as is most of the writings about Churchill. Other than this criticism, the two-volume set of Churchill's works is an opportunity to revisit the times of Benjamin Franklin and the society of France and England that he so much enjoyed.
A critic's life is not an easy one. And, to wear ones sensitivities on the sleeve, is surely the best way to get the nose out of joint.* Hogarth responded to Churchill's criticism and Churchill returned the favor. But isn't that what makes the world of H. L. Mencken and Charles Churchill such an interesting place to visit.
Perhaps this comes from wiping one's nose on one's sleeve(?)
Selection from The Times which demonstrates Churchill's sarcasm and the editors enhancement by well placed comments especially on the pleasures of food:
Dine with Apicius at his sumptuous board
Find all, the world of dainties can afford
And yet (so much distermper'd spirits pall
The sickly appetite) amidst them all
Apicius finds no joy, but whilst he carves
For ev'ry guest, the landlord sits and starves.
The forest haunch, fine, fat, in flavour high,
Kept to a moment, smokes before his eye,
But smokes in vain; his heedless eye runs o'er
And loaths what he had deified before:
The turtle, of a great and glorious size,
Worth its own weight in gold, a mighty prize,
For which a man of taste all risks would run,
Itself a feast, and ev'ry dish in one;
The turtle in luxurious pomp comes in,
Kept, kill'd, cut up, prepar'd and dress'd by Quin:
In vane it comes, in vain lays full in view;
As Quin hath dress'd it, he may eat it too;
(Quin was an honest voluptuary who indulged in the dear delights of high seasoned venison, delicious turtle, and excellent claret. In providing scarce and choice dishes for dinner, and high flavoured wines, he was esteemed to be without a peer. Though food to gluttony of fish, he was no lover of angling, he would even call it a barbarous diversion. "Suppose," said he, "that any being that was as much my superiour as I am to these poor fish was to say, this is a fine evening, I'll go a Quinning; if he were to bait with a haunch of venison I should gorge, and how should I like to be dragged from Richmond to Kingston floundering and flouncing with a hook in my gullet" To such discourse as this, which was very usual with him, we owe the following epigram:
Says epicure Quin, should the devil in hell
In fishing for men take delight,
His hook bait with ven'son; I love it so well
By God, I am sure I should bite.
Dr. Smollett (Of Cervantes, translation fame) has given, in Humphrey Clinker, a pleasing portrait of his friend Quin, and Garrick in the following good-humored jeu d'esprit has celebrated the favorite propensity of his once dreaded rival.
A soliloquy by Mr. Quin, upon surveying the body of Duke Humphry, in the Abbey Church of St. Albans.
A plague on Egypt's arts, I say;
Embalm the dead! on senseless clay
Rich wines and spices waste!
Like sturgeon, or like brawn, shall I
Bound in a precious pickle, lie,
Which I can never taste.
Let me embalm this flesh of mine
With turtle fat, and Bourdeaux wine,
And spoil th' Egyptian trade.
Than good Duke Humphry happier I
Embalm'd alive, old Quin shall die
A mummy ready made.
Editor.
Apicius cannot, -- When the glass goes round,
Quick circling, and the roofs with mirth resound,
Sober he sits, and silent all alone.
Though in a crowd; and to himself scarce known
On grief he feeds; nor friends can cure, nor wine
Suspend, his cares, and make him cease to pine.
Why morns Apicius thus: why runs his eye,
Heedless, o'er delicates, which from the sky
Might call down Jove. Where now his gen'rous wish
That, to invent a new and better dish,
The world might burn, and all mankind expire,
So he might roast a phoenix at the fire.
Why swims that eye in tears, which, though a race
Of sixty years, ne'er shew'd one sign of grace:
Why feels that heart, which never felt before.
Why doth that pamper'd glutton eat no more,
Who only liv'd to eat, his stomach pall'd,
And drown'd in floods of sorrow. Hath Fate call'd
His father from the grave to second life
Had Clodius on his hands return'd his wife.
Or hath the law, by strictest justice taught,
Compell'd him to restore the dow'r she brought.
Hath some bold creditor, against his will,
Brought in, and forc'd him to discharge, a bill,
Where eating had no share. Hath some vain wench
Run out his wealth, and forc'd him to retrench.
Hath any rival glutton got the start,
And beat him in his own luxurious art.
Bought cates (provisions.) for which Apicius could not pay,
Or dress'd old dainties in a newer way.
Hath his cook, worthy to be slain with rods,
Spoil'd a dish, fit to entertain the gods.
Or hat some varlet, cross'd by cruel fate,
Thrown down the price of empires in a plate.
None, none of these- his servants all are tried,
So sure, they walk on ice, and never slide;
His cook, an acquisition made in France,
Might put a Cloe out of countenance;
Now, though old Holles (The old Duke of Newcastle) still maintains his stand,
Hath he one rival glutton in the land.
Women are all the objects of his hate;
His debts are unpaid, and yet his state
In full security and triumph held,
Unless for once a knave should be expell'd;
His wife is still a whore, and in his pow'r,
The woman gone, he still retains the dow'r;
Sound in the grave (thanks to his filial care
Which mix'd the draught, and kindly sent him there)
His father sleeps, and till the last trump shake
The corners of the earth, shall not awake.
So here sits the host, the old Duke of Newcastle, roasted by Charles Churchill at his own table, unable to enjoy the banquet set before him because of his transgressions of jealousy, gluttony, &c., and perhaps murder as well.
America's own Ben Franklin partook of the pleasures that England had to offer and was said to be an honoured guest at the Hell Fire Club.
It is well that Charles Churchill's life was brief,
Otherwise, his caustic pen would've brought him grief.
jsw
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Charles Churchill lived a brief 33 years ending in 1764. His pen dripped poison as he addressed the popular actors, writers and poets of the day. He did not go quietly and defended his way of living which included much debauchery. Be that as it may, he was a great poet and spit in the eye of those who taunted him.
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