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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Pethox the Great 59
On a Pen 62
On Gold 63
On the Posteriors 64
On a Horn 65
On a Corkscrew 66
The Gulf of all Human Possessions 67
Louisa to Strephon 70
A Maypole 71
On the Moon 72
On a Circle 73
On Ink 73
On the Five Senses 74
Fontinella to Florinda 75
An Echo 76
On a Shadow in a Glass 77
On Time 78
On the Gallows 78
On the Vowels 79
On Snow 79
On a Cannon 80
On a Pair of Dice 80
On a Candle 80
To Lady Carteret by Delany 82
Answered by Dr. Swift 83
To Lady Carteret 83
Answered by Sheridan 84
A Riddle 84
Answer by Mr. F——r 84
A Letter to Dr. Helsham 85
Probatur aliter 87
On cutting down the Thorn 89
To Dean Swift 92
Dean Swift at Sir Arthur Acheson’s 93
On a very old Glass at Market Hill 94
Answered extempore by Dr. Swift 95
Epitaph 95
My Lady’s Lamentation 95
A Pastoral Dialogue 99
The Grand Question debated 101
Drapier’s Hill 106
The Dean’s Reasons 107
The Revolution at Market Hill 110
Robin and Harry 113
A Panegyric on the Dean 115
Twelve Articles 125
Parody 127
Jack Frenchman’s Lamentation 129
The Garden Plot 132
Sid Hamet’s Rod 133
The Famous Speech-Maker 136
Parody on the Recorder’s Speech 143
Ballad 144
Atlas; or the Minister of State 147
Lines on Harley’s being stabbed 148
An Excellent New Song 148
The Windsor Prophecy 150
Corinna, a Ballad 152
The Fable of Midas 153
Toland’s Invitation to Dismal 156
Peace and Dunkirk 157
Imitation of Horace, Epist. I, vii 159
The Author upon Himself 163
The Fagot 166
Imitation of Horace, Sat. VI, ii 167
Horace paraphrased, Odes ii, i 171
Dennis’ Invitation to Steele 175
In Sickness 180
The Fable of the Bitches 181
To the Earl of Oxford in the Tower 182
On the Church’s Danger 183
A Poem on High Church 183
The Story of Phaethon 184
A Tale of a Nettle 186
A Satirical Elegy 187
Parody on Pratt’s Speech 189
An Excellent New Song 192
The Run upon the Bankers 193
Upon the Horrid Plot 196
Quibbling Elegy on Judge Boat 198
The Epitaph 199
Verses on Whitshed’s Motto 200
Prometheus 201
Verses on the Order of the Bath 203
Epigram on Wood’s Brass Money 203
A Simile 204
Wood an Insect 205
Wood the Ironmonger 206
Wood’s Petition 207
A New Song on Wood’s Halfpence 209
A Serious Poem 211
An Excellent New Song 215
Verses on the Judge who condemned the Drapier’s
Printer 217
On the Same 218
On the Same 218
George Rochfort’s Verses 298
A Left-handed Letter 298
To the Dean of St. Patrick’s 300
To Mr. Thomas Sheridan 301
Ad Amicum Eruditum Thomam Sheridan 302
To the Dean of St. Patrick’s 305
To the Dean of St. Patrick’s 306
An Answer by Delany 306
A Reply by Sheridan 307
Another Reply by Sheridan 308
To Thomas Sheridan 309
Swift to Sheridan 310
An Answer by Sheridan 310
To Dr. Sheridan 311
The Answer by Dr. Sheridan 312
Dr. Sheridan to Dr. Swift 313
The Dean’s Answer 314
Dr. Sheridan’s Reply to the Dean 314
To the Same by Dr. Sheridan 315
The Dean of St. Patrick’s to Thomas Sheridan
316
To the Dean of St. Patrick’s 317
The Dean to Thomas Sheridan 318
To Dr. Sheridan 320
1 P.S. 321
2 P.S. 321
3 P.S. 321
Dr. Sheridan’s Answer 322
Dr. Swift’s Reply 322
A Copy of a Copy of Verses 323
George-Nim-Dan-Dean’s Answer 324
George-Nim-Dan-Dean’s Invitation 326
To George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq 328
To Mr. Thomas Sheridan 330
On Dr. Sheridan’s Circular Verses 331
On Dan Jackson’s Picture 332
On the Same Picture 332
On the Same 333
On the Same Picture 333
On the Same Picture 333
Dan Jackson’s Defence 335
Mr. Rochfort’s Reply 336
Dr. Delany’s Reply 338
Sheridan’s Reply 339
A Rejoinder 340
Another Rejoinder 342
Sheridan’s Submission 343
The Pardon 344
The Last Speech and Dying Words of Daniel Jackson
To Dr. Swift on his Birth-Day 390
On Dr. Swift 390
To the Rev. Dr. Swift, Dean of St. Patrick’s,
a Birth-Day Poem, Nov. 30, 1736
391
Epigrams occasioned by Dr. Swift’s intended
Hospital
for Idiots and Lunatics 393
On the Dean of St. Patrick’s Birth-Day 394
An Epistle to Robert Nugent, Esq. 396
On the Drapier, by Dr. Dunkin 399
Epitaph proposed for Dr. Swift 400
To the Memory of Dr. Swift 401
A Schoolboy’s Theme 403
Verses on the Battle of the Books 404
On Dr. Swift’s leaving his Estate to Idiots
404
On several Petty Pieces lately published against Dean
Swift 405
On Faulkner’s Edition of Swift 405
Epigram on Lord Orrery’s Remarks 406
To Dr. Delany, on his Book entitled “Observations
on Lord Orrery’s Remarks”
406
Epigram on Faulkner 407
An Inscription 407
An Epigram occasioned by the above 407
Index 409
POEMS ADDRESSED TO VANESSA AND STELLA
Cadenus and Vanessa[1]
1713
The shepherds and the nymphs were seen
Pleading before the Cyprian queen.
The counsel for the fair began,
Accusing the false creature Man.
The brief with weighty crimes was charged
On which the pleader much enlarged;
That Cupid now has lost his art,
Or blunts the point of every dart;—
His altar now no longer smokes,
His mother’s aid no youth invokes:
This tempts freethinkers to refine,
And bring in doubt their powers divine;
Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money league;
Which crimes aforesaid (with her leave)
Were (as he humbly did conceive)
Against our sovereign lady’s peace,
Against the statute in that case,
[Footnote 1: Hester, elder daughter of Bartholomew Vanhomrigh, a Dutch merchant in Dublin, where he acquired a fortune of some L16,000. Upon his death, his widow and two daughters settled in London, about 1710-11, where Swift became intimate with the family. See “Prose Works,” especially Journal to Stella. After Swift became Dean of St. Patrick’s, Vanessa and her sister, on their mother’s death, returned to Ireland. The younger sister died about 1720, and Vanessa died at Marlay Abbey in May, 1723.]
[Footnote 2: A lace so called after the celebrated French Minister, Colbert. Planche’s “British Costume,” 395._W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: See the verses “On Censure,” vol. i, p.160.—W. E. B.]
In all I wish, how happy should I be,
Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee!
So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise;
And yet so strong, thou triumph’st o’er
the wise.
Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art,
They catch the cautious, let the rash depart.
Most nets are fill’d by want of thought and
care
But too much thinking brings us to thy snare;
Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay,
And throw the pleasing part of life away.
But, what does most my indignation move,
Discretion! thou wert ne’er a friend to Love:
Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts,
By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts;
While the blind loitering God is at his play,
Thou steal’st his golden pointed darts away:
Those darts which never fail; and in their stead
Convey’st malignant arrows tipt with lead:
The heedless God, suspecting no deceits,
Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats;
But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn,
And from her shepherd can find no return,
Laments, and rages at the power divine,
When, curst Discretion! all the fault was thine:
Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds,
And bred such feuds between those kindred gods,
That Venus cannot reconcile her sons;
When one appears, away the other runs.
The former scales, wherein he used to poise
Love against love, and equal joys with joys,
Are now fill’d up with avarice and pride,
Where titles, power, and riches, still subside.
Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run,
And tell him, how thy children are undone:
Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow,
And strike Discretion to the shades below.
[Footnote 1: Found in Miss Vanhomrigh’s desk, after her death, in the handwriting of Dr. Swift.—H.]
Cut the name of the man [1] who his mistress denied,
And let the first of it be only applied
To join with the prophet[2] who David did chide;
Then say what a horse is that runs very fast;[3]
And that which deserves to be first put the last;
Spell all then, and put them together, to find
The name and the virtues of him I design’d.
Like the patriarch in Egypt, he’s versed in
the state;
Like the prophet in Jewry, he’s free with the
great;
Like a racer he flies, to succour with speed,
When his friends want his aid, or desert is in need.
[Footnote 1: Jo-seph.]
[Footnote 2: Nathan.]
[Footnote 3: Swift.]
The nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit,
I cannot but envy the pride of her wit,
Which thus she will venture profusely to throw
On so mean a design, and a subject so low.
For mean’s her design, and her subject as mean,
The first but a rebus, the last but a dean.
A dean’s but a parson: and what is a rebus?
A thing never known to the Muses or Phoebus.
The corruption of verse; for, when all is done,
It is but a paraphrase made on a pun.
But a genius like hers no subject can stifle,
It shows and discovers itself through a trifle.
By reading this trifle, I quickly began
To find her a great wit, but the dean a small man.
Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff,
Which others for mantuas would think fine enough:
So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here,
Might furnish a second-rate poet a year.
Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next,
Where the nymph has entirely forsaken her text:
Her fine panegyrics are quite out of season:
And what she describes to be merit, is treason:
The changes which faction has made in the state,
Have put the dean’s politics quite out of date:
Now no one regards what he utters with freedom,
And, should he write pamphlets, no great man would
read ’em;
And, should want or desert stand in need of his aid,
This racer would prove but a dull founder’d
jade.
Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan’t dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
O, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain.
Written A.D. 1720-21.—Stella.
All travellers at first incline
Where’er they see the fairest sign
And if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel Inn to every friend.
And though the painting grows decay’d,
The house will never lose its trade:
Nay, though the treach’rous tapster,[2] Thomas,
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers’ hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We[3] think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel Inn.
Now this is Stella’s case in fact,
An angel’s face a little crack’d.
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six:)
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel’s mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella’s eyes.
See, at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense,
And puts them to so small expense;
Their minds so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives!
And had her stock been less, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.
Then, who can think we’ll quit the
place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Nail’d to her window full in sight
All Christian people to invite.
Or stop and light at Chloe’s head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed?
Then, Chloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendoes, when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellows:
But let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That should you live to see the day,
When Stella’s locks must all be gray,
When age must print a furrow’d trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could Art, or Time, or Nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty’s Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:
All men of sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella’s at four-score.
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella’s own copy transcribed in her volume.—Forster.]
[Footnote 2: Rascal.—Stella.]
[Footnote 3: They.—Stella.]
TO STELLA, WHO COLLECTED AND TRANSCRIBED HIS POEMS 1720
As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones.
But all admire Inigo Jones:
So, if this pile of scatter’d rhymes
Should be approved in aftertimes;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours.
Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was strung,
Without one word of Cupid’s darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;
With friendship and esteem possest,
I ne’er admitted Love a guest.
In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we still pursue,
In pleasure seek for something new;
Or else, comparing with the rest,
Take comfort that our own is best;
The best we value by the worst,
As tradesmen show their trash at first;
But his pursuits are at an end,
Whom Stella chooses for a friend.
A poet starving in a garret,
Conning all topics like a parrot,
Invokes his mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of shoes:
Should but his Muse descending drop
A slice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit’s out,
Surprise him with a pint of stout;
Or patch his broken stocking soles;
Or send him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,
He flies and leaves the stars behind;
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.
Or, should a porter make inquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and sign,
The bowers that hold those nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,
Her shoulders mark’d with bloody tracks;[1]
Bright Phillis mending ragged smocks:
And radiant Iris in the pox.
These are the goddesses enroll’d
In Curll’s collection, new and old,
Whose scoundrel fathers would not know ’em,
If they should meet them in a poem.
True poets can depress and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise;
They are not scurrilous in satire,
Nor will in panegyric flatter.
Unjustly poets we asperse;
Truth shines the brighter clad in verse,
And all the fictions they pursue
Do but insinuate what is true.
Now, should my praises owe their truth
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What stoics call without our power,
They could not be ensured an hour;
’Twere grafting on an annual stock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant shoot,
Die the next year for want of root:
Before I could my verses bring,
Perhaps you’re quite another thing.
So Maevius, when he drain’d his
skull
To celebrate some suburb trull,
His similes in order set,
And every crambo[2] he could get;
Had gone through all the common-places
Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces;
Before he could his poem close,
[Footnote 1: At Bridewell; see vol. i, “A Beautiful Young Nymph,” at p. 201.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: A cant word for a rhyme.—W. E. B.]
TO STELLA VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS 1720
Pallas, observing Stella’s wit
Was more than for her sex was fit,
And that her beauty, soon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state,
In high concern for human kind,
Fix’d honour in her infant mind.
But (not in wrangling to engage
With such a stupid, vicious age)
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natural life the body warms,
And, scholars teach, the soul informs,
So honour animates the whole,
And is the spirit of the soul.
Those numerous virtues which the tribe
Of tedious moralists describe,
And by such various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule supreme,
Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the case,
Nor is complexion honour’s place.
But, lest we should for honour take
The drunken quarrels of a rake:
Or think it seated in a scar,
Or on a proud triumphal car;
Or in the payment of a debt
We lose with sharpers at piquet;
Or when a whore, in her vocation,
Keeps punctual to an assignation;
Or that on which his lordship swears,
When vulgar knaves would lose their ears;
Let Stella’s fair example preach
A lesson she alone can teach.
In points of honour to be tried,
All passions must be laid aside:
Ask no advice, but think alone;
Suppose the question not your own.
How shall I act, is not the case;
But how would Brutus in my place?
In such a case would Cato bleed?
And how would Socrates proceed?
Drive all objections from your mind,
Else you relapse to human kind:
Ambition, avarice, and lust,
A factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flattery tipt with nauseous fleer,
And guilty shame, and servile fear,
Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart preside.
Heroes and heroines of old,
By honour only were enroll’d
Among their brethren in the skies,
To which (though late) shall Stella rise.
Ten thousand oaths upon record
Are not so sacred as her word:
The world shall in its atoms end,
Ere Stella can deceive a friend.
By honour seated in her breast
She still determines what is best:
What indignation in her mind
Against enslavers of mankind!
Base kings, and ministers of state,
Eternal objects of her hate!
She thinks that nature ne’er design’d
Courage to man alone confined.
Can cowardice her sex adorn,
Which most exposes ours to scorn?
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel’s affected fears;
For Stella never learn’d the art
At proper times to scream and start;
Nor calls up all the house at night,
And swears she saw a thing in white.
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because she heard a sudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum.
Her hearers are amazed from whence
Proceeds that fund of wit and sense;
St. Patrick’s Dean, your country’s pride,
My early and my only guide,
Let me among the rest attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,
To celebrate in female strains
The day that paid your mother’s pains;
Descend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you.
When men began to call me fair,
You interposed your timely care:
You early taught me to despise
The ogling of a coxcomb’s eyes;
Show’d where my judgment was misplaced;
Refined my fancy and my taste.
Behold that beauty just decay’d,
Invoking art to nature’s aid:
Forsook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter’d nets in vain;
Short was her part upon the stage;
Went smoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, she wanted art,
As the scene changed, to change her part;
She, whom no lover could resist,
Before the second act was hiss’d.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.
Stella to you, her tutor, owes
That she has ne’er resembled those:
Nor was a burden to mankind
With half her course of years behind.
While, Stella, to your lasting praise
The Muse her annual tribute pays,
While I assign myself a task
Which you expect, but scorn to ask;
If I perform this task with pain,
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
I grow less equal to the charge:
In you each virtue brighter shines,
But my poetic vein declines;
My harp will soon in vain be strung,
And all your virtues left unsung.
For none among the upstart race
Of poets dare assume my place;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stellas of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decay’d,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir,
Will answer for the whole arrear.
ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE BY DR. DELANY
Amphora, quae moestum linquis, laetumque revises
Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis.
Tu quoque depositum serves, neve opprime, marmor;
Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori.
Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenaea sepulchro,
Immortale genus, nee peritura jacet;
Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo:
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.
STELLA’S BIRTH-DAY: A GREAT BOTTLE OF WINE, LONG BURIED, BEING THAT DAY DUG UP. 1722-3
Resolv’d my annual verse to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella’s day,
Furnish’d with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely sat me down to think:
I bit my nails, and scratch’d my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled:
Or if, with more than usual pain,
A thought came slowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curse,
[Footnote 1: The Poet Laureate.]
[Footnote 2: “Mrs. Brent, my housekeeper, famous in print for digging out the great bottle.” “I dine tete a tete five days a week with my old presbyterian housekeeper whom I call Sir Robert.” Swift to Pope. Pope’s “Works,” edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, pp. 145, 212.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: She had a cast in her eyes.—Swift.]
[Footnote 4: The butler.]
[Footnote 5: The footman.]
[Footnote 6: Mrs. Dingley.]
[Footnote 7: The valet.]
STELLA AT WOOD PARK,
A HOUSE OF CHARLES FORD, ESQ., NEAR DUBLIN
1723
—cuicumque nocere volebat, Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.[1]
Don Carlos, in a merry spight,
Did Stella to his house invite:
He entertain’d her half a year
With generous wines and costly cheer.
Don Carlos made her chief director,
That she might o’er the servants hector.
In half a week the dame grew nice,
Got all things at the highest price:
Now at the table head she sits,
Presented with the nicest bits:
She look’d on partridges with scorn,
Except they tasted of the corn:
A haunch of ven’son made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette.
Don Carlos earnestly would beg,
“Dear Madam, try this pigeon’s leg;”
Was happy, when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail.
Through candle-light she view’d the wine,
To see that ev’ry glass was fine.
At last, grown prouder than the devil
With feeding high, and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find
His malice work as he design’d.
The winter sky began to frown:
Poor Stella must pack off to town;
From purling streams and fountains bubbling,
To Liffey’s stinking tide in Dublin:
From wholesome exercise and air
To sossing in an easy-chair:
From stomach sharp, and hearty feeding,
To piddle[2] like a lady breeding:
From ruling there the household singly.
To be directed here by Dingley:[3]
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thank it:
From every meal Pontac in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty:
From Ford attending at her call,
To visits of Archdeacon Wall:
From Ford, who thinks of nothing mean,
To the poor doings of the Dean:
From growing richer with good cheer,
To running out by starving here.
But now arrives the dismal day;
She must return to Ormond Quay.[4]
The coachman stopt; she look’d, and swore
The rascal had mistook the door:
At coming in, you saw her stoop;
The entry brush’d against her hoop:
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curst the narrow winding stairs:
Began a thousand faults to spy;
The ceiling hardly six feet high;
The smutty wainscot full of cracks:
And half the chairs with broken backs:
Her quarter’s out at Lady-day;
She vows she will no longer stay
In lodgings like a poor Grisette,
While there are houses to be let.
Howe’er, to keep her spirits up,
She sent for company to sup:
When all the while you might remark,
She strove in vain to ape Wood Park.
Two bottles call’d for, (half her store,
The cupboard could contain but four:)
A supper worthy of herself,
[Footnote 1: Horat., “Epist.,” i, 18, 31.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: In its proper sense—to
pick at table, to feed squeamishly.
“With entremets to piddle with at
hand.”
BYRON, Don Juan.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: The constant companion of Stella.]
[Footnote 4: Where the two ladies lodged.]
A NEW YEAR’S GIFT FOR BEC [1] 1723-4
Returning Janus[2] now prepares,
For Bec, a new supply of cares,
Sent in a bag to Dr. Swift,
Who thus displays the new-year’s gift.
First, this large parcel brings you tidings
Of our good Dean’s eternal chidings;
Of Nelly’s pertness, Robin’s leasings,
And Sheridan’s perpetual teazings.
This box is cramm’d on every side
With Stella’s magisterial pride.
Behold a cage with sparrows fill’d,
First to be fondled, then be kill’d.
Now to this hamper I invite you,
With six imagined cares to fright you.
Here in this bundle Janus sends
Concerns by thousands for your friends.
And here’s a pair of leathern pokes,
To hold your cares for other folks.
Here from this barrel you may broach
A peck of troubles for a coach.
This ball of wax your ears will darken,
Still to be curious, never hearken.
Lest you the town may have less trouble in
Bring all your Quilca’s [3] cares to Dublin,
For which he sends this empty sack;
And so take all upon your back.
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley, Stella’s friend and companion.]
[Footnote 2: The sun god represented with two faces, one in front, and one behind, to whom the new year was sacred.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Country-house of Dr. Sheridan.]
To the tune of “Ye Commons and Peers.”
Dingley and Brent,
Wherever they
went,
Ne’er minded a word that was spoken;
Whatever was said,
They ne’er
troubled their head,
But laugh’d at their own silly joking.
Should Solomon
wise
In majesty rise,
And show them his wit and his learning;
They never would
hear,
But turn the deaf
ear,
As a matter they had no concern in.
You tell a good
jest,
And please all
the rest;
Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it?
And, curious to
know,
Away she will
go
To seek an old rag in the closet.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift’s housekeeper.]
WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF HER BIRTH, MARCH 13, 1723-4, BUT NOT ON THE SUBJECT, WHEN I WAS SICK IN BED
Tormented with incessant pains,
Can I devise poetic strains?
Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verse to Stella’s native day:
But now unable grown to write,
I grieve she ever saw the light.
Ungrateful! since to her I owe
That I these pains can undergo.
She tends me like an humble slave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish passions break,
With gall in every word I speak,
She with soft speech my anguish cheers,
Or melts my passions down with tears;
Although ’tis easy to descry
She wants assistance more than I;
Yet seems to feel my pains alone,
And is a stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So soft and yet so firm a mind?
All accidents of life conspire
To raise up Stella’s virtue higher;
Or else to introduce the rest
Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmness who could e’er have known,
Had she not evils of her own?
Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in distress?
Whatever base returns you find
From me, dear Stella, still be kind.
In your own heart you’ll reap the fruit,
Though I continue still a brute.
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again;
Meantime, your other juster friends
Shall for my follies make amends;
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us.
If it be true, celestial powers,
That you have form’d me fair,
And yet, in all my vainest hours,
My mind has been my care:
Then, in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind,
What envious Time takes from my face
Bestow upon my mind!
The Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frosty nights their starving cows,
While not a blade of grass or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Must let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain:
Meagre and lank with fasting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Exposed to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and soul together,
Till summer showers and evening’s dew
[Footnote 1: The celebrated sorceress, daughter of AEetes, King of Colchis, who assisted Jason in obtaining possession of the Golden Fleece.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Carried off by Jupiter under the form of a bull. Ovid, “Met.” ii, 836.]
As when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she’s past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too sad a truth!
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty’s queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen,
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
[Footnote 1: Now deaf, 1740.—Swift. This pathetic note was in Swift’s writing in his own copy of the “Miscellanies,” edit. 1727-32.—W. E. B.]
BEC’S[1] BIRTH-DAY NOV. 8, 1726
This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;
Had Fate a luckier one, she’d give it ye.
She chose a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for strength:
Nor will be able with her shears
To cut it off these forty years.
Then who says care will kill a cat?
Rebecca shows they’re out in that.
For she, though overrun with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair.
As, if the gout should seize the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to the extremest parts,
They give the sick man joy, and praise
The gout that will prolong his days.
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,
Who drives her cares to hands and feet:
For, though philosophers maintain
The limbs are guided by the brain,
Quite contrary Rebecca’s led;
Her hands and feet conduct her head;
By arbitrary power convey her,
She ne’er considers why or where:
Her hands may meddle, feet may wander,
Her head is but a mere by-stander:
And all her bustling but supplies
The part of wholesome exercise.
Thus nature has resolved to pay her
The cat’s nine lives, and eke the care.
Long may she live, and help her friends
Whene’er it suits her private ends;
Domestic business never mind
Till coffee has her stomach lined;
But, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stella’s chicken porridge:
I mean when Tiger[2]has been served,
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Rebecca Dingley.]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Dingley’s favourite lap-dog. See next page.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Mercury.—Virg., “Aeneid,” iv.]
MRS. DINGLEY’S LAP-DOG
Pray steal me not; I’m Mrs. Dingley’s,
Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.
MARCH 13, 1726-7
This day, whate’er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me:
This day then let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old;
Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills;
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days;
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines.
Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.
Were future happiness and pain
A mere contrivance of the brain;
As atheists argue, to entice
And fit their proselytes for vice;
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes;)
Grant this the case; yet sure ’tis hard
That virtue, styled its own reward,
And by all sages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should acting die; nor leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind,
Which, by remembrance, will assuage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart
To shine through life’s declining part.
Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employ’d to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store
Those whom you dragg’d from death before?
TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEAN. 1730
Lord Orrery gives us the following curious anecdote respecting this poem:
“I have just now cast my eye over a poem called ‘Death and Daphne,’ which makes me recollect an odd incident, relating to that nymph. Swift, soon after our acquaintance, introduced me to her as to one of his female favourites. I had scarce been half an hour in her company, before she asked me if I had seen the Dean’s poem upon ‘Death and Daphne.’ As I told her I had not, she immediately unlocked a cabinet, and, bringing out the manuscript, read it to me with a seeming satisfaction, of which, at that time, I doubted the sincerity. While she was reading, the Dean was perpetually correcting her for bad pronunciation, and for placing a wrong emphasis upon particular words. As soon as she had gone through the composition, she assured me, smilingly, that the portrait of Daphne was drawn for herself. I begged to be excused from believing it; and protested that I could not see one feature that had the least resemblance; but the Dean immediately
Death went upon a solemn day
At Pluto’s hall his court to pay;
The phantom having humbly kiss’d
His grisly monarch’s sooty fist,
Presented him the weekly bills
Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills.
Pluto, observing since the peace
The burial article decrease,
And vex’d to see affairs miscarry,
Declared in council Death must marry;
Vow’d he no longer could support
Old bachelors about his court;
The interest of his realm had need
That Death should get a numerous breed;
Young deathlings, who, by practice made
Proficient in their father’s trade,
With colonies might stock around
His large dominions under ground.
A consult of coquettes below
Was call’d, to rig him out a beau;
From her own head Megaera[1] takes
A periwig of twisted snakes:
Which in the nicest fashion curl’d,
(Like toupees[2] of this upper world)
With flower of sulphur powder’d well,
That graceful on his shoulders fell;
An adder of the sable kind
In line direct hung down behind:
The owl, the raven, and the bat,
Clubb’d for a feather to his hat:
His coat, a usurer’s velvet pall,
Bequeath’d to Pluto, corpse and all.
But, loath his person to expose
Bare, like a carcass pick’d by crows,
A lawyer, o’er his hands and face
Stuck artfully a parchment case.
No new flux’d rake show’d fairer skin;
Nor Phyllis after lying in.
With snuff was fill’d his ebon box,
Of shin-bones rotted by the pox.
Nine spirits of blaspheming fops,
With aconite anoint his chops;
And give him words of dreadful sounds,
G—d d—n his blood! and b—d
and w—ds!’
Thus furnish’d out, he sent his
train
To take a house in Warwick-lane:[3]
The faculty, his humble friends,
A complimental message sends:
Their president in scarlet gown
Harangued, and welcomed him to town.
But Death had business to dispatch;
His mind was running on his match.
And hearing much of Daphne’s fame,
His majesty of terrors came,
Fine as a colonel of the guards,
To visit where she sat at cards;
She, as he came into the room,
Thought him Adonis in his bloom.
And now her heart with pleasure jumps,
She scarce remembers what is trumps;
For such a shape of skin and bone
Was never seen except her own.
Charm’d with his eyes, and chin, and snout,
Her pocket-glass drew slily out;
And grew enamour’d with her phiz,
[Footnote 1: Megaera, one of three Furies, beautifully described by Virgil, “Aeneid,” xii, 846.—. W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Periwigs with long tails.]
[Footnote 3: Where the College of Physicians was situated at that time. See Cunningham’s “Handbook of London.”—W. E. B.]
Daphne knows, with equal ease,
How to vex, and how to please;
But the folly of her sex
Makes her sole delight to vex.
Never woman more devised
Surer ways to be despised;
Paradoxes weakly wielding,
Always conquer’d, never yielding.
To dispute, her chief delight,
Without one opinion right:
Thick her arguments she lays on,
And with cavils combats reason;
Answers in decisive way,
Never hears what you can say;
Still her odd perverseness shows
Chiefly where she nothing knows;
And, where she is most familiar,
Always peevisher and sillier;
All her spirits in a flame
When she knows she’s most to blame.
Send me hence ten thousand miles,
From a face that always smiles:
None could ever act that part,
But a fury in her heart.
Ye who hate such inconsistence,
To be easy, keep your distance:
Or in folly still befriend her,
But have no concern to mend her;
Lose not time to contradict her,
Nor endeavour to convict her.
Never take it in your thought,
That she’ll own, or cure a fault.
Into contradiction warm her,
Then, perhaps, you may reform her:
Only take this rule along,
Always to advise her wrong;
RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724
The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin edition: “About nine or ten years ago, (i.e. about 1724,) some ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author hath a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions.”
FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
But who thy father, no man knows:
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race;
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Discovers Vulcan for thy sire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin singed the soil:
(From whence, philosophers agree,
An equal power descends to thee;)
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high descent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, show numerous scars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And still the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader’s tent;
Or whether, as the learn’d contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul descend;
Or from Parthenope[1] the proud,
Where numberless thy votaries crowd;
Whether thy great forefathers came
From realms that bear Vespuccio’s name,[2]
For so conjectures would obtrude;
And from thy painted skin conclude;
Whether, as Epicurus[3] shows,
The world from justling seeds arose,
Which, mingling with prolific strife
In chaos, kindled into life:
So your production was the same,
And from contending atoms came.
Thy fair indulgent mother crown’d
[Footnote 1: Naples, anciently called Parthenope, from the name of the siren who threw herself into the sea for grief at the departure of Ulysses, and was cast up and buried there.—Ovid, “Met.,” xiv, 101.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Americus Vespuccius, the discoverer of America in 1497. See Hakluyts “Navigations, Voyages, etc.,” vii, 161; viii, 449.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: See Lucretius, “De Rer. Nat.,” lib. i.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Bubo, the owl.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 5: Taken prisoner by the Carthaginians in the first Punic war, and ultimately tortured to death. See the story in Cicero, “De Officiis,” i, 13; Hor., “Carm.,” iii, 5.—W. E. B.]
In youth exalted high in air,
Or bathing in the waters fair,
Nature to form me took delight,
And clad my body all in white.
My person tall, and slender waist,
On either side with fringes graced;
Till me that tyrant man espied,
And dragg’d me from my mother’s side:
No wonder now I look so thin;
The tyrant stript me to the skin:
My skin he flay’d, my hair he cropt:
At head and foot my body lopt:
And then, with heart more hard than stone,
He pick’d my marrow from the bone.
To vex me more, he took a freak
To slit my tongue and make me speak:
But, that which wonderful appears,
I speak to eyes, and not to ears.
He oft employs me in disguise,
And makes me tell a thousand lies:
To me he chiefly gives in trust
To please his malice or his lust.
From me no secret he can hide;
I see his vanity and pride:
And my delight is to expose
His follies to his greatest foes.
All languages I can command,
Yet not a word I understand.
Without my aid, the best divine
In learning would not know a line:
The lawyer must forget his pleading;
The scholar could not show his reading.
Nay; man my master is my slave;
I give command to kill or save,
Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year,
And make a beggar’s brat a peer.
But, while I thus my life relate,
I only hasten on my fate.
My tongue is black, my mouth is furr’d,
I hardly now can force a word.
I die unpitied and forgot,
And on some dunghill left to rot.
All-ruling tyrant of the earth,
To vilest slaves I owe my birth,
How is the greatest monarch blest,
When in my gaudy livery drest!
No haughty nymph has power to run
From me; or my embraces shun.
Stabb’d to the heart, condemn’d to flame,
My constancy is still the same.
The favourite messenger of Jove,
And Lemnian god, consulting strove
To make me glorious to the sight
Of mortals, and the gods’ delight.
Soon would their altar’s flame expire
If I refused to lend them fire.
By fate exalted high in place,
Lo, here I stand with double face:
Superior none on earth I find;
But see below me all mankind
Yet, as it oft attends the great,
I almost sink with my own weight.
At every motion undertook,
The vulgar all consult my look.
I sometimes give advice in writing,
But never of my own inditing.
I am a courtier in my way;
For those who raised me, I betray;
And some give out that I entice
To lust, to luxury, and dice.
Who punishments on me inflict,
Because they find their pockets pickt.
By riding post, I lose my health,
And only to get others wealth.
Because I am by nature blind,
I wisely choose to walk behind;
However, to avoid disgrace,
I let no creature see my face.
My words are few, but spoke with sense;
And yet my speaking gives offence:
Or, if to whisper I presume,
The company will fly the room.
By all the world I am opprest:
And my oppression gives them rest.
Through me, though sore against my will,
Instructors every art instil.
By thousands I am sold and bought,
Who neither get nor lose a groat;
For none, alas! by me can gain,
But those who give me greatest pain.
Shall man presume to be my master,
Who’s but my caterer and taster?
Yet, though I always have my will,
I’m but a mere depender still:
An humble hanger-on at best;
Of whom all people make a jest.
In me detractors seek to find
Two vices of a different kind;
I’m too profuse, some censurers cry,
And all I get, I let it fly;
While others give me many a curse,
Because too close I hold my purse.
But this I know, in either case,
They dare not charge me to my face.
’Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save,
Sometimes run out of all I have;
But, when the year is at an end,
Computing what I get and spend,
My goings-out, and comings-in,
I cannot find I lose or win;
And therefore all that know me say,
I justly keep the middle way.
I’m always by my betters led;
I last get up, and first a-bed;
Though, if I rise before my time,
The learn’d in sciences sublime
Consult the stars, and thence foretell
Good luck to those with whom I dwell.
The joy of man, the pride of brutes,
Domestic subject for disputes,
Of plenty thou the emblem fair,
Adorn’d by nymphs with all their care!
I saw thee raised to high renown,
Supporting half the British crown;
And often have I seen thee grace
The chaste Diana’s infant face;
And whensoe’er you please to shine,
Less useful is her light than thine:
Thy numerous fingers know their way,
And oft in Celia’s tresses play.
To place thee in another view,
I’ll show the world strange things and true;
What lords and dames of high degree
May justly claim their birth from thee!
The soul of man with spleen you vex;
Of spleen you cure the female sex.
Thee for a gift the courtier sends
With pleasure to his special friends:
He gives, and with a generous pride,
Contrives all means the gift to hide:
Nor oft can the receiver know,
Whether he has the gift or no.
On airy wings you take your flight,
And fly unseen both day and night;
Conceal your form with various tricks;
And few know how or where you fix:
Yet some, who ne’er bestow’d thee, boast
That they to others give thee most.
Meantime, the wise a question start,
If thou a real being art;
Or but a creature of the brain,
That gives imaginary pain?
But the sly giver better knows thee;
Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.
Though I, alas! a prisoner be,
My trade is prisoners to set free.
No slave his lord’s commands obeys
With such insinuating ways.
My genius piercing, sharp, and bright,
Wherein the men of wit delight.
The clergy keep me for their ease,
And turn and wind me as they please.
A new and wondrous art I show
Of raising spirits from below;
In scarlet some, and some in white;
They rise, walk round, yet never fright.
In at each mouth the spirits pass,
Distinctly seen as through a glass:
O’er head and body make a rout,
And drive at last all secrets out;
And still, the more I show my art,
The more they open every heart.
A greater chemist none than I
Who, from materials hard and dry,
Have taught men to extract with skill
More precious juice than from a still.
Although I’m often out of case,
I’m not ashamed to show my face.
Though at the tables of the great
I near the sideboard take my seat;
Yet the plain ’squire, when dinner’s done,
Is never pleased till I make one;
He kindly bids me near him stand,
And often takes me by the hand.
I twice a-day a-hunting go;
Nor ever fail to seize my foe;
And when I have him by the poll,
I drag him upwards from his hole;
Though some are of so stubborn kind,
I’m forced to leave a limb behind.
I hourly wait some fatal end;
For I can break, but scorn to bend.
Come hither, and behold the fruits,
Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits.
Take wise advice, and look behind,
Bring all past actions to thy mind.
Here you may see, as in a glass,
How soon all human pleasures pass;
How will it mortify thy pride,
To turn the true impartial side!
How will your eyes contain their tears,
When all the sad reverse appears!
This cave within its womb confines
The last result of all designs:
Here lie deposited the spoils
Of busy mortals’ endless toils:
Here, with an easy search, we find
The foul corruptions of mankind.
The wretched purchase here behold
Of traitors, who their country sold.
This gulf insatiate imbibes
The lawyer’s fees, the statesman’s bribes.
Here, in their proper shape and mien,
Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
Necessity, the tyrant’s law,
All human race must hither draw;
All prompted by the same desire,
The vigorous youth and aged sire.
Behold the coward and the brave,
The haughty prince, the humble slave,
Physician, lawyer, and divine,
All make oblations at this shrine.
Some enter boldly, some by stealth,
And leave behind their fruitless wealth.
For, while the bashful sylvan maid,
As half-ashamed and half-afraid,
Approaching finds it hard to part
[Footnote 1: Ovid, “Metam.,” i, 383.]
Ah! Strephon, how can you despise
Her, who without thy pity dies!
To Strephon I have still been true,
And of as noble blood as you;
Fair issue of the genial bed,
A virgin in thy bosom bred:
Embraced thee closer than a wife;
When thee I leave, I leave my life.
Why should my shepherd take amiss,
That oft I wake thee with a kiss?
Yet you of every kiss complain;
Ah! is not love a pleasing pain?
[Footnote 1: The solution is, phtheirhiasis morbus pedicularis. With this piece may be read Peter Pindar’s epic, “The Lousiad.”—W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla’s body was so corrupted with these vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: pasan estheta kai loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei. “Vita Syllae,” xxxvi.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Hercules, who died from wearing the shirt (given him by his wife as a charm against his infidelities) stained with the blood of Nessus, the centaur, whom Hercules had slain with a poisoned arrow. Ovid, “Epist. Heroid. Deianira Herculi,” and “Metam.,” lib. ix, 101.—W. E. B.]
Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round,
And yet I firmly stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,
And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land
E’er join’d such numbers hand in hand.
I join’d them fairly with a ring;
Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke;
Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,
I’m but an idol raised on high;
And once a weaver in our town,
A damn’d Cromwellian, knock’d me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years,
And then the jovial cavaliers
To their old post restored all three—
I mean the church, the king, and me.
I with borrow’d silver shine
What you see is none of mine.
First I show you but a quarter,
Like the bow that guards the Tartar:
Then the half, and then the whole,
Ever dancing round the pole.
What will raise your admiration,
I am not one of God’s creation,
But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,)
Like Pallas, from my father’s brain.
And after all, I chiefly owe
My beauty to the shades below.
Most wondrous forms you see me wear,
A man, a woman, lion, bear,
A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,
All figures Heaven or earth can yield;
Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;
Yet am not one of all you see.
I’m up and down, and round about,
Yet all the world can’t find me out;
Though hundreds have employ’d their leisure,
They never yet could find my measure.
I’m found almost in every garden,
Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
There’s neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
Can move an inch except I will.
I am jet black, as you may see,
The son of pitch and gloomy night:
Yet all that know me will agree,
I’m dead except I live in light.
Sometimes in panegyric high,
Like lofty Pindar, I can soar;
And raise a virgin to the sky,
Or sink her to a pocky whore.
My blood this day is very sweet,
To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, ’tis cried about the street,
And so applied to different use.
Most wondrous is my magic power:
For with one colour I can paint;
I’ll make the devil a saint this hour,
Next make a devil of a saint.
Through distant regions I can fly,
Provide me but with paper wings;
And fairly show a reason why
There should be quarrels among kings:
And, after all, you’ll think it odd,
When learned doctors will dispute,
That I should point the word of God,
And show where they can best confute.
Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
’Tis I that must the lands convey,
And strip their clients to their coats;
Nay, give their very souls away.
All of us in one you’ll find, Brethren of a
wondrous kind;
Yet among us all no brother
Knows one tittle of the other;
We in frequent councils are,
And our marks of things declare,
Where, to us unknown, a clerk
Sits, and takes them in the dark.
He’s the register of all
In our ken, both great and small;
By us forms his laws and rules,
He’s our master, we his tools;
Yet we can with greatest ease
Turn and wind him where we please.
One of us alone can sleep,
Yet no watch the rest will keep,
When on my bosom thy bright eyes,
Florinda, dart their heavenly beams,
I feel not the least love surprise,
Yet endless tears flow down in streams;
There’s nought so beautiful in thee,
But you may find the same in me.
The lilies of thy skin compare;
In me you see them full as white:
The roses of your cheeks, I dare
Affirm, can’t glow to more delight.
Then, since I show as fine a face,
Can you refuse a soft embrace?
Ah! lovely nymph, thou’rt in thy prime!
And so am I, while thou art here;
But soon will come the fatal time,
When all we see shall disappear.
’Tis mine to make a just reflection,
And yours to follow my direction.
Then catch admirers while you may;
Treat not your lovers with disdain;
For time with beauty flies away,
And there is no return again.
To you the sad account I bring,
Life’s autumn has no second spring.
[Footnote 1: A fountain.]
Never sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak;
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice:
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I’m vext, can’t keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier’s fate,
When his merit’s out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.
By something form’d, I nothing am,
Yet everything that you can name;
In no place have I ever been,
Yet everywhere I may be seen;
In all things false, yet always true,
I’m still the same—but ever new.
Lifeless, life’s perfect form I wear,
Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,
Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear.
All shapes and features I can boast,
No flesh, no bones, no blood—no ghost:
All colours, without paint, put on,
And change like the cameleon.
Swiftly I come, and enter there,
Where not a chink lets in the air;
Like thought, I’m in a moment gone,
Nor can I ever be alone:
All things on earth I imitate
Faster than nature can create;
Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
Anon in beggar’s rags appear;
A giant now, and straight an elf,
I’m every one, but ne’er myself;
Ne’er sad I mourn, ne’er glad rejoice,
I move my lips, but want a voice;
I ne’er was born, nor e’er can die,
Then, pr’ythee, tell me what am I?
Most things by me do rise and fall,
And, as I please, they’re great and small;
Invading foes without resistance,
With ease I make to keep their distance:
Again, as I’m disposed, the foe
Will come, though not a foot they go.
Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks
And gamesome goats, and fleecy flocks,
And lowing herds, and piping swains,
Come dancing to me o’er the plains.
The greatest whale that swims the sea
Does instantly my power obey.
In vain from me the sailor flies,
The quickest ship I can surprise,
And turn it as I have a mind,
And move it against tide and wind.
Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
I’ll squeeze him to a little span;
Or bring a tender child, and pliant,
You’ll see me stretch him to a giant:
Nor shall they in the least complain,
Because my magic gives no pain.
Ever eating, never cloying,
All-devouring, all-destroying,
Never finding full repast,
Till I eat the world at last.
There is a gate, we know full well,
That stands ’twixt Heaven, and Earth, and Hell,
Where many for a passage venture,
Yet very few are fond to enter:
Although ’tis open night and day,
They for that reason shun this way:
Both dukes and lords abhor its wood,
They can’t come near it for their blood.
What other way they take to go,
Another time I’ll let you know.
Yet commoners with greatest ease
Can find an entrance when they please.
The poorest hither march in state
(Or they can never pass the gate)
Like Roman generals triumphant,
And then they take a turn and jump on’t,
If gravest parsons here advance,
They cannot pass before they dance;
There’s not a soul that does resort here,
But strips himself to pay the porter.
We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features;
One of us in glass is set,
One of us you’ll find in jet.
T’other you may see in tin,
And the fourth a box within.
If the fifth you should pursue,
It can never fly from you.
From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,
No lady alive can show such a skin.
I’m bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,
The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another,
The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.
Begotten, and born, and dying with noise,
The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,
Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
I’m chiefly unruly when strongest confined.
For silver and gold I don’t trouble my head,
But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a ship or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my soul’s all a-fire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.
We are little brethren twain,
Arbiters of loss and gain,
Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone:
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour.
TO LADY CARTERET
Of all inhabitants on earth,
To man alone I owe my birth,
And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,
Are all my parents more than he:
I, a virtue, strange and rare,
Make the fairest look more fair,
And myself, which yet is rarer,
Growing old, grow still the fairer.
Like sots, alone I’m dull enough,
When dosed with smoke, and smear’d with snuff;
But, in the midst of mirth and wine,
I with double lustre shine.
Emblem of the Fair am I,
Polish’d neck, and radiant eye;
In my eye my greatest grace,
Emblem of the Cyclops’ race;
Metals I like them subdue,
Slave like them to Vulcan too;
Emblem of a monarch old,
Wise, and glorious to behold;
Wasted he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal:
Emblem of the bashful dame,
That in secret feeds her flame,
Often aiding to impart
All the secrets of her heart;
Various is my bulk and hue,
Big like Bess, and small like Sue:
BY DR. DELANY
I reach all things near me, and far off to boot,
Without stretching a finger, or stirring a foot;
I take them all in too, to add to your wonder,
Though many and various, and large and asunder,
Without jostling or crowding they pass side by side,
Through a wonderful wicket, not half an inch wide;
Then I lodge them at ease in a very large store,
Of no breadth or length, with a thousand things more.
All this I can do without witchcraft or charm,
Though sometimes they say, I bewitch and do harm;
Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade:
And nothing can shield from my spell but a shade.
A thief that has robb’d you, or done you disgrace,
In magical mirror, I’ll show you his face:
Nay, if you’ll believe what the poets have said,
They’ll tell you I kill, and can call back the
dead.
Like conjurers safe in my circle I dwell;
I love to look black too, it heightens my spell;
Though my magic is mighty in every hue,
Who see all my power must see it in you.
WITH half an eye your riddle I spy,
I observe your wicket hemm’d in by a thicket,
And whatever passes is strain’d through glasses.
You say it is quiet: I flatly deny it.
It wanders about, without stirring out;
No passion so weak but gives it a tweak;
Love, joy, and devotion, set it always in motion.
And as for trie tragic effects of its magic,
Which you say it can kill, or revive at its will,
The dead are all sound, and they live above ground:
After all you have writ, it cannot be wit;
Which plainly does follow, since it flies from Apollo.
Its cowardice such it cries at a touch;
’Tis a perfect milksop, grows drunk with a drop,
Another great fault, it cannot bear salt:
And a hair can disarm it of every charm.
BY DR. SWIFT
FROM India’s burning clime I’m brought,
With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris, when she paints the sky,
Can show more different hues than I;
Nor can she change her form so fast,
I’m now a sail, and now a mast.
I here am red, and there am green,
A beggar there, and here a queen.
I sometimes live in house of hair,
And oft in hand of lady fair.
I please the young, I grace the old,
And am at once both hot and cold.
Say what I am then, if you can,
And find the rhyme, and you’re the man.
Your house of hair, and lady’s hand,
At first did put me to a stand.
I have it now—’tis plain enough—
Your hairy business is a muff.
Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
At once so like your masts and sails;
Your thing of various shape and hue
Must be some painted toy, I knew;
And for the rhyme to you’re the man,
What fits it better than a fan?
I’m wealthy and poor,
I’m empty and full,
I’m humble and proud,
I’m witty and dull.
I’m foul and yet fair:
I’m old, and yet young;
I lie with Moll Kerr,
And toast Mrs. Long.
In rigging he’s rich, though in pocket he’s
poor,
He cringes to courtiers, and cocks to the cits;
Like twenty he dresses, but looks like threescore;
He’s a wit to the fools, and a fool to the wits.
Of wisdom he’s empty, but full of conceit;
He paints and perfumes while he rots with the scab;
’Tis a beau you may swear by his sense and his
gait;
He boasts of a beauty and lies with a drab.
SIR,
Pray discruciate what follows.
The dullest beast, and gentleman’s liquor,
When young is often due to the vicar,[1]
The dullest of beasts, and swine’s delight,
Make up a bird very swift of flight.[2]
The dullest beast, when high in stature,
And another of royal nature,
For breeding is a useful creature.[3]
The dullest beast, and a party distress’d,
When too long, is bad at best.[4]
The dullest beast, and the saddle it wears,
Is good for partridge, not for hares.[5]
The dullest beast, and kind voice of a cat,
Will make a horse go, though he be not fat.[6]
The dullest of beasts and of birds in the air,
Is that by which all Irishmen swear.[7]
The dullest beast, and famed college for Teagues,
Is a person very unfit for intrigues.[8]
The dullest beast, and a cobbler’s tool,
With a boy that is only fit for school,
In summer is very pleasant and cool.[9]
The dullest beast, and that which you kiss,
May break a limb of master or miss.[10]
Of serpent kind, and what at distance kills,
Poor mistress Dingley oft hath felt its bills.[11]
The dullest beast, and eggs unsound,
Without it I rather would walk on the ground.[12]
The dullest beast, and what covers a house,
Without it a writer is not worth a louse.[13]
The dullest beast, and scandalous vermin,
Of roast or boil’d, to the hungry is charming.[14]
The dullest beast, and what’s cover’d
with crust,
There’s nobody but a fool that would trust.[15]
The dullest beast, and mending highways,
Is to a horse an evil disease.[16]
The dullest beast, and a hole in the ground,
Will dress a dinner worth five pound.[17]
The dullest beast, and what doctors pretend,
The cook-maid often has by the end.[18]
The dullest beast, and fish for lent,
May give you a blow you’ll for ever repent.[19]
The dullest beast, and a shameful jeer,
Without it a lady should never appear.[20]
Wednesday Night.
I writ all these before I went to bed. Pray explain
them for me, because
I cannot do it.
[Footnote 1: A swine.] [Footnote 2: A swallow.] [Footnote 3: A stallion.] [Footnote 4: A sail.] [Footnote 5: A spaniel.] [Footnote 6: A spur.] [Footnote 7: A soul.] [Footnote 8: A sloven.] [Footnote 9: A sallad.] [Footnote 10: A slip.] [Footnote 11: A sparrow.] [Footnote 12: A saddle.] [Footnote 13: A style.] [Footnote 14: A slice.] [Footnote 15: A spy.] [Footnote 16: A spavin.] [Footnote 17: A spit.] [Footnote 18: A skewer.] [Footnote 19: Assault.] [Footnote 20: A smock.]
A long-ear’d beast, and a field-house for cattle,
Among the coals doth often rattle.[1]
A long-ear’d beast, a bird that prates,
The bridegrooms’ first gift to their mates,
Is by all pious Christians thought,
In clergymen the greatest fault.[2]
A long-ear’d beast, and woman of Endor,
If your wife be a scold, that will mend her.[3]
With a long-ear’d beast, and medicine’s
use,
Cooks make their fowl look tight and spruce.[4]
A long-ear’d beast, and holy fable,
Strengthens the shoes of half the rabble.[5]
A long-ear’d beast, and Rhenish wine,
Lies in the lap of ladies fine.[6]
A long-ear’d beast, and Flanders College,
Is Dr. T——l, to my knowledge.[7]
A long-ear’d beast, and building knight,
Censorious people do in spite.[8]
A long-ear’d beast, and bird of night,
We sinners art too apt to slight.[9]
A long-ear’d beast, and shameful vermin,
A judge will eat, though clad in ermine.[10]
A long-ear’d beast, and Irish cart,
Can leave a mark, and give a smart.[11]
A long-ear’d beast, in mud to lie,
No bird in air so swift can fly.[12]
A long-ear’d beast, and a sputt’ring old
Whig,
I wish he were in it, and dancing a jig.[13]
A long-ear’d beast, and liquor to write,
Is a damnable smell both morning and night.[14]
A long-ear’d beast, and the child of a sheep,
At Whist they will make a desperate sweep.[15]
A beast long-ear’d, and till midnight you stay,
Will cover a house much better than clay.[16]
A long-ear’d beast, and the drink you love best,
You call him a sloven in earnest for jest.[17]
A long-ear’d beast, and the sixteenth letter,
I’d not look at all unless I look’d better.[18]
A long-ear’d beast give me, and eggs unsound,
Or else I will not ride one inch of ground.[19]
A long-ear’d beast, another name for jeer,
To ladies’ skins there nothing comes so near.[20]
A long-ear’d beast, and kind noise of a cat,
Is useful in journeys, take notice of that.[21]
A long-ear’d beast, and what seasons your beef,
On such an occasion the law gives relief.[22]
A long-ear’d beast, a thing that force must
drive in,
Bears up his house, that’s of his own contriving.[23]
[Footnote 1: A shovel.] [Footnote 2: Aspiring.] [Footnote 3: A switch.] [Footnote 4: A skewer.] [Footnote 5: A sparable; a small nail in a shoe.] [Footnote 6: A shock.] [Footnote 7: A sloven.] [Footnote 8: Asperse. (Pearce was an architect, who built the Parliament-House, Dublin.)] [Footnote 9: A soul.] [Footnote 10: A slice.] [Footnote 11: A scar.] [Footnote 12: A swallow.] [Footnote 13: A sty.] [Footnote 14: A sink.] [Footnote 15: A slam.] [Footnote 16: A slate.] [Footnote 17: A swine.] [Footnote 18: Askew.] [Footnote 19: A saddle.] [Footnote 20: A smock.] [Footnote 21: A spur.] [Footnote 22: Assault.] [Footnote 23: A snail.]
ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1] 1727
At Market-Hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.
Hither came every village maid,
And on the boughs her garland hung,
And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from satyrs sat and sung.
Sir Archibald,[2] that valorous knight.
The lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come to listen with delight,
For he was fond of rural strain.
(Sir Archibald, whose favourite name
Shall stand for ages on record,
By Scottish bards of highest fame,
Wise Hawthornden and Stirling’s
lord.[3])
But time with iron teeth, I ween,
Has canker’d all its branches round;
No fruit or blossom to be seen,
Its head reclining toward the ground.
This aged, sickly, sapless thorn,
Which must, alas! no longer stand,
Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
Cuts down with sacrilegious hand.
Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,
Astonish’d gave a dreadful shriek;
And mother Tellus trembled so,
She scarce recover’d in a week.
The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex’d,
In prudence and compassion sent
(For none could tell whose turn was next)
Sad omens of the dire event.
The magpie, lighting on the stock,
Stood chattering with incessant din:
And with her beak gave many a knock,
To rouse and warn the nymph within.
The owl foresaw, in pensive mood,
The ruin of her ancient seat;
And fled in haste, with all her brood,
To seek a more secure retreat.
Last trotted forth the gentle swine,
To ease her itch against the stump,
And dismally was heard to whine,
All as she scrubb’d her meazly rump.
The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant,)
Condemn’d by Fate’s supreme decree,
Must die with her expiring plant.
Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care,
Received its last and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish’d into air.
But from the root a dismal groan
First issuing struck the murderer’s
ears:
And, in a shrill revengeful tone,
This prophecy he trembling hears:
“Thou chief contriver of my fall,
Relentless Dean, to mischief born;
My kindred oft thine hide shall gall,
Thy gown and cassock oft be torn.
“And thy confederate dame, who brags
That she condemn’d me to the fire,
Shall rend her petticoats to rags,
And wound her legs with every brier.
“Nor thou, Lord Arthur,[4] shall escape;
To thee I often call’d in vain,
Against that assassin in crape;
Yet thou couldst tamely see me slain:
“Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow,
Or chid the Dean, or pinch’d thy
spouse;
Since you could see me treated so,
(An old retainer to your house:)
“May that fell Dean, by whose command
Was form’d this Machiavelian plot,
Not leave a thistle on thy land;
Then who will own thee for a Scot?
“Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all my empire I foresee,
To tear thy hedges join in leagues,
Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.
“And thou, the wretch ordain’d by fate,
Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
To hack my hallow’d timber down;
“When thou, suspended high in air,
Diest on a more ignoble tree,
(For thou shall steal thy landlord’s mare,)
Then, bloody caitiff! think on me.”
[Footnote 1: A village near the seat of Sir Arthur Acheson, where the Dean made a long visit. The tree, which was a remarkable one, was much admired by the knight. Yet the Dean, in one of his unaccountable humours, gave directions for cutting it down in the absence of Sir Arthur, who was, of course, highly incensed. By way of making his peace, the Dean wrote this poem; which had the desired effect.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Archibald Acheson, secretary of state for Scotland.]
[Footnote 3: Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, who were both friends of Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry.]
[Footnote 4: Sir Arthur Acheson.]
TO DEAN SWIFT BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728
Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear’s the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,
Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;
And, sure as monument of brass,
Their fame to future times shall pass;
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung;
A subject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,
A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;
A bishop that is no divine;
And coxcombs in red ribbons shine:
Nay, he can make, what’s greater far,
A middle state ’twixt peace and war;
And say, there shall; for years together,
Be peace and war, and both, and neither.
Happy, O Market-Hill! at least,
That court and courtiers have no taste:
You never else had known the Dean,
But, as of old, obscurely lain;
All things gone on the same dull track,
And Drapier’s-Hill been still Drumlack;
But now your name with Penshurst vies,
And wing’d with fame shall reach the skies.
DEAN SWIFT AT SIR ARTHUR ACHESON’S IN THE NORTH OF IRELAND
The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
Our invitation was but slight;
I said—“Why let him, if he will:”
And so I bade Sir Arthur write.
His manners would not let him wait,
Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
And so we see him at our gate
Three days before he was expected,
After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
Though not a soul would have him stay.
I’ve said enough to make him blush,
Methinks, or else the devil’s in’t;
But he cares not for it a rush,
Nor for my life will take the hint.
But you, my dear, may let him know,
In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaise.
Or you may say—“My wife intends,
Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite some friends,
And, sir, I know you hate a crowd.”
Or, “Mr. Dean—I should with joy
Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1]
Or Mr. Moore will take it ill.”
The house accounts are daily rising;
So much his stay doth swell the bills:
My dearest life, it is surprising,
How much he eats, how much he swills.
His brace of puppies how they stuff!
And they must have three meals a-day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horses too eat all our hay.
O! if I could, how I would maul
His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
And make him soon give up the cause!
Must I be every moment chid
With [2] Skinnybonia, Snipe, and
Lean?
O! that I could but once be rid
Of this insulting tyrant Dean!
[Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]
[Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See “My Lady’s Lamentation,” next page.—W. E. B.]
Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
Though none can tell which of us first
shall die.
We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
May’st die, like me, by chance,
but not by nature.
EPITAPH IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s fool,
Men call’d him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?
Dickies enough are still behind,
To laugh at by and by.
Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.
MY LADY’S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN
JULY 28, 1728
Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teazed day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe,
With Skinny and Snipe:[2],
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.
The Dean never stops,
When he opens his chops;
I’m quite overrun
With rebus and pun.
Before he came here,
To spunge for good cheer,
I sat with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,
Or scratching my nose
And jogging my toes;
But at present, forsooth,
I must not rub a tooth.
When my elbows he sees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle ’em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I sink in the spleen,
A useless machine.
If he had his will,
I should never sit still:
He comes with his whims
I must move my limbs;
[Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.]
[Footnote 2: See ante, p.94 W.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Added from the Dean’s manuscript.]
[Footnote 4: “The Pantheon,” containing the mythological systems of the Greeks and Romans, by Andrew Tooke, A.M., first published, 1713. The little work became very popular. The copy I have is of the thirty-sixth edition, with plates, 1831. It is still in demand, as it deserves to be. Compare Leigh Hunt’s remark on the illustrations to the “Pantheon,” cited by Mr. Coleridge in his notes to “Don Juan,” Canto I, St. xli, Byron’s Works, edit. 1903.—W. E. B.]
DERMOT, SHEELAH
A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight;
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]
While each with stubbed knife removed the roots,
That raised between the stones their daily shoots;
As at their work they sate in counterview,
With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain,
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt;
My spud these nettles from the stones can part;
No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, ’twill sprout again; but,
O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.
No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur’s[2] sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.
Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, ’tis nothing else but sweat.
At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug,
When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug;
A longer ha’p’orth [3] never did I see;
This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.
In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.
When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and loused him all a sunshine day:
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack such lice as his between your nails?
When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,
I peep’d, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch;
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?
I almost wish’d this spud were in your guts.
If Oonah once I kiss’d, forbear to chide;
Her aunt’s my gossip by my father’s side:
But, if I ever touch her lips again,
May I be doom’d for life to weed in rain!
Dermot, I swear, though Tady’s locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold;
Him on my lap you never more shall see;
Or may I lose my weeding knife—and thee!
O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,
A pair of brogues [5] to bear thee dry to mass!
But see, where Norah with the sowins [6] comes—
Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.
[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.]
[Footnote 2: Who was a great lover of Scotland.]
[Footnote 3: Halfpenny-worth.]
[Footnote 4: Sir Arthur’s butler.]
[Footnote 5: Shoes with flat low heels.]
[Footnote 6: A sort of flummery.]
WHETHER HAMILTON’S BAWN[1] SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR MALT-HOUSE. 1729
The author of the following poem is said to be Dr. J. S. D. S. P. D. who writ it, as well as several other copies of verses of the like kind, by way of amusement, in the family of an honourable gentleman in the north of Ireland, where he spent a summer, about two or three years ago.[2] A certain very great person,[3] then in that kingdom, having heard much of this poem, obtained a copy from the gentleman, or, as some say, the lady in whose house it was written, from whence I know not by what accident several other copies were transcribed full of errors. As I have a great respect for the supposed author, I have procured a true copy of the poem, the publication whereof can do him less injury than printing any of those incorrect ones which run about in manuscript, and would infallibly be soon in the press, if not thus prevented. Some expressions being peculiar to Ireland, I have prevailed on a gentleman of that kingdom to explain them, and I have put the several explanations in their proper places.—First Edition.
Thus spoke to my lady the knight[2] full of care,
“Let me have your advice in a weighty affair.
This Hamilton’s bawn, while it sticks in my
hand
I lose by the house what I get by the land;
But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,
For a barrack[6] or malt-house, we now must consider.
“First, let me suppose I make it
a malt-house,
Here I have computed the profit will fall t’us:
There’s nine hundred pounds for labour and grain,
I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain;
A handsome addition for wine and good cheer,
Three dishes a-day, and three hogsheads a-year;
With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored;
No little scrub joint shall come on my board;
And you and the Dean no more shall combine
To stint me at night to one bottle of wine;
Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin
[Footnote 1: A bawn was a place near the house, enclosed with mud or stone walls, to keep the cattle from being stolen in the night, now little used.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Arthur Acheson, at whose seat this was written.]
[Footnote 3: John, Lord Carteret, then Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, since Earl of Granville, in right of his mother.]
[Footnote 4: The army in Ireland was lodged in strong buildings, called barracks. See “Verses on his own Death,” and notes, vol. i, 247.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 5: A cant-word in Ireland for a poor country clergyman.]
[Footnote 6: My lady’s waiting-woman.]
[Footnote 7: Two of Sir Arthur’s managers.]
[Footnote 8: Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood.]
[Footnote 9: Ovids, Plutarchs, Homers.]
[Footnote 10: These four lines were added by Swift in his own copy of the Miscellanies, edit. 1732.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 11: Nicknames for my lady, see ante, pp. 94, 95.—W. E. B.]
We give the world to understand,
Our thriving Dean has purchased land;
A purchase which will bring him clear
Above his rent four pounds a-year;
Provided to improve the ground,
He will but add two hundred pound;
And from his endless hoarded store,
To build a house, five hundred more.
Sir Arthur, too, shall have his will,
And call the mansion Drapier’s-Hill;
That, when a nation, long enslaved,
Forgets by whom it once was saved;
When none the Drapier’s praise shall sing,
His signs aloft no longer swing,
His medals and his prints forgotten,
And all his handkerchiefs [2] are rotten,
His famous letters made waste paper,
This hill may keep the name of Drapier;
In spite of envy, flourish still,
And Drapier’s vie with Cooper’s-Hill.
[Footnote 1: The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlach, which he took of Sir Arthur Acheson, whose seat lay between that and Market-Hill; and intended to build a house upon it, but afterwards changed his mind.]
[Footnote 2: Medals were cast, many signs hung up, and handkerchiefs made, with devices in honour of the Dean, under the name of M. B. Drapier. See “Verses on his own death,” vol. i.—W. E. B.]
FOR NOT BUILDING AT DRAPIER’S-HILL
I will not build on yonder mount;
And, should you call me to account,
Consulting with myself, I find
It was no levity of mind.
Whate’er I promised or intended,
No fault of mine, the scheme is ended;
Nor can you tax me as unsteady,
I have a hundred causes ready;
All risen since that flattering time,
When Drapier’s-Hill appear’d in rhyme.
I am, as now too late I find,
The greatest cully of mankind;
The lowest boy in Martin’s school
May turn and wind me like a fool.
How could I form so wild a vision,
To seek, in deserts, Fields Elysian?
[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson’s great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.]
THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL 1730
From distant regions Fortune sends
An odd triumvirate of friends;
Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,
Where never yet a codling ripen’d:
Hither the frantic goddess draws
Three sufferers in a ruin’d cause:
By faction banish’d, here unite,
A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3]
Unite, but on conditions cruel;
The Dean and Spaniard find it too well,
Condemn’d to live in service hard;
On either side his honour’s guard:
The Dean to guard his honour’s back,
Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4]
The Spaniard, sore against his will,
Must raise a fort at Market-Hill.
And thus the pair of humble gentry
At north and south are posted sentry;
While in his lordly castle fixt,
The knight triumphant reigns betwixt:
And, what the wretches most resent,
To be his slaves, must pay him rent;
Attend him daily as their chief,
Decant his wine, and carve his beef.
O Fortune! ’tis a scandal for thee
To smile on those who are least worthy:
Weigh but the merits of the three,
His slaves have ten times more than he.
Proud baronet of Nova Scotia!
The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye:
Of their two fames the world enough rings:
Where are thy services and sufferings?
What if for nothing once you kiss’d,
Against the grain, a monarch’s fist?
What if, among the courtly tribe,
You lost a place and saved a bribe?
And then in surly mood came here,
To fifteen hundred pounds a-year,
And fierce against the Whigs harangu’d?
You never ventured to be hang’d.
How dare you treat your betters thus?
Are you to be compared with us?
Come, Spaniard, let us from our farms
Call forth our cottagers to arms:
Our forces let us both unite,
Attack the foe at left and right;
From Market-Hill’s[5] exalted head,
Full northward let your troops be led;
While I from Drapier’s-Mount descend,
And to the south my squadrons bend.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.]
[Footnote 2: Colonel Henry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 3: Sir Arthur Acheson.]
[Footnote 4: The Irish name of a farm the Dean took of Sir Arthur Acheson, and was to build on, but changed his mind, and called it Drapier’s Hill. See the poem so named, and “The Dean’s Reasons for not building at Drapier’s-Hill,” ante, p.107. _—W. E. B._]
[Footnote 5: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson’s.]
[Footnote 6: A parody on the phrase, “As brave as his sword.”—Scott.]
[Footnote 7: My lady’s waiting-maid.]
[Footnote 8: Montezuma or Mutezuma, the last Emperor of Mexico and the richest, taken prisoner by Hernando Cortes, about 1511, who also obtained possession of the whole empire. Hakluyt’s “Navigations,” etc., vols. viii, ix.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 9: The butler.]
[Footnote 10: The housekeeper.]
[Footnote 11: The agent.]
Robin to beggars with a curse,
Throws the last shilling in his purse;
And when the coachman comes for pay,
The rogue must call another day.
Grave Harry, when the poor are pressing
Gives them a penny and God’s blessing;
But always careful of the main,
With twopence left, walks home in rain.
Robin from noon to night will prate,
Run out in tongue, as in estate;
And, ere a twelvemonth and a day,
Will not have one new thing to say.
Much talking is not Harry’s vice;
He need not tell a story twice:
And, if he always be so thrifty,
His fund may last to five-and-fifty.
It so fell out that cautious Harry,
As soldiers use, for love must marry,
And, with his dame, the ocean cross’d;
(All for Love, or the World well Lost!) [2]
Repairs a cabin gone to ruin,
Just big enough to shelter two in;
And in his house, if anybody come,
Will make them welcome to his modicum
Where Goody Julia milks the cows,
And boils potatoes for her spouse;
Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches,
While Harry’s fencing up his ditches.
Robin, who ne’er his mind could
fix,
To live without a coach-and-six,
To patch his broken fortunes, found
A mistress worth five thousand pound;
Swears he could get her in an hour,
If gaffer Harry would endow her;
And sell, to pacify his wrath,
A birth-right for a mess of broth.
Young Harry, as all Europe knows,
Was long the quintessence of beaux;
But, when espoused, he ran the fate
That must attend the married state;
From gold brocade and shining armour,
Was metamorphosed to a farmer;
His grazier’s coat with dirt besmear’d;
Nor twice a-week will shave his beard.
Old Robin, all his youth a sloven,
At fifty-two, when he grew loving,
Clad in a coat of paduasoy,
A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay,
Powder’d from shoulder down to flank,
In courtly style addresses Frank;
Twice ten years older than his wife,
Is doom’d to be a beau for life;
Supplying those defects by dress,
Which I must leave the world to guess.
[Footnote 1: A lively account of these two gentlemen occurs in Dr. King’s Anecdotes of his Own Times, p. 137 et seq., who confirms the peculiarities which Swift has enumerated in the text.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: The title of Dryden’s Play, founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra.—W. E. B.]
IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730
Resolved my gratitude to show,
Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe,
Too long I have my thanks delay’d;
Your favours left too long unpaid;
But now, in all our sex’s name,
My artless Muse shall sing your fame.
Indulgent you to female kind,
To all their weaker sides are blind:
Nine more such champions as the Dean
Would soon restore our ancient reign;
How well to win the ladies’ hearts,
You celebrate their wit and parts!
How have I felt my spirits raised,
By you so oft, so highly praised!
Transform’d by your convincing tongue
To witty, beautiful, and young,
I hope to quit that awkward shame,
Affected by each vulgar dame,
To modesty a weak pretence;
And soon grow pert on men of sense;
To show my face with scornful air;
Let others match it if they dare.
Impatient to be out of debt,
O, may I never once forget
The bard who humbly deigns to chuse
Me for the subject of his Muse!
Behind my back, before my nose,
He sounds my praise in verse and prose.
My heart with emulation burns,
To make you suitable returns;
My gratitude the world shall know;
And see, the printer’s boy below;
Ye hawkers all, your voices lift;
“A Panegyric on Dean Swift!”
And then, to mend the matter still,
“By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!"[2]
I thus begin: My grateful Muse
Salutes the Dean in different views;
Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor;
Robert and Darby’s[3] coadjutor;
And, as you in commission sit,
To rule the dairy next to Kit;[4]
In each capacity I mean
To sing your praise. And first as Dean:
Envy must own, you understand your
Precedence, and support your grandeur:
Nor of your rank will bate an ace,
Except to give Dean Daniel[5] place.
In you such dignity appears,
So suited to your state and years!
With ladies what a strict decorum!
With what devotion you adore ’em!
Treat me with so much complaisance,
As fits a princess in romance!
By your example and assistance,
The fellows learn to know their distance.
Sir Arthur, since you set the pattern,
No longer calls me snipe and slattern,
Nor dares he, though he were a duke,
Offend me with the least rebuke.
Proceed we to your preaching [5] next!
How nice you split the hardest text!
How your superior learning shines
Above our neighbouring dull divines!
At Beggar’s Opera not so full pit
Is seen as when you mount our pulpit.
Consider now your conversation:
Regardful of your age and station,
You ne’er were known by passion stirr’d
To give the least offensive word:
But still, whene’er you silence break,
Watch every syllable you speak:
Your style so clear, and so concise,
We never ask to hear you twice.
[Footnote 1: The Lady of Sir Arthur Acheson.]
[Footnote 2: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson’s house where the author passed two summers.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 3: The names of two overseers.]
[Footnote 4: My lady’s footman.]
[Footnote 4: Dr. Daniel, Dean of Down, who wrote several poems.]
[Footnote 5: The author preached but once while he was there.]
[Footnote 6: He sometimes used to direct the butler.]
[Footnote 7: The butler.]
[Footnote 8: He sometimes used to walk with the lady. See ante, p. 96.]
[Footnote 9: The neighbouring ladies were no great understanders of raillery.]
[Footnote 10: The clown that cut down the old thorn at Market-Hill.]
[Footnote 11: See ante, “My Lady’s Lamentation,” p. 97.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 12: Lady Acheson was daughter of Philip Savage, M. P. for Wexford, and Chancellor of the Exchequer in Ireland.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 13: Understood here as dainty, particular.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 14: A way of making butter for breakfast, by filling a bottle with cream, and shaking it till the butter comes.]
[Footnote 15: It is a common saying, when the milk burns, that the devil or the bishop has set his foot in it.]
[Footnote 16: See vol. i, p. 203.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 27: Fragments of stone.]
[Footnote 28: Virg., “Aeneidos,” lib. vi.]
[Footnote 29: “Cynthius aurem Vellit et admonuit.”—VIRG., Ecloga vi, 3.]
[Footnote 30: “Post mediam noctem visus, cum somnia vera.”—HOR., Sat, I, x, 33.]
[Footnote 31: In the bottle to make butter.]
[Footnote 32: The quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time.]
[Footnote 33: Mrs. Dixon, the housekeeper.]
[Footnote 34: “Hac tibi erunt artes.”—VIRG., Aen., vi, 852.]
[Footnote 35: A very stupid, insolent, factious, deformed, conceited person; a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Grafton for his wit.]
I
LEST it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read.
II
By disputing, I will never,
To convince you once endeavour.
III
When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.
IV
When I talk and you are heedless,
I will show no anger needless.
V
When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne’er object a word.
VI
When you furious argue wrong,
I will grieve and hold my tongue.
VII
Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye:
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.
VIII
Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.
IX
You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.
X
You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.
XI
Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.[2]
XII
Never will I give advice,
Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
’Twill be just as I expect.
Thus we both shall have our ends,
And continue special friends.
[Footnote 1: Addressed to Lady Acheson.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: That is, will do no harm—we
shall not disagree.
“At Blank-Blank Square;—for
we will break no squares
By naming streets.”
Don Juan, Canto XIII, st. xxv.
See Mr. Coleridge’s note on this; Byron’s
Works, edit. 1903.—W. E. B.]
PARODY
Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington’s Address to her Majesty, as copied from the London Gazette.
To the Queen’s most Excellent Majesty,
The humble Address of the Sovereign, Recorder, Burgesses, and Freemen, of the Borough of Blessington.
May it please your Majesty, Though we stand almost last on the roll of boroughs of this your majesty’s kingdom of Ireland, and therefore, in good manners to our elder brothers, press but late among the joyful crowd about your royal throne: yet we beg leave to assure your majesty, that we come behind none in our good affection to your sacred person and government; insomuch, that the late surprising accounts from Germany have filled us with a joy not inferior to any of our fellow-subjects.
We heard with transport that the English warmed the field to that degree, that thirty squadrons, part of the vanquished enemy, were forced to fly to water, not able to stand their fire, and drank their last draught in the Danube, for the waste they had before committed on its injured banks, thereby putting an end to their master’s long-boasted victories: a glorious push indeed, and worthy a general of the Queen of England. And we are not a little pleased, to find several gentlemen in considerable posts of your majesty’s army, who drew their first breath in this country, sharing in the good fortune of those who so effectually put in execution the command of your gallant, enterprizing general, whose twin-battles have, with his own title of Marlborough, given immortality to the otherwise perishing names of Schellenberg and Hogstete: actions that speak him born under stars as propitious to England as that he now wears, on both which he has so often reflected lustre, as to have now abundantly repaid the glory they once lent him. Nor can we but congratulate with a joy proportioned to the success of your majesty’s fleet, our last campaign at sea, since by it we observe the French obliged to steer their wonted course for security, to their ports; and Gibraltar, the Spaniards’ ancient defence, bravely stormed, possessed, and maintained by your majesty’s subjects.
May the supplies for reducing the exorbitant power of France be such, as may soon turn your wreaths of laurel into branches of olive: that, after the toils of a just and honourable war, carried on by a confederacy of which your majesty is most truly, as of the faith, styled Defender, we may live to enjoy, under your majesty’s auspicious government, the blessings of a profound and lasting peace; a peace beyond the power of him to violate, who, but for his own unreasonable conveniency, destructive always of his neighbours, never yet kept any. And, to complete our happiness, may your majesty again prove to your own family, what you have been so eminently to the true church, a nursing mother. So wish, and so pray, may it please your majesty, your majesty’s most dutiful and loyal subjects, and devoted humble servants.
This Address was presented January 17, 1704-5.
From a town that consists of a church and a steeple,
With three or four houses, and as many people,
There went an Address in great form and good order,
Composed, as ’tis said, by Will Crowe, their
Recorder.[1]
And thus it began to an excellent tune:
Forgive us, good madam, that we did not as soon
As the rest of the cities and towns of this nation
Wish your majesty joy on this glorious occasion.
Not that we’re less hearty or loyal than others,
But having a great many sisters and brothers,
Our borough in riches and years far exceeding,
We let them speak first, to show our good breeding.
We have heard with much transport and
great satisfaction
Of the victory obtain’d in the late famous action,
When the field was so warm’d, that it soon grew
too hot
For the French and Bavarians, who had all gone to
pot,
But that they thought best in great haste to retire,
And leap into the water for fear of the fire.
But says the good river, Ye fools, plague confound
ye,
Do ye think to swim through me, and that I’ll
not drown ye?
Who have ravish’d, and murder’d, and play’d
such damn’d pranks,
And trod down the grass on my much-injured banks?
Then, swelling with anger and rage to the brink,
He gave the poor Monsieur his last draught of drink.
So it plainly appears they were very well bang’d,
And that some may be drown’d, who deserved to
be hang’d.
Great Marlbro’ well push’d: ’twas
well push’d indeed:
Oh, how we adore you, because you succeed!
And now I may say it, I hope without blushing,
That you have got twins, by your violent pushing;
Twin battles I mean, that will ne’er be forgotten,
But live and be talk’d of, when we’re
dead and rotten.
Let other nice lords sculk at home from the wars,
Prank’d up and adorn’d with garters and
stars,
Which but twinkle like those in a cold frosty night;
While to yours you are adding such lustre and light,
That if you proceed, I’m sure very soon
’Twill be brighter and larger than the sun or
the moon:
A blazing star, I foretell, ’twill prove to
the Gaul,
That portends of his empire the ruin and fall.
Now God bless your majesty, and our Lord
Murrough,[2]
And send him in safety and health to his borough.
[Footnote 1: Subsequently M.P. for Blessington, in the Irish Parliament; he suffered some injustice from Wharton, when Lord-Lieutenant: he lost his senses, and died in 1710. See Journal to Stella, “Prose Works,” ii, pp. 39, 54; and Character of the Earl of Wharton, “Prose Works,” v, p. 27.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Murragh Boyle, first Viscount Blessington, author of a tragedy, “The Lost Princess.” He died in 1712.—W. E. B.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG
To the Tune of “I tell thee, Dick, where I have been."[2]
Ye Commons and Peers,
Pray lend me your ears,
I’ll sing you a song, (if I can,)
How Lewis le Grand
Was put to a stand,
By the arms of our gracious Queen Anne.
How his army so great,
Had a total defeat,
And close by the river Dender:
Where his grandchildren twain,
For fear of being slain,
Gallop’d off with the Popish Pretender.
To a steeple on high,
The battle to spy,
Up mounted these clever young men;[3]
But when from the spire,
They saw so much fire,
Most cleverly came down again.
Then on horseback they got
All on the same spot,
By advice of their cousin Vendosme,
O Lord! cried out he,
Unto young Burgundy,
Would your brother and you were at home!
While this he did say,
Without more delay,
Away the young gentry fled;
Whose heels for that work,
Were much lighter than cork,
Though their hearts were as heavy as lead.
Not so did behave
Young Hanover brave,[4]
In this bloody field I assure ye:
When his war-horse was shot
He valued it not,
But fought it on foot like a fury.
Full firmly he stood,
As became his high blood,
Which runs in his veins so blue:
For this gallant young man,
Being a-kin to QUEEN ANNE,
Did as (were she a man) she would do.
What a racket was here,
(I think ’twas last year,)
For a little misfortune in Spain!
For by letting ’em win,
We have drawn the puts in,
To lose all they’re worth this campaign.
Though Bruges and Ghent
To Monsieur we lent,
With interest they shall repay ’em;
While Paris may sing,
With her sorrowful king,
Nunc dimittis instead of Te Deum.
From this dream of success,
They’ll awaken, we guess,
At the sound of great Marlborough’s drums,
They may think, if they will,
Of Ahnanza still,
But ’tis Blenheim wherever he comes.
O Lewis[5] perplex’d,
What general next!
Thou hast hitherto changed in vain;
He has beat ’em all round,
If no new one’s found,
He shall beat ’em over again.
We’ll let Tallard out,
If he’ll take t’other bout;
And much he’s improved, let me tell ye,
With Nottingham ale
At every meal,
And good beef and pudding in belly.
But as losers at play,
Their dice throw away,
While the winners do still win on;
Let who will command,
Thou hadst better disband,
For, old Bully, thy doctors[6] are gone.
[Footnote 1: This ballad, upon the battle of Oudenarde, was very popular, and the tune is often referred to as that of “Ye Commons and Peers.”—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: “A Ballad upon a Wedding,” by Sir John Suckling, occasioned by the marriage of Roger Boyle, first Lord Orrery, with Lady Margaret Howard, daughter to the Earl of Suffolk. Suckling’s Works, edit. Hazlitt, vol. i, p. 42.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: In the Dutch accounts of the battle of Oudenarde, it is said that the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry, with the Chevalier de St. George, viewed the action at a distance from the top of a steeple, and fled, when the fate of the day turned against the French. Vendosme commanded the French upon that occasion.—Scott.]
[Footnote 4: The Electoral Prince of Hanover, afterwards George II, behaved with great spirit in the engagement, and charged, at the head of Bulau’s dragoons, with great intrepidity. His horse was shot under him, and he then fought as stated in the text. Smollett’s “History of England,” ii, 125.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 5: Louis XIV.]
[Footnote 6: A cant word for false dice.—Scott.]
1709
When Naboth’s vineyard[1] look’d so fine,
The king cried out, “Would this were mine!”
And yet no reason could prevail
To bring the owner to a sale.
Jezebel saw, with haughty pride,
How Ahab grieved to be denied;
And thus accosted him with scorn:
“Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn?
A king, and weep! The ground’s your own;
I’ll vest the garden in the crown.”
With that she hatch’d a plot, and made
Poor Naboth answer with his head;
And when his harmless blood was spilt,
The ground became his forfeit guilt.
[Footnote 1: This seems to allude to some oppressive procedure by the Earl of Wharton in relation to Swift’s garden, which he called “Naboth’s Vineyard,” meaning a possession coveted by another person able to possess himself of it (i Kings, chap, xxi, verses 1-10). For some particulars of the garden, see “Prose Works,” xi, 415.—W. E. B.]
Poor Hall, renown’d for comely hair,
Whose hands, perhaps, were not so fair,
Yet had a Jezebel as near;
Hall, of small scripture conversation,
Yet, howe’er Hungerford’s[1] quotation,
By some strange accident had got
The story of this garden-plot;—Wisely
foresaw he might have reason
To dread a modern bill of treason,
If Jezebel should please to want
His small addition to her grant:
Therefore resolved, in humble sort,
To begin first, and make his court;
And, seeing nothing else would do,
Gave a third part, to save the other two.
[Footnote 1: Probably John Hungerford, a member of the October Club. “Prose Works,” v, 209.—W. E. B.]
The rod was but a harmless wand,
While Moses held it in his hand;
But, soon as e’er he laid it down,
Twas a devouring serpent grown.
Our great magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the prophet did:
His rod was honest English wood,
That senseless in a corner stood,
Till metamorphos’d by his grasp,
It grew an all-devouring asp;
Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist.
By the mere virtue of his fist:
But, when he laid it down, as quick
Resum’d the figure of a stick.
So, to her midnight feasts, the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais’d by magic of her breech,
O’er sea and land conveys the witch;
But with the morning dawn resumes
The peaceful state of common brooms.
They tell us something strange and odd,
About a certain magic rod,[3]
That, bending down its top, divines
Whene’er the soil has golden mines;
Where there are none, it stands erect,
Scorning to show the least respect:
As ready was the wand of Sid
To bend where golden mines were hid:
In Scottish hills found precious ore,[4]
Where none e’er look’d for it before;
And by a gentle bow divine
How well a cully’s purse was lined;
To a forlorn and broken rake,
Stood without motion like a stake.
The rod of Hermes [5] was renown’d
For charms above and under ground;
To sleep could mortal eyelids fix,
And drive departed souls to Styx.
That rod was a just type of Sid’s,
Which o’er a British senate’s lids
Could scatter opium full as well,
And drive as many souls to hell.
Sid’s rod was slender, white, and tall,
Which oft he used to fish withal;
A PLACE was fasten’d to the hook,
And many score of gudgeons took;
Yet still so happy was his fate,
He caught his fish and sav’d his bait.
Sid’s brethren of the conj’ring
tribe,
A circle with their rod describe,
Which proves a magical redoubt,
To keep mischievous spirits out.
Sid’s rod was of a larger stride,
And made a circle thrice as wide,
Where spirits throng’d with hideous din,
And he stood there to take them in;
But when th’enchanted rod was broke,
They vanish’d in a stinking smoke.
Achilles’ sceptre was of wood,
Like Sid’s, but nothing near so good;
Though down from ancestors divine
Transmitted to the heroes line;
Thence, thro’ a long descent of kings,
Came an HEIRLOOM,[6] as Homer sings.
Though this description looks so big,
That sceptre was a sapless twig,
Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the forest where ’twas nurs’d,
As Homer tells us o’er and o’er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom bore.
Sid’s sceptre, full of juice, did shoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit;
And he, the dragon never sleeping,
Guarded each fair Hesperian Pippin.
No hobby-horse, with gorgeous top,
The dearest in Charles Mather’s[7] shop,
[Footnote 1: Cid Hamet Ben Eng’li, the supposed inspirer of Cervantes. See “Don Quixote,” last chapter.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: When Swift came to London, in 1710, about the time the ministry was changed, his reception from Lord Treasurer Godolphin was, as he wrote to Archbishop King, 9th Sept., “altogether different from what he ever received from any great man in his life, altogether short, dry, and morose.” To Stella he writes that this coldness had “enraged him so that he was almost vowing revenge.” On the Treasurer’s enforced retirement, Swift’s resentment took effect in the above “lampoon” which was read at Harley’s, on the 15th October, 1710, and “ran prodigiously,” but was not then “suspected for Swift’s.” See Journal to Stella, Sept. 9 and Oct. 15.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: The virgula divina, said to be attracted by minerals.—Swift.]
[Footnote 4: Supposed to allude to the Union.—Swift.]
[Footnote 5: Mercury’s Caduceus, by which he could settle all disputes and differences.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 6: Godolphin’s favour arose from his connexion with the family of Marlborough by the marriage of his son to the Duke’s daughter, Henrietta Churchill.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 7: An eminent toyman in Fleet Street.—Scott.]
[Footnote 8: The allusion is to Godolphin’s name, Sidney, and to his staff of office.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 9: A letter was sent him by the groom of the Queen’s stables to desire he would break his staff, which would be the easiest way both to her Majesty and him. Mr. Smith, Chancellor of the Exchequer, happening to come in a little after, my lord broke his staff, and flung the pieces in the chimney, desiring Mr. Smith to witness that he had obeyed the Queen’s commands. Swift to Archbishop King, Sept. 9, 1710.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 10: Lord Godolphin is satirized by
Pope for a strong attachment
to the turf. See his “Moral Essays,”
Epist. I, 81-5.
“Who would not praise Patritio’s
high desert,
His hand unstain’d, his uncorrupted
heart,”
“He thanks you not, his pride is
in piquet,
Newmarket fame, and judgment at a bet.”]
OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL’S CHARGE
AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 17IO
Risum teneatis?—HORAT., Ars Poetica, 5.
From London to Exon,
By special direction,
Came down the world’s wonder,
Sir Salathiel Blunder,
With a quoif on his head
As heavy as lead;
And thus opened and said:
Gentlemen of the Grand Inquest,
Her majesty, mark
it,
Appointed this
circuit
For me and my
brother,
Before any other;
To execute laws,
As you may suppose,
Upon such as offenders have been.
So then, not to
scatter
More words on
the matter,
We’re beginning just now to begin.
But hold—first and foremost, I must enter
a clause,
As touching and concerning our excellent laws;
Which here I aver,
Are better by
far
Than them all put together abroad and beyond sea;
For I ne’er read the like, nor e’er shall,
I fancy
The laws of our
land
Don’t abet,
but withstand,
Inquisition and
thrall,
And whatever may
gall,
And fire withal;
And sword that
devours
Wherever it scowers:
They preserve liberty and property, for which men
pull and haul so,
And they are made for the support of good government
also.
Her majesty, knowing
The best way of
going
To work for the weal of the
nation,
Builds on that
rock,
Which all storms
will mock,
Since Religion is made the foundation.
And, I tell you
to boot, she
Resolves resolutely,
No promotion to
give
To the best man
alive,
In church or in
state,
(I’m an
instance of that,)
But only to such of a good reputation
For temper, morality, and moderation.
Fire! fire! a
wild-fire,
Which greatly
disturbs the queen’s peace
Lies running about;
And if you don’t
put it out,
( That’s positive) will increase:
And any may spy,
With half of an
eye,
That it comes from our priests and Papistical fry.
Ye have one of
these fellows,
With fiery bellows,
Come hither to blow and to puff here;
Who having been
toss’d
From pillar to
post,
At last vents his rascally stuff here: Which
to such as are honest must sound very oddly,
When they ought to preach nothing but what’s
very godly;
As here from this place we charge you to do,
As ye’ll answer to man, besides ye know who.
Ye have a Diocesan,—[l]
But I don’t
know the man;—
The man’s
a good liver,
They tell me,
however,
And fiery never!
Now, ye under-pullers,
That wear such
black colours,
How well would
it look,
If his measures
ye took,
Thus for head
and for rump
Together to jump;
For there’s
none deserve places,
I speak’t
to their faces,
But men of such
graces,
And I hope he will never prefer any asses;
Especially when I’m so confident on’t,
For reasons of state, that her majesty won’t
Know, I myself
I
Was present and
by,
At the great trial, where there was a great company,
Then proceeded on the common matters of the law; and concluded:
Once more, and no more, since few words are best,
I charge you all present, by way of request,
If ye honour,
as I do,
Our dear royal
widow,
Or have any compassion
For church or
the nation;
And would live
a long while
In continual smile,
And eat roast
and boil,
And not be forgotten,
When ye are dead
and rotten;
That ye would be quiet, and peaceably dwell,
And never fall out, but p—s all in a quill.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Offspring Blackall. He was made Bishop of Exeter in 1707, and died in 1716.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Swift hated the word “mob,” and insisted that the proper word to use was “rabble.” See “Letters of Swift,” edit. Birkbeck Hill, p. 55; and “Prose Works,” ix, p. 35, n.—W. E. B._]
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND, 4TH JULY, 1711
This city can omit no opportunity of expressing their hearty affection for her majesty’s person and government; and their regard for your grace, who has the honour of representing her in this kingdom.
We retain, my lord, a grateful remembrance of the mild and just Administration of the government of this kingdom by your noble ancestors; and, when we consider the share your grace had in the happy Revolution, in 1688, and the many good laws you have procured us since, particularly that for preventing the farther growth of Popery, we are assured that that liberty and property, that happy constitution in church and state, to which we were restored by King William of glorious memory, will be inviolably preserved under your grace’s administration. And we are persuaded that we cannot more effectually recommend ourselves to your grace’s favour and protection, than by assuring you that we will, to the utmost of our power, contribute to the honour and safety of her majesty’s government, the maintenance of the succession in the illustrious house of Hanover, and that we shall at all times oppose the secret and open attempts of the Pretender, and all his abettors.
An ancient metropolis, famous of late
For opposing the Church, and for nosing the State,
For protecting sedition and rejecting order,
Made the following speech by their mouth, the Recorder:
First, to tell you the name of this place of renown,
Some still call it Dublin, but most Forster’s
town.
May it please your Grace,
We cannot omit this occasion to tell,
That we love the Queen’s person and government
well;
Then next, to your Grace we this compliment make,
That our worships regard you, but ’tis for her
sake:
Though our mouth be a Whig, and our head a Dissenter,
To the tune of “Commons and Peers.”
A WONDERFUL age
Is now on the stage:
I’ll sing you a song, if I can,
How modern Whigs,
Dance forty-one jigs,[1]
But God bless our gracious Queen Anne.
The kirk with applause
Is established by laws
As the orthodox church of the nation.
The bishops do own
It’s as good as their
own.
And this, Sir, is call’d moderation.
It’s no riddle now
To let you see how
A church by oppression may speed;
Nor is’t banter or jest,
That the kirk faith is best
On the other side of the Tweed.
For no soil can suit
With every fruit,
Even so, Sir, it is with religion;
The best church by far
Is what grows where you are,
Were it Mahomet’s ass or his pigeon.
Another strange story
That vexes the Tory,
But sure there’s no mystery in it,
That a pension and place
Give communicants grace,
Who design to turn tail the next minute.
For if it be not strange,
That religion should change,
As often as climates and fashions;
Then sure there’s no
harm,
That one should conform.
To serve their own private occasions.
Another new dance,
Which of late they advance,
Is to cry up the birth of Pretender,
And those that dare own
The queen heir to the crown,
Are traitors, not fit to defend her.
The subject’s most loyal
That hates the blood royal,
And they for employments have merit,
Who swear queen and steeple
Were made by the people,
And neither have right to inherit.
The monarchy’s fixt,
By making on’t mixt,
And by non-resistance o’erthrown;
And preaching obedience
Destroys our allegiance,
And thus the Whigs prop up the throne.
That viceroy [2] is best,
That would take off the test,
And made a sham speech to attempt it;
But being true blue,
When he found ’twould
not do,
Swore, damn him, if ever he meant it.
’Tis no news that Tom
Double
The nation should bubble,
Nor is’t any wonder or riddle,
That a parliament rump
Should play hop, step, and
jump,
And dance any jig to his fiddle.
But now, sir, they tell,
How Sacheverell,
By bringing old doctrines in fashion,
Hath, like a damn’d
rogue,
Brought religion in vogue,
And so open’d the eyes of the nation.
Then let’s pray without
spleen,
May God bless the queen,
And her fellow-monarchs the people;
May they prosper and thrive,
Whilst I am alive,
And so may the church with the steeple.
[Footnote 1: Alluding to the year 1641, when the great rebellion broke out. Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Lord Wharton.]
TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD
1710
Atlas, we read in ancient song,
Was so exceeding tall and strong,
He bore the skies upon his back,
Just as the pedler does his pack;
But, as the pedler overpress’d
Unloads upon a stall to rest,
Or, when he can no longer stand
Desires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, lest the ponderous spheres
Should sink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might sit and rest awhile.
Yet Hercules was not so strong,
Nor could have borne it half so long.
Great statesmen are in this condition;
And Atlas is a politician,
A premier minister of state;
Alcides one of second rate.
Suppose then Atlas ne’er so wise;
Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his single shoulders,
Sink down he must, or find upholders.
[Footnote 1: In these free, and yet complimentary verses, Swift cautions Oxford against his greatest political error, that affectation of mystery, and wish of engrossing the whole management of public affairs, which first disgusted, and then alienated, Harcourt and Bolingbroke. On this point our author has spoken very fully in the “Free Thoughts upon. The present State of Affairs.”—Scott. See “Prose Works,” v, 391.—W. E. B. ]
LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON MR. HARLEY’S BEING STABBED, AND ADDRESSED TO HIS PHYSICIAN, 1710-11 [1]
On Britain Europe’s safety lies,
Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill.
[Footnote 1: For details of Guiscard’s murderous attack on Harley, see Journal to Stella, March 8, 1710-11, “Prose Works,” ii.—W. E. B.]
BEING THE INTENDED SPEECH OF A FAMOUS ORATOR AGAINST PEACE. 1711
An orator dismal of Nottinghamshire,
Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire,
Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place,
Is come up, vi et armis, to break the queen’s
peace.
He has vamp’d an old speech, and the court,
to their sorrow,
Shall hear him harangue against Prior to-morrow.
When once he begins, he never will flinch,
But repeats the same note a whole day like a Finch.[1]
I have heard all the speech repeated by Hoppy,’
And, “mistakes to prevent, I’ve obtained
a copy.”
Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain,
To hear we are making a peace without Spain;
But, most noble senators, ’tis a great shame,
There should be a peace, while I’m Not-in-game.
The duke show’d me all his fine house; and the
duchess
From her closet brought out a full purse in her clutches:
I talk’d of a peace, and they both gave a start,
His grace swore by G—d, and her grace let
a f—t:
My long old-fashion’d pocket was presently cramm’d;
And sooner than vote for a peace I’ll be damn’d.
But some will cry turn-coat, and rip up
old stories,
How I always pretended to be for the Tories:
I answer; the Tories were in my good graces,
Till all my relations were put into places.
But still I’m in principle ever the same,
And will quit my best friends, while I’m Not-in-game.
When I and some others subscribed our
names
To a plot for expelling my master King James,
I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot,
And so might discover or gain by the plot:
I had my advantage, and stood at defiance,
For Daniel[2] was got from the den of the lions:
I came in without danger, and was I to blame?
For, rather than hang, I would be Not-in-game.
I swore to the queen, that the Prince
of Hanover
During her sacred life would never come over:
I made use of a trope; that “an heir to invite,
Was like keeping her monument always in sight.”
But, when I thought proper, I alter’d my note;
And in her own hearing I boldly did vote,
That her Majesty stood in great need of a tutor,
And must have an old or a young coadjutor:
For why; I would fain have put all in a flame,
Because, for some reasons, I was Not-in-game.
Now my new benefactors have brought me
about,
And I’ll vote against peace, with Spain or without:
Though the court gives my nephews, and brothers, and
cousins,
And all my whole family, places by dozens;
Yet, since I know where a full purse may be found,
And hardly pay eighteen-pence tax in the pound:
Since the Tories have thus disappointed my hopes,
And will neither regard my figures nor tropes,
I’ll speech against peace while Dismal’s
my name,
And be a true Whig, while I’m Not-in-game.
[Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham’s family name.]
[Footnote 2: This was the Earl’s Christian name.]
THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1] “About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight’s widow was buried in the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St. George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed, is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it.
“The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the genius of a former age, and may be an amusement to the present.”—Swift.
The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy, daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in 1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish, Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of Dryden’s “Absalom and Achitophel.” A few months afterwards, in February 1681-2, Thynne was assassinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle’s marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the principals as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence Swift’s “Prophecy.” See “State Trials,” vol. ix, and “Notes and Queries,” 1st S., v. 269.—W. E. B.
When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,[2]
With a saint[3] at his chin and a seal at his fob,
Shall not see one[4] New-Years-day in that year,
Then let old England make good cheer:
Windsor[5] and Bristol[5] then shall be
Joined together in the Low-countree.[5]
Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird[6]
Speak against peace right many a word;
And some shall admire his coneying wit,
For many good groats his tongue shall slit.
But spight of the Harpy[7] that crawls on all four,
There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more
But England must cry alack and well-a-day,
If the stick be taken from the dead sea.[8]
And, dear Englond, if ought I understond,
Beware of Carrots[9] from Northumberlond.
Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get,
If so be they are in Somer set:
Their Conyngs[10] mark thou; for I have been told,
They assassine when younge, and poison when old.
Root out these Carrots, O thou,[11] whose name
is backwards and forwards always the same;
And keep thee close to thee always that name
Which backwards and forwards is [12] almost the same.
And, England, wouldst thou be happy still,
Burn those Carrots under a Hill.[13]
[Footnote 1: Although Swift was advised by Mrs. Masham “not to let the Prophecy be published,” and he acted on her advice, many copies were “printed and given about, but not sold.” To Stella, Swift writes: “I doubt not but you will have the Prophecy in Ireland although it is not published here, only printed copies given to friends.” See Journal to Stella, 26, 27 Dec. 1711, and Jan. 4, 1711-12.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: He was Dean of Windsor, and lord privy seal.]
[Footnote 4: The New Style, which was not adopted in Great Britain and Ireland till it was brought in by Lord Chesterfield in 1752, was then Observed in most parts of Europe. The bishop set out from England the Latter end of December, O. S.; and on his arrival at Utrecht, by the Variation of the style, he found January somewhat advanced.]
[Footnote 5: Alluding to the deanery and bishopric being possessed by the same person, then at Utrecht.]
[Footnote 6: Earl of Nottingham.]
[Footnote 7: Duke of Marlborough.]
[Footnote 8: The treasurer’s wand, taken from Harley, whose second title was Lord Mortimer.]
[Footnote 9: The Duchess of Somerset.[1]]
[Footnote 10: Count Konigsmark.[2]]
[Footnote 11: ANNA.]
[Footnote 12: MASHAM.]
[Footnote 13: Lady Masham’s maiden name.]
[embedded footnote 1: She had red hair, post, 165. ]
[embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.]
This day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play’d the midwife’s
part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endued her with his art.
But Cupid with a Satyr comes;
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.
Then Cupid thus: “This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write;”
“And I pronounce,” the Satyr said,
“The world shall feel her scratch
and bite.”
Her talent she display’d betimes;
For in a few revolving moons,
She seem’d to laugh and squall in rhymes,
And all her gestures were lampoons.
At six years old, the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady’s maid:
And you may swear the tale went round.
She made a song, how little miss
Was kiss’d and slobber’d by
a lad:
And how, when master went to p—,
Miss came, and peep’d at all he
had.
At twelve, a wit and a coquette;
Marries for love, half whore, half wife;
Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt;
Turns authoress, and is Curll’s
for life.
Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia;
She pours it out in Atalantis
Or memoirs of the New Utopia.
[Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la Riviere Manley, a political writer, who was born about 1672, and died in July, 1724. The work by which she became famous was “Secret memoirs and manners of several persons of quality of both sexes, from the New Atalantis.” She was Swift’s amanuensis and assistant in “The Examiner,” and succeeded him as Editor. In his Journal to Stella, Jan. 26, 1711-12, he writes: “Poor Mrs. Manley, the author, is very ill of a dropsy and sore leg; the printer tells me he is afraid she cannot live long. I am heartily sorry for her. She has very generous principles for one of her sort; and a great deal of good sense and invention: She is about forty, very homely and very fat.” Swift’s subsequent severe attack upon her in these verses can only be accounted for, but cannot be excused by, some change in his political views. See “The Tatler,” Nos. 35, 63, edit. 1786.—W. E. B.]
Collated with Stella’s copy.—Forster.
Midas, we are in story told,[2]
Turn’d every thing he touch’d to gold:
He chipp’d his bread; the pieces round
Glitter’d like spangles on the ground:
A codling, ere it went his lip in,
Would straight become a golden pippin.
He call’d for drink; you saw him sup
Potable gold in golden cup:
His empty paunch that he might fill,
He suck’d his victuals thro’ a quill.
Untouch’d it pass’d between his grinders,
Or’t had been happy for gold-finders:
He cock’d his hat, you would have said
[Footnote 1: This cutting satire upon the Duke of Marlborough was written about the time when he was deprived of his employments. See Journal to Stella, Feb. 14, 1711-12, “Prose Works,” ii, 337.]
[Footnote 2: Ovid, “Met.,” lib. xi; Hyginus, “Fab.” 191.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Almonte and Mambrino, two Saracens of great valour, had each a golden helmet. Orlando Furioso took Almonte’s, and his friend Rinaldo that of Mambrino. “Orlando Furioso,” Canto I, St. 28. And readers of “Don Quixote” may remember how the knight argued with Sancho Panza that the barber’s bason was the helmet of Mambrino.—“Don Quixote,” pt. I, book 3, ch. 7.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Stella.]
[Footnote 5: The Duke of Marlborough was accused of having received large sums, as perquisites, from the contractors, who furnished bread, forage, etc., to the army.—Scott.]
[Footnote 6: Scott prints this word “plumes,” substituting a false meaning for the real point of the poem.—Forster.]
[Footnote 7: The result of the investigations of the House of Commons was the removal of the Duke of Marlborough from his command, and all his employments.—Scott.]
Written A.D. 1712.—Stella.
Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5.
Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party
writer in behalf of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet
on the demolition of Dunkirk, and another called “The
Art of Reasoning,” in which he directly charged
Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender.
The Earl of Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called
Dismal from his swarthy complexion, was bred a rigid
High-Churchman, and was only induced to support the
Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their
consenting to the bill against occasional conformity.
He was so distinguished for regularity, as to be termed
by Rowe
“The sober Earl of Nottingham,
Of sober sire descended.”—HOR.,
Odes, ii, 4.
From these points of his character, we may estimate
the severity of the following satire, which represents
this pillar of High-Church principles as invited by
the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th January,
by attending the Calves’ Head Club.—Scott.
If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine
Upon a single dish, and tavern wine,
Toland to you this invitation sends,
To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends.
Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes,
Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes.
To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare,
Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share:
When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell,
How by brave hands the royal traitor fell;
The meat shall represent the tyrant’s head,
The wine, his blood our predecessors shed;
Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings,
We toast, Confusion to the race of kings!
At monarchy we nobly show our spight,
And talk, what fools call treason, all the night.
Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk,
Feels not his soul enliven’d when he’s
drunk?
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella’s copy.—Forster. See Journal to Stella, July 1, 1712, “Prose Works,” ii, 375; and ix, 256, 287.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: Scott prints “comfort.”—Forster.]
BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL 1712
To the tune of “The King shall enjoy his own again.”
Spite of Dutch friends and English foes,
Poor Britain shall have peace at last:
Holland got towns, and we got blows;
But Dunkirk’s ours, we’ll
hold it fast.
We have got it in a string,
And the Whigs may all go swing,
For among good friends I love to be plain;
All their false deluded hopes
Will, or ought to end in ropes;
“But the Queen shall enjoy her own again.”
Sunderland’s run out of his wits,
And Dismal double Dismal looks;
Wharton can only swear by fits,
And strutting Hal is off the hooks;
Old Godolphin, full of spleen,
Made false moves, and lost
his Queen:
Harry look’d fierce, and shook his ragged mane:
But a Prince of high renown
Swore he’d rather lose
a crown,
“Than the Queen should enjoy her own again.”
Our merchant-ships may cut the line,
And not be snapt by privateers.
And commoners who love good wine
Will drink it now as well as peers:
Landed men shall have their
rent,
Yet our stocks rise cent,
per cent.
The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain:
We’ll bring on us no
more debts,
Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes;
“And the Queen shall enjoy her own again.”
The towns we took ne’er did us good:
What signified the French to beat?
We spent our money and our blood,
To make the Dutchmen proud and great:
But the Lord of Oxford swears,
Dunkirk never shall be theirs.
The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
But true Englishmen may fill
A good health to General Hill:
“For the Queen now enjoys her own again.”
HORACE, EPIST. I, VII
IMITATION OF HORACE
TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]
Harley, the nation’s great support,
Returning home one day from court,
His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe’s business in his breast,
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheap’ning old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And show’d some humour in his face;
Look’d with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My lord, (who, if a man may say’t,
Loves mischief better than his meat),
Was now disposed to crack a jest
And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest.
(This Lewis was a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley’s favour)—
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.
Lewis his patron’s humour knows;
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift,
A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes [3] to run him down:
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice;
Went where he pleas’d, said what he thought;
Not rich, but owed no man a groat;
In state opinions a la mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad;
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell’d all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father’d what he writ:
His works were hawk’d in ev’ry street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And, since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended[4] to retire.
Said Harley, “I desire to know
From his own mouth, if this be so:
Step to the doctor straight, and say,
I’d have him dine with me to-day.”
Swift seem’d to wonder what he meant,
Nor could believe my lord had sent;
So never offer’d once to stir,
But coldly said, “Your servant, sir!”
“Does he refuse me?” Harley cry’d:
“He does; with insolence and pride.”
Some few days after, Harley spies
The doctor fasten’d by the eyes
At Charing-cross, among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out:
He pull’d the string, and stopt his[5] coach,
Beck’ning the doctor to approach.
Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side,
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella’s copy.—Forster.]
[Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer’s secretary.]
[Footnote 3: By time.—Stella.]
[Footnote 4: Is now contented,—Stella.]
[Footnote 5: The.—Stella.]
[Footnote 6: Would.—Stella.]
[Footnote 7: By.—Stella.]
[Footnote 8: “Devoutly” is the word in Stella’s transcript: but it must be admitted that “demurely” is more in keeping.—Forster.]
[Footnote 9: The Dean’s agent, a Frenchman.]
[Footnote 10: The lord treasurer’s porter.]
[Footnote 11: I have experience.—Stella.]
1713
A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author’s from London.—Dublin Edition.
*
* * * *
*
* * * *
*
* By an old —— pursued,
A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2]
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes On ev’ry
genius that attempts to rise; And pausing o’er
a pipe, with doubtful nod, Give hints, that poets
ne’er believe in God. So clowns on scholars
as on wizards look, And take a folio for a conj’ring
book.
Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime:
Nay, ’twas affirm’d, he sometimes dealt
in rhyme; Humour and mirth had place in all he writ;
He reconcil’d divinity and wit:
He moved and bow’d, and talk’d with too
much grace;
Nor show’d the parson in his gait or face;
Despised luxurious wines and costly meat;
Yet still was at the tables of the great;
Frequented lords; saw those that saw the queen;
At Child’s or Truby’s,[3] never once had
been;
Where town and country vicars flock in tribes,
Secured by numbers from the laymen’s gibes;
And deal in vices of the graver sort,
Tobacco, censure, coffee, pride, and port.
But, after sage monitions from his friends,
His talents to employ for nobler ends;
To better judgments willing to submit,
He turns to politics his dang’rous wit.
And now, the public Int’rest to
support,
By Harley Swift invited, comes to court;
In favour grows with ministers of state;
Admitted private, when superiors wait:
And Harley, not ashamed his choice to own, Takes
him to Windsor in his coach alone. At Windsor
Swift no sooner can appear, But St. John comes, and
whispers in his ear: The waiters stand in ranks:
the yeomen cry, Make room, as if a duke were
passing by.
Now Finch[4] alarms the lords: he
hears for certain
This dang’rous priest is got behind the curtain.
Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves That Swift
oils many a spring which Harley moves. Walpole
and Aislaby,[5] to clear the doubt, Inform the Commons,
that the secret’s out: “A certain
doctor is observed of late To haunt a certain minister
[Footnote 1: Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the Deanery of Canterbury, to the Archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February 2, 1712-13. According to Dr. Swift’s account, the archbishop had represented him to the queen as a person that was not a Christian; the great lady [the Duchess of Somerset] had supported the aspersion; and the queen, upon such assurances, had given away the bishopric contrary to her majesty’s first intentions [which were in favour of Swift]. See Orrery’s “Remarks on the Life of Swift,” p. 48.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Queen Anne.]
[Footnote 3: Coffeehouses frequented by the clergy.
In the preceding poem, Swift gives the same trait
of his own character:
“A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat.”
His feeling towards his order was exactly the reverse
of his celebrated misanthropical expression of hating
mankind, but loving individuals. On the contrary,
he loved the church, but disliked associating with
individual clergymen.—Scott. See
his letter to Pope, Sept. 29, 1725, in Pope’s
Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 53, and
the unjust remarks of the commentators.—W.
E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Daniel Finch, Earl of Nottingham, who made a speech in the House of Lords against the author.]
[Footnote 5: John Aislaby, then M.P. for Ripon. They both spoke against him in the House of Commons.—Scott.]
[Footnote 6: The Tale of a Tub.]
[Footnote 7: He sent a message to the author to desire his pardon, and that he was very sorry for what he had said and done.]
[Footnote 8: Insert murder’d. The duchess’s first husband, Thomas Thynne, Esq., was assassinated in Pall Mall by banditti, the emissaries of Count Koenigsmark. As the motive of this crime was the count’s love to the lady, with whom Thynne had never cohabited, Swift seems to throw upon her the imputation of being privy to the crime. See the “Windsor Prophecy,” ante, p. 150.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 9: The Duke of Argyle.]
[Footnote 10: For writing “The Public Spirit of the Whigs.”]
[Footnote 11: Then lord-treasurer of the household, who cautiously avoided Swift while the proclamation was impending.]
[Footnote 12: He was visited by the Scots lords more than ever.]
Written in the year 1713, when the Queen’s ministers were quarrelling among themselves.
Observe the dying father speak:
Try, lads, can you this bundle break?
Then bids the youngest of the six
Take up a well-bound heap of sticks.
They thought it was an old man’s maggot;
And strove, by turns, to break the fagot:
In vain: the complicated wands
Were much too strong for all their hands.
See, said the sire, how soon ’tis done:
Then took and broke them one by one.
So strong you’ll be, in friendship ty’d;
So quickly broke, if you divide.
Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel:
Here ends the fable, and the moral.
This tale may be applied in few words,
To treasurers, comptrollers, stewards;
And others, who, in solemn sort,
Appear with slender wands at court;
Not firmly join’d to keep their ground,
But lashing one another round:
While wise men think they ought to fight
With quarterstaffs instead of white;
Or constable, with staff of peace,
Should come and make the clatt’ring cease;
Which now disturbs the queen and court,
And gives the Whigs and rabble sport.
In history we never found
The consul’s fasces[2] were unbound:
Those Romans were too wise to think on’t,
Except to lash some grand delinquent,
How would they blush to hear it said,
The praetor broke the consul’s head!
Or consul in his purple gown,
Came up and knock’d the praetor down!
Come, courtiers: every man his stick!
Lord treasurer,[3] for once be quick:
And that they may the closer cling,
Take your blue ribbon for a string.
Come, trimming Harcourt,[4] bring your mace;
And squeeze it in, or quit your place:
Dispatch, or else that rascal Northey[5]
Will undertake to do it for thee:
And be assured, the court will find him
Prepared to leap o’er sticks, or bind them.
To make the bundle strong and safe,
Great Ormond, lend thy general’s staff:
And, if the crosier could be cramm’d in
A fig for Lechmere, King, and Hambden!
You’ll then defy the strongest Whig
With both his hands to bend a twig;
Though with united strength they all pull,
From Somers,[6] down to Craggs[7] and Walpole.
[Footnote 1: This fable is one of the vain remonstrances by which Swift strove to close the breach between Oxford and Bolingbroke, in the last period of their administration, which, to use Swift’s own words, was “nothing else but a scene of murmuring and discontent, quarrel and misunderstanding, animosity and hatred;” so that these two great men had scarcely a common friend left, except the author himself, who laboured with unavailing zeal to reconcile their dissensions.—Scott. With this exception, the notes are from the Dublin Edition.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: The bundle of rods carried before the Consuls at Rome.]
[Footnote 3: The dilatory Earl of Oxford.]
[Footnote 4: Lord Chancellor.]
[Footnote 5: Sir Edward Northey, attorney-general, brought in by Lord Harcourt; yet very desirous of the Great Seal.]
[Footnote 6: Who had been at different times Lord Chancellor and President of the Council.]
[Footnote 7: Afterwards Secretary of State].
IMITATION OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] 1714
I often wish’d that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden’s end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.
Well, now I have all this and more,
I ask not to increase my store;[2]
But should be perfectly content,
Could I but live on this side Trent;[3]
Nor cross the channel twice a-year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
I must by all means come to town,
’Tis for the service of the crown.
“Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse.”
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne’er think of these;
Or let it cost a hundred pound,
No matter where the money’s found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne’er consider’d yet.
“Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown,
Let my lord know you’re come to town.”
I hurry me in haste away,
Not thinking it is levee-day;
And find his honour in a pound,
Hemm’d by a triple circle round,
Chequer’d with ribbons blue and green:
How should I thrust myself between?
Some wag observes me thus perplex’d,
And, smiling, whispers to the next,
“I thought the Dean had been too proud,
To justle here among a crowd!”
Another, in a surly fit,
Tells me I have more zeal than wit.
“So eager to express your love,
You ne’er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a duke.”
I own I’m pleased with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant, to show
What I desire the world should know.
I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn’d,
Desiring I would stand their friend.
This humbly offers me his case;
[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella’s copy in the Duke of Bedford’s volume.—Forster.]
[Footnote 2: Here followed twenty lines inserted by Pope when he published the Miscellanies. The version is here printed as written by Swift.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Swift was perpetually expressing his deep discontent at his Irish preferment, and forming schemes for exchanging it for a smaller in England, and courted Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole to effect such a change. A negotiation had nearly taken place between the Dean and Mr. Talbot for the living of Burfield, in Berkshire. Mr. Talbot himself informed me of this negotiation. Burfield is in the neighbourhood of Bucklebury, Lord Bolingbroke’s seat.—Warton.]
[Footnote 4: Very happily turned from “Si vis, potes——.”—Warton.]
[Footnote 5: The rise and progress of Swift’s intimacy with Lord Oxford is minutely detailed in his Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man, that served the ministry so effectually, was so tardily, and so difficultly, and so poorly rewarded, are explained in Sheridan’s Life of Swift. See also Coxe’s “Memoirs of Walpole.” Both Gay and Swift conceived every thing was to be gained by the interest of Mrs. Howard, to whom they paid incessant court.—Bowles.]
[Footnote 6: Another of their amusements in these
excursions consisted in Lord Oxford and Swift’s
counting the poultry on the road, and whichever reckoned
thirty-one first, or saw a cat, or an old woman, won
the game. Bolingbroke, overtaking them one day
in their road to Windsor, got into Lord Oxford’s
coach, and began some political conversation; Lord
Oxford said, “Swift, I am up; there is a cat.”
Bolingbroke was disgusted with this levity, and went
again into his own carriage. This was
“Nugari et discincti ludere,”
[HORAT., Sat., ii, I, 73]
with a witness.—Warton.]
[Footnote 7: Stella’s transcript, “sweetest.”—Forster.]
[Footnote 8: Thus far was translated by Dr. Swift in 1714. The remaining part of the satire was afterwards added by Pope, in whose works the whole is printed. See Pope’s Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope.—W. E. B.]
HORACE, BOOK II, ODE I, PARAPHRASED ADDRESSED TO RICHARD STEELE, ESQ. 1714
Dick, thou’rt resolved, as I am told,
Some strange arcana to unfold,
And with the help of Buckley’s[1] pen,
To vamp the good old cause again:
Which thou (such Burnet’s shrewd advice is)
Must furbish up, and nickname Crisis.
Thou pompously wilt let us know
What all the world knew long ago,
(E’er since Sir William Gore was mayor,
And Harley fill’d the commons’ chair,)
That we a German prince must own,
When Anne for Heaven resigns her throne.
But, more than that, thou’lt keep a rout,
With—who is in—and who is out;
Thou’lt rail devoutly at the peace,
And all its secret causes trace,
The bucket-play ’twixt Whigs and Tories,
Their ups and downs, with fifty stories
Of tricks the Lord of Oxford knows,
And errors of our plenipoes.
Thou’lt tell of leagues among the great,
Portending ruin to our state:
And of that dreadful coup d’eclat,
Which has afforded thee much chat.
The queen, forsooth! (despotic,) gave
Twelve coronets without thy leave!
A breach of liberty, ’tis own’d,
For which no heads have yet atoned!
Believe me, what thou’st undertaken
May bring in jeopardy thy bacon;
For madmen, children, wits, and fools,
Should never meddle with edged tools.
But, since thou’st got into the fire,
And canst not easily retire,
[Footnote 1: Samuel Buckley, publisher of “The Crisis.”]
[Footnote 2: This is said to be a plot of a comedy with which Mr. Steele has long threatened the town.—Swift.]
[Footnote 3: Alluding to Steele’s advice in “The Tatler” to distressed females, in his character of Bickerstaff.]
[Footnote 4: The borough which, for a very short time, Steele represented in Parliament.]
[Footnote 5: Abel Roper, the printer and publisher of a Tory newspaper called “The Post Boy,” often mentioned by Swift, who contributed news to it. See “Prose Works,” ii, 420; v, 290; ix, 183.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough then resided at Antwerp.]
[Footnote 7: General Macartney, second to Lord Mohun, in the fatal duel with the Duke of Hamilton. For an account of the duel, see Journal to Stella of Nov. 15, 1712, “Prose Works,” ii, and x, xxii, and 178.—W. E. B._]
HORACE, BOOK I, EP. V
JOHN DENNIS, THE SHELTERING POET’S INVITATION
TO RICHARD STEELE, THE SECLUDED PARTY-WRITER AND MEMBER,
TO COME AND LIVE WITH HIM, IN THE MINT 1714
Fit to be bound up with “The Crisis”
If thou canst lay aside a spendthrift’s air,
And condescend to feed on homely fare,
Such as we minters, with ragouts unstored,
Will, in defiance of the law, afford:
Quit thy patrols with Toby’s Christmas box,[1]
And come to me at The Two Fighting Cocks;
Since printing by subscription now is grown
The stalest, idlest cheat about the town;
And ev’n Charles Gildon, who, a Papist bred,
Has an alarm against that worship spread,
Is practising those beaten paths of cruising,
And for new levies on proposals musing.
’Tis true, that Bloomsbury-square’s
a noble place:
But what are lofty buildings in thy case?
What’s a fine house embellish’d to profusion,
Where shoulder dabbers are in execution?
Or whence its timorous tenant seldom sallies,
But apprehensive of insulting bailiffs?
This once be mindful of a friend’s advice,
And cease to be improvidently nice;
Exchange the prospects that delude thy sight,
From Highgate’s steep ascent and Hampstead’s
height,
With verdant scenes, that, from St. George’s
Field,
More durable and safe enjoyments yield.
Here I, even I, that ne’er till
now could find
Ease to my troubled and suspicious mind,
But ever was with jealousies possess’d,
Am in a state of indolence and rest;
Fearful no more of Frenchmen in disguise,
Nor looking upon strangers as on spies,[2]
But quite divested of my former spleen,
Am unprovoked without, and calm within:
And here I’ll wait thy coming, till the sun
Shall its diurnal course completely run.
Think not that thou of sturdy bub shalt fail,
My landlord’s cellar stock’d with beer
[Footnote 1: Allusion to a pamphlet written against Steele, under the name of Toby (Edward King), Abel Roper’s kinsman and shopman.]
[Footnote 2: Dennis had a notion, that he was much dreaded by the French for his writings, and actually fled from the coast, on hearing that some unknown strangers had approached the town, where he was residing, never doubting that they were the messengers of Gallic vengeance. At the time of the peace of Utrecht, he was anxious for the introduction of a clause for his special protection, and was hardly consoled by the Duke of Marlborough’s assurances, that he did not think such a precaution necessary in his own case, although he had been almost as obnoxious to France as Mr. Dennis.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: Sir Thomas Pilkington, a leading member of the Skinners’ Company, and a staunch Whig. He was elected Lord Mayor for the third time In 1690, and died in 1691.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: A comedy by Steele.]
[Footnote 5: See the Examiner, “Prose Works,” ix, 171 n., for the grounds of this charge.—W. E. B.]
WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714
Soon after the author’s coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen’s death.[1]—Swift.
’Tis true—then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul’s concern:
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Removed from kind Arbuthnot’s aid,
Who knows his art, but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit, or his fee.
Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,
I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay,
Can act as decently as they:
But no obliging, tender friend,
To help at my approaching end.
My life is now a burthen grown
To others, ere it be my own.
Ye formal weepers for the sick,
In your last offices be quick;
And spare my absent friends the grief
To hear, yet give me no relief;
Expired to-day, entomb’d to-morrow,
When known, will save a double sorrow.
[Footnote 1: Queen Anne died 1st August, 1714.]
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT
A bitch, that was full pregnant grown
By all the dogs and curs in town,
Finding her ripen’d time was come,
Her litter teeming from her womb,
Went here, and there, and everywhere,
To find an easy place to lay her.
At length to Music’s house[2] she
came,
And begg’d like one both blind and lame;
“My only friend, my dear,” said she,
“You see ’tis mere necessity
Hath sent me to your house to whelp:
I die if you refuse your help.”
With fawning whine, and rueful tone,
With artful sigh, and feigned groan,
With couchant cringe, and flattering tale,
Smooth Bawty[3] did so far prevail,
That Music gave her leave to litter;
(But mark what follow’d—faith! she
bit her;)
Whole baskets full of bits and scraps,
And broth enough to fill her paps;
For well she knew, her numerous brood,
For want of milk, would suck her blood.
But when she thought her pains were done,
And now ’twas high time to be gone,
In civil terms, “My friend,” said she,
“My house you’ve had on courtesy;
And now I earnestly desire,
That you would with your cubs retire;
For, should you stay but one week longer,
I shall be starved with cold and hunger.”
The guest replied—“My friend, your
leave
I must a little longer crave;
Stay till my tender cubs can find
Their way—for now, you see, they’re
blind;
But, when we’ve gather’d strength, I swear,
We’ll to our barn again repair.”
The time pass’d on; and Music came
Her kennel once again to claim,
But Bawty, lost to shame and honour,
Set all her cubs at once upon her;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cried—“A bite! bite!”
Thus did the Grecian wooden horse
Conceal a fatal armed force:
No sooner brought within the walls,
But Ilium’s lost, and Priam falls.
[Footnote 1: See post, “A Tale of a Nettle.”]
[Footnote 2: The Church of England.]
[Footnote 3: A Scotch name for bitch, alluding to the kirk.]
TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716
These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift’s political principles and personal attachment.—Scott. See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope’s “Works,” edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.—W. E. B.
How blest is he who for his country dies,
Since death pursues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from Fate’s attack;
With trembling knees, and Terror at his back;
Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.
Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honour shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.
Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves
to try
Some new unbeaten passage to the sky;
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give
To those who die, for meriting to live.
Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward;
Within our breast be every secret barr’d!
He who betrays his friend, shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship, with me:
For who with traitors would his safety trust,
Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just?
And though the villain’scape a while, he feels
Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.
Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry,
The Church has vapours; there’s no danger nigh.
In those we love not, we no danger see,
And were they hang’d, there would no danger
be.
But we must silent be, amidst our fears,
And not believe our senses, but the Peers.
So ravishers, that know no sense of shame,
First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.
High Church is undone,
As sure as a gun,
For old Peter Patch is departed;
And Eyres and Delaune,
And the rest of that spawn,
Are tacking about broken-hearted.
For strong Gill of Sarum,
That decoctum amarum,
Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail;
Which will make them resign
Their flasks of French wine,
And spice up their Nottingham ale.
It purges the spleen
Of dislike to the queen,
And has one effect that is odder;
When easement they use,
They always will chuse
The Conformity Bill for bumfodder.
A POEM
OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN,
IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED
Not asking or expecting aught,
One day I went to view the court,
Unbent and free from care or thought,
Though thither fears and hopes resort.
A piece of tapestry took my eye,
The faded colours spoke it old;
But wrought with curious imagery,
The figures lively seem’d and bold.
Here you might see the youth prevail,
(In vain are eloquence and wit,)
The boy persists, Apollo’s frail;
Wisdom to nature does submit.
There mounts the eager charioteer;
Soon from his seat he’s downward
hurl’d;
Here Jove in anger doth appear,
There all, beneath, the flaming world.
What does this idle fiction mean?
Is truth at court in such disgrace,
It may not on the walls be seen,
Nor e’en in picture show its face?
No, no, ’tis not a senseless tale,
By sweet-tongued Ovid dress’d so
fine;[1]
It does important truths conceal,
And here was placed by wise design.
A lesson deep with learning fraught,
Worthy the cabinet of kings;
Fit subject of their constant thought,
In matchless verse the poet sings.
Well should he weigh, who does aspire
To empire, whether truly great,
His head, his heart, his hand, conspire
To make him equal to that seat.
If only fond desire of sway,
By avarice or ambition fed,
Make him affect to guide the day,
Alas! what strange confusion’s bred!
If, either void of princely care,
Remiss he holds the slacken’d rein;
If rising heats or mad career,
Unskill’d, he knows not to restrain:
Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose,
In wanton pride to show his skill,
How easily he can reduce
And curb the people’s rage at will;
In wild uproar they hurry on;—
The great, the good, the just, the wise,
(Law and religion overthrown,)
Are first mark’d out for sacrifice.
When, to a height their fury grown,
Finding, too late, he can’t retire,
He proves the real Phaethon,
And truly sets the world on fire.
[Footnote 1: “Metamorphoseon,” lib. ii.]
A man with expense and infinite toil,
By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil;
There fruits of the best your taste did invite,
And uniform order still courted the sight.
No degenerate weeds the rich ground did produce,
But all things afforded both beauty and use:
Till from dunghill transplanted, while yet but a seed,
A nettle rear’d up his inglorious head.
The gard’ner would wisely have rooted him up,
To stop the increase of a barbarous crop;
But the master forbid him, and after the fashion
Of foolish good nature, and blind moderation,
Forbore him through pity, and chose as much rather,
To ask him some questions first, how he came thither.
Kind sir, quoth the nettle, a stranger I come,
For conscience compell’d to relinquish my home,
’Cause I wouldn’t subscribe to a mystery
dark,
That the prince of all trees is the Jesuit’s
bark,[2]
An erroneous tenet I know, sir, that you,
No more than myself, will allow to be true.
To you, I for refuge and sanctuary sue,
There’s none so renown’d for compassion
as you;
And, though in some things I may differ from these,
The rest of your fruitful and beautiful trees;
Though your digging and dunging, my nature much harms,
And I cannot comply with your garden in forms:
Yet I and my family, after our fashion,
[Footnote 1: These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test Act, and may be compared with the “Fable of the Bitches,” ante, p.181.]
[Footnote 2: In allusion to the supremacy of Rome.—Scott.]
A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL[1]
His Grace! impossible! what, dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all?
Well, since he’s gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He’d wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we’re told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
’Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber’d long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that’s the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widows’ sighs, nor orphans’ tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.
Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate!
Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing’s a duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn’d to that dirt from whence he sprung.[2]
[Footnote 1: The Duke of Marlborough died on the 16th June, 1722.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: See the “Fable of Midas,” ante, p. 150; and The Examiner, “Prose Works,” ix, 95.—W. E. B.]
PARODY
ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,[1]
PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES
Illustrious prince, we’re come before ye,
Who, more than in our founders, glory
To
be by you protected;
Deign to descend and give us laws,
For we are converts to your cause,
From
this day well-affected.[2]
The noble view of your high merits
Has charm’d our thoughts and fix’d our
spirits,
With
zeal so warm and hearty;
That we resolved to be devoted,
At least until we be promoted,
By
your just power and party.
Urged by a passionate desire
Of being raised a little higher,
From
lazy cloister’d life;
We cannot flatter you nor fawn,
But fain would honour’d be with lawn,
And
settled by a wife.[3]
For this we have before resorted,
Paid levees[4] punctually, and courted,
Our
charge at home long quitting,
But now we’re come just in the nick,
Upon a vacant[5] bishopric,
This
bait can’t fail of hitting.
Thus, sir, you see how much affection,
Not interest, sways in this election,
But
sense of loyal duty.
For you surpass all princes far,
As glow-worms do exceed a star,
In
goodness, wit, and beauty.
To you our Irish Commons owe
That wisdom which their actions show,
Their
principles from ours springs,
Taught, ere the deel himself could dream on’t,
That of their illustrious house a stem on’t,
Should
rise the best of kings.
The glad presages with our eyes
Behold a king, chaste, vigilant, and wise,
In
foreign fields victorious,
Who in his youth the Turks attacks,
And [made] them still to turn their backs;
Was
ever king so glorious?
Since Ormond’s like a traitor gone,
We scorn to do what some have done,
For
learning much more famous;[6]
Fools may pursue their adverse fate,
And stick to the unfortunate;
We
laugh while they condemn us.
For, being of that gen’rous mind,
To success we are still inclined,
And
quit the suffering side,
If on our friends cross planets frown,
We join the cry, and hunt them down,
And
sail with wind and tide.
Hence ’twas this choice we long delay’d,
Till our rash foes the rebels fled,
Whilst
fortune held the scale;
But [since] they’re driven like mist before
you,
Our rising sun, we now adore you,
Because
you now prevail.
Descend then from your lofty seat,
Behold th’ attending Muses wait
With
us to sing your praises;
Calliope now strings up her lyre,
And Clio[7] Phoebus does inspire,
The theme their fancy raises.
If then our nursery you will nourish,
We and our Muses too will flourish,
Encouraged
by your favour;
We’ll doctrines teach the times to serve,
And more five thousand pounds deserve,
By
future good behaviour.
Now take our harp into your hand,
The joyful strings, at your command,
In
doleful sounds no more shall mourn.
We, with sincerity of heart,
To all your tunes shall bear a part,
Unless
we see the tables turn.
If so, great sir, you will excuse us,
For we and our attending Muses
May
live to change our strain;
And turn, with merry hearts, our tune,
Upon some happy tenth of June,
To
“the king enjoys his own again.”
[Footnote 1: Dr. Pratt’s speech, which is here parodied, was made when the Duke of Ormond, Swift’s valued friend, was attainted, and superseded in the office of chancellor of Trinity College, which he had held from 1688-9, by the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II.
There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift, whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent. Of this it may be worth while to mention a trifling instance. The duke had presented to the cathedral of St. Patrick’s a superb organ, surmounted by his own armorial bearings. It was placed facing the nave of the church. But after Ormond’s attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick’s, received orders from government to remove the scutcheon from the church. He obeyed, but he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie buried, and where the arms still remain. The verses have suffered much by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler.
The original speech will be found in the London Gazette
of Tuesday,
April 17, 1716, and Scott’s edition of Swift,
vol. xii, p. 352. The
Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr.
Howard, and Mr. George
Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them
fellows of Trinity
College, Dublin. The speech was praised by Addison,
in the Freeholder,
No. 33.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: The Rev. Dr. Pratt had been formerly of the Tory party; to which circumstance the phrase, “from this day well-affected,” alludes.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: The statutes of the university enjoin celibacy.—Scott.]
[Footnote 4: The provost was a most constant attendant at the levees at St. James’s palace.—Scott.]
[Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons, was nominated, by letters-patent.—Scott.]
[Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the accession.—Scott.]
[Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of the transcriber.—Scott.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720-21
To the tune of “Packington’s Pound.”
Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes,
Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over,
With forty things more: now hear what the law
says,
Whoe’er will not wear them is not the king’s
lover.
Though a printer and Dean,
Seditiously mean,
Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean,
We’ll buy English silks for our wives and our
daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
In England the dead in woollen are clad,
The Dean and his printer then let us cry
fie on;
To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad,
Since a living dog better is than a dead
lion.
Our wives they grow sullen
At wearing of woollen,
And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in.
Then we’ll buy English silks for our wives and
our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
Whoever our trading with England would hinder,
To inflame both the nations do plainly
conspire,
Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder,
And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes
fire.
Therefore, I assure ye,
Our noble grand jury,
When they saw the Dean’s book, they were in
a great fury;
They would buy English silks for their wives and their
daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning,
And before coram nobis so oft has
been call’d,
Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen,
And if swearing can do’t shall be
swingingly maul’d:
And as for the Dean,
You know whom I mean,
If the printer will peach him, he’ll scarce
come off clean.
Then we’ll buy English silks for our wives and
our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
[Footnote 1: This ballad alludes to the Dean’s “Proposal for the use of Irish Manufactures,” for which the printer was prosecuted with great violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict. See Swift’s Letter to Pope, Jan. 1721, and “Prose Works,” vii, 13.—W. E. B.]
The bold encroachers on the deep
Gain by degrees huge tracts of land,
Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
Turns all again to barren strand.
The multitude’s capricious pranks
Are said to represent the seas,
Breaking the bankers and the banks,
Resume their own whene’er they please.
Money, the life-blood of the nation,
Corrupts and stagnates in the veins,
Unless a proper circulation
Its motion and its heat maintains.
Because ’tis lordly not to pay,
Quakers and aldermen in state,
Like peers, have levees every day
Of duns attending at their gate.
We want our money on the nail;
The banker’s ruin’d if he
pays:
They seem to act an ancient tale;
The birds are met to strip the jays.
“Riches,” the wisest monarch sings,
“Make pinions for themselves to
fly;"[2]
They fly like bats on parchment wings,
And geese their silver plumes supply.
No money left for squandering heirs!
Bills turn the lenders into debtors:
The wish of Nero[3] now is theirs,
“That they had never known their
letters.”
Conceive the works of midnight hags,
Tormenting fools behind their backs:
Thus bankers, o’er their bills and bags,
Sit squeezing images of wax.
Conceive the whole enchantment broke;
The witches left in open air,
With power no more than other folk,
Exposed with all their magic ware.
So powerful are a banker’s bills,
Where creditors demand their due;
They break up counters, doors, and tills,
And leave the empty chests in view.
Thus when an earthquake lets in light
Upon the god of gold and hell,
Unable to endure the sight,
He hides within his darkest cell.
As when a conjurer takes a lease
From Satan for a term of years,
The tenant’s in a dismal case,
Whene’er the bloody bond appears.
A baited banker thus desponds,
From his own hand foresees his fall,
They have his soul, who have his bonds;
’Tis like the writing on the wall.[4]
How will the caitiff wretch be scared,
When first he finds himself awake
At the last trumpet, unprepared,
And all his grand account to make!
For in that universal call,
Few bankers will to heaven be mounters;
They’ll cry, “Ye shops, upon us fall!
Conceal and cover us, ye counters!”
When other hands the scales shall hold,
And they, in men’s and angels’
sight
Produced with all their bills and gold,
“Weigh’d in the balance and
found light!”
[Footnote 1: This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was therefore thought fit to be reprinted.—Dublin Edition, 1734.]
[Footnote 2: Solomon, Proverbs, ch. xxiii, v. 5.]
[Footnote 3: Who, in his early days of empire, having to sign the sentence of a condemned criminal, exclaimed: “Quam vellem nescire litteras!” Suetonius, 10; and Seneca, “De Clementia,”, cited by Montaigne, “De l’inconstance de nos actions.”—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Daniel, ch. v, verses 25, 26, 27, 28.—W. E. B.]
UPON THE HORRID PLOT
DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER’S
FRENCH DOG,[1]
IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY
I ask’d a Whig the other night,
How came this wicked plot to light?
He answer’d, that a dog of late
Inform’d a minister of state.
Said I, from thence I nothing know;
For are not all informers so?
A villain who his friend betrays,
We style him by no other phrase;
And so a perjured dog denotes
Porter, and Pendergast, and Oates,
And forty others I could name.
WHIG. But you must know this dog
was lame.
TORY. A weighty argument indeed!
Your evidence was lame:—proceed:
Come, help your lame dog o’er the stile.
WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this
while:
I mean a dog (without a joke)
Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.
TORY. I’m still to seek, which
dog you mean;
Whether cur Plunkett, or whelp Skean,[2]
An English or an Irish hound;
Or t’other puppy, that was drown’d;
Or Mason, that abandon’d bitch:
Then pray be free, and tell me which:
For every stander-by was marking,
That all the noise they made was barking.
You pay them well, the dogs have got
Their dogs-head in a porridge-pot:
And ’twas but just; for wise men say,
That every dog must have his day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on’t,
He’d either make a hog or dog on’t;
And look’d, since he has got his wish,
As if he had thrown down a dish,
Yet this I dare foretell you from it,
He’ll soon return to his own vomit.
WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was
found
By Neynoe, after he was drown’d.
TORY. Why then the proverb is not
right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
WHIG. I proved my proposition full:
But Jacobites are strangely dull.
Now, let me tell you plainly, sir,
Our witness is a real cur,
A dog of spirit for his years;
Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that’s a name in every plot:
Resolved to save the British nation,
Though French by birth and education;
His correspondence plainly dated,
Was all decipher’d and translated:
His answers were exceeding pretty,
Before the secret wise committee;
Confest as plain as he could bark:
Then with his fore-foot set his mark.
TORY. Then all this while have I
been bubbled,
I thought it was a dog in doublet:
The matter now no longer sticks:
For statesmen never want dog-tricks.
But since it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,
That he’s to have a place at court.
WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow
rich in;
A turnspit in the royal kitchen.
Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occasion for a plot;
And when we found the dog begin it,
We guess’d the bishop’s foot was in it.
TORY. I own it was a dangerous project,
And you have proved it by dog-logic.
Sure such intelligence between
A dog and bishop ne’er was seen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops are all dogs indeed!
[Footnote 1: In Atterbury’s trial a good deal of stress was laid upon the circumstance of a “spotted little dog” called Harlequin being mentioned in the intercepted correspondence. The dog was sent in a present to the bishop from Paris, and its leg was broken by the way. See “State Trials,” xvi, 320 and 376-7.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: John Kelly, and Skin, or Skinner, were persons engaged in the plot. Neynoe, whose declaration was taken before the lords of council, and used in evidence against the bishop, is “t’other puppy that was drown’d,” which was his fate in attempting to escape from the messengers.]
A QUIBBLING ELEGY ON JUDGE BOAT 1723
To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,
Since cruel fate has sunk our Justice Boat;
Why should he sink, where nothing seem’d to
press
His lading little, and his ballast less?
Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world,
At length, his anchor fix’d and canvass furl’d,
To Lazy-hill[1] retiring from his court,
At his Ring’s end[2] he founders in the port.
With water[3] fill’d, he could no longer float,
The common death of many a stronger boat.
A post so fill’d on nature’s laws entrenches:
Benches on boats are placed, not boats on benches.
And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?)
Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot.
With every wind he sail’d, and well could tack:
Had many pendants, but abhorr’d a Jack.[4]
He’s gone, although his friends began to hope,
That he might yet be lifted by a rope.
Behold the awful bench, on which he sat!
He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
Yet when his sand was out, we find at last,
That death has overset him with a blast.
Our Boat is now sail’d to the Stygian ferry,
There to supply old Charon’s leaky wherry;
Charon in him will ferry souls to Hell;
A trade our Boat[5] has practised here so well:
And Cerberus has ready in his paws
Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.
Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
We may place Boat in his old post again.
The way is thus: and well deserves your thanks:
Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen,
Form’d like the triple tree near Stephen’s
Green:[6]
And, when we view it thus with thief at end on’t,
We’ll cry; look, here’s our Boat, and
there’s the pendant.
Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin:
Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing.
A Boat a judge! yes; where’s the blunder?
A wooden judge is no such wonder.
And in his robes you must agree,
No boat was better deckt than he.
’Tis needless to describe him fuller;
In short, he was an able sculler.[7]
[Footnote 1: A street in Dublin, leading to the harbour.]
[Footnote 2: A village near the sea.]
[Footnote 3: It was said he died of a dropsy.]
[Footnote 4: A cant word for a Jacobite.]
[Footnote 5: In condemning malefactors, as a judge.]
[Footnote 6: Where the Dublin gallows stands.]
[Footnote 7: Query, whether the author meant scholar, and wilfully mistook?—Dublin Edition.]
Libertas et natale solum: [2]
Fine words! I wonder where you stole ’em.
Could nothing but thy chief reproach
Serve for a motto on thy coach?
But let me now the words translate:
Natale solum, my estate;
My dear estate, how well I love it,
My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it,
They swear I am so kind and good,
I hug them till I squeeze their blood.
Libertas bears a large import:
First, how to swagger in a court;
And, secondly, to show my fury
Against an uncomplying jury;
And, thirdly, ’tis a new invention,
To favour Wood, and keep my pension;
And, fourthly, ’tis to play an odd trick,
Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;[3]
And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,)
To humble that vexatious Dean:
And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it
For fifty times its worth to Carteret.[4]
Now since your motto thus you construe,
I must confess you’ve spoken once true.
Libertas et natale solum:
You had good reason when you stole ’em.
[Footnote 1: That noted chief-justice who twice prosecuted the Drapier, and dissolved the grand jury for not finding the bill against him.—F.]
[Footnote 2: This motto is repeatedly mentioned in the Drapier’s Letters.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: Allan Broderick, Lord Middleton, was then lord-chancellor of Ireland. See the Drapier’s Letters, “Prose Works,” vi, 135.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.]
PROMETHEUS[1]
ON WOOD THE PATENTEE’S IRISH HALFPENCE[2]
1724
When first the squire and tinker Wood
Gravely consulting Ireland’s good,
Together mingled in a mass
Smith’s dust, and copper, lead, and brass;
The mixture thus by chemic art
United close in ev’ry part,
In fillets roll’d, or cut in pieces,
Appear’d like one continued species;
And, by the forming engine struck,
On all the same impression took.
So, to confound this hated coin,
All parties and religions join;
Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians,
Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians,
Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite,
With equal interest, equal spite
Together mingled in a lump,
Do all in one opinion jump;
And ev’ry one begins to find
The same impression on his mind.
A strange event! whom gold incites
To blood and quarrels, brass unites;
Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me able
Discreetly to apply this fable;
Say, who is to be understood
By that old thief Prometheus?—Wood.
For Jove, it is not hard to guess him;
I mean his majesty, God bless him.
This thief and blacksmith was so bold,
He strove to steal that chain of gold,
Which links the subject to the king,
And change it for a brazen string.
But sure, if nothing else must pass
Betwixt the king and us but brass,
Although the chain will never crack,
Yet our devotion may grow slack.
But Jove will soon convert, I hope,
This brazen chain into a rope;
With which Prometheus shall be tied,
And high in air for ever ride;
Where, if we find his liver grows,
For want of vultures, we have crows.
[Footnote 1: Corrected from Swift’s own MS. notes.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: To understand this and the following poems on Wood and his halfpence, they must be read in connexion with The Drapier’s Letters, “Prose Works,” vol. vi.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Duchess of Kendal.—Scott.]
VERSES ON THE REVIVAL OF THE ORDER OF THE BATH,[1] DURING WALPOLE’S ADMINISTRATION, A. D. 1725
Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too few
Of St. Andrew’s the green, and St. George’s
the blue.
I must find out another of colour more gay,
That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey.
Though the exchequer be drain’d by prodigal
donors,
Yet the king ne’er exhausted his fountain of
honours.
Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit,
And this will fit men of more money than wit.
Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands,
Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as Sandes
And he who’ll leap over a stick for the king,
Is qualified best for a dog in a string.
[Footnote 1: See Gulliver’s Travels, “Prose Works,” ii, 40. Also my “Wit and Wisdom of Lord Chesterfield” and “Life of Lord Chesterfield” for a ballad on the order.—W. E. B.]
Carteret was welcomed to the shore
First with the brazen cannon’s roar;
To meet him next the soldier comes,
With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
Approaching near the town he hears
The brazen bells salute his ears:
But when Wood’s brass began to sound,
Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown’d.
A SIMILE ON OUR WANT OF SILVER, AND THE ONLY WAY TO REMEDY IT. 1725
As when of old some sorceress threw
O’er the moon’s face a sable hue,
To drive unseen her magic chair,
At midnight, through the darken’d air;
Wise people, who believed with reason
That this eclipse was out of season,
Affirm’d the moon was sick, and fell
To cure her by a counter spell.
Ten thousand cymbals now begin,
To rend the skies with brazen din;
The cymbals’ rattling sounds dispel
The cloud, and drive the hag to hell.
The moon, deliver’d from her pain,
Displays her silver face again.
Note here, that in the chemic style,
The moon is silver all this while.
So (if my simile you minded,
Which I confess is too long-winded)
When late a feminine magician,[1]
Join’d with a brazen politician,[2]
Exposed, to blind the nation’s eyes,
A parchment[3] of prodigious size;
Conceal’d behind that ample screen,
There was no silver to be seen.
But to this parchment let the Drapier
Oppose his counter-charm of paper,
And ring Wood’s copper in our ears
So loud till all the nation hears;
That sound will make the parchment shrivel
And drive the conjurors to the Devil;
And when the sky is grown serene,
Our silver will appear again.
[Footnote 1: The Duchess of Kendal, who was to have a share of Wood’s profits.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, nicknamed Sir Robert Brass, vol. i, p. 219.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: The patent for coining halfpence.]
By long observation I have understood,
That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood.
The first is an insect they call a wood-louse,
That folds up itself in itself for a house,
As round as a ball, without head, without tail,
Enclosed cap a pie, in a strong coat of mail.
And thus William Wood to my fancy appears
In fillets of brass roll’d up to his ears;
And over these fillets he wisely has thrown,
To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone.[1]
The louse of the wood for a medicine is used
Or swallow’d alive, or skilfully bruised.
And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive
[Footnote 1: He was in jail for debt.]
[Footnote 2: Counterfeit halfpence.]
Salmoneus,[1] as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad coppersmith of Elis:
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could sleep;
Among a crew of roystering fellows
Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse;
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vapouring scab must needs devise
To ape the thunder of the skies:
With brass two fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clattering as they trod,
Of polish’d brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar;
And up he mounts into the box,
And he must thunder, with a pox.
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o’er a brazen arch;
With squibs and crackers arm’d to throw
Among the trembling crowd below.
All ran to prayers, both priests and laity,
To pacify this angry deity;
When Jove, in pity to the town,
With real thunder knock’d him down.
Then what a huge delight were all in,
To see the wicked varlet sprawling;
They search’d his pockets on the place,
And found his copper all was base;
They laugh’d at such an Irish blunder,
To take the noise of brass for thunder.
The moral of this tale is proper,
Applied to Wood’s adulterate copper:
Which, as he scatter’d, we, like dolts,
Mistook at first for thunderbolts,
Before the Drapier shot a letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)
Which lighting on the impostor’s crown,
Like real thunder knock’d him down.
[Footnote 1: Who imitated lightning with burning
torches and was hurled
into Tartarus by a thunderbolt from Jupiter.—Hyginus,
“Fab.”
“Vidi et crudelis dantem Salmonea
poenas
Dum flammas louis et sonitus imitatur
Olympi.”
VIRG., Aen., vi, 585.
And see the Excursus of Heyne on the passage.—W.
E. B.]
BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG,
SUPPOSED TO BE MADE, AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN,
BY WILLIAM WOOD, IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNY-MONGER.
1725
My dear Irish folks,
Come leave off your jokes,
And buy up my halfpence so fine;
So fair and so bright
They’ll give you delight;
Observe how they glisten and shine!
They’ll sell to my grief
As cheap as neck-beef,
For counters at cards to your wife;
And every day
Your children may play
Span-farthing or toss on the knife.
Come hither and try,
I’ll teach you to buy
A pot of good ale for a farthing;
Come, threepence a score,
I ask you no more,
And a fig for the Drapier and Harding.[1]
When tradesmen have gold,
The thief will be bold,
By day and by night for to rob him:
My copper is such,
No robber will touch,
And so you may daintily bob him.
The little blackguard
Who gets very hard
His halfpence for cleaning your shoes:
When his pockets are cramm’d
With mine, and be d—d,
He may swear he has nothing to lose.
Here’s halfpence in
plenty,
For one you’ll have
twenty,
Though thousands are not worth a pudden.
Your neighbours will think,
When your pocket cries chink.
You are grown plaguy rich on a sudden.
You will be my thankers,
I’ll make you my bankers,
As good as Ben Burton or Fade;[2]
For nothing shall pass
But my pretty brass,
And then you’ll be all of a trade.
I’m a son of a whore
If I have a word more
To say in this wretched condition.
If my coin will not pass,
I must die like an ass;
And so I conclude my petition.
[Footnote 1: The Drapier’s printer.]
[Footnote 2: Two famous bankers.]
Ye people of Ireland, both country and city,
Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty:
At this time I’ll choose to be wiser than witty.
Which
nobody can deny.
The halfpence are coming, the nation’s undoing,
There’s an end of your ploughing, and baking,
and brewing;
In short, you must all go to wreck and to ruin.
Which,
&c.
Both high men and low men, and thick men and tall
men,
And rich men and poor men, and free men and thrall
men,
Will suffer; and this man, and that man, and all men.
Which,
&c.
The soldier is ruin’d, poor man! by his pay;
His fivepence will prove but a farthing a-day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.
Which,
&c.
When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot.
Which,
&c.
If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff,
And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf,
Then dog, rogue, and rascal, and so kick and cuff.
Which,
&c.
Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The butcher and soldier must be mortal foes,
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose.
Which,
&c.
The butcher is stout, and he values no swagger;
A cleaver’s a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger.
Which,
&c.
The beggars themselves will be broke in a trice,
When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price;
When nothing is left they must live on their lice.
Which,
&c.
The squire who has got him twelve thousand a-year,
O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear!
Should he take them, he would not have house-room,
I fear.
Which,
&c.
Though at present he lives in a very large house,
There would then not be room in it left for a mouse;
But the squire is too wise, he will not take a souse.
Which,
&c.
The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash,
For taking these counters and being so rash,
Will be kick’d out of doors, both himself and
his trash.
Which,
&c.
For, in all the leases that ever we hold,
We must pay our rent in good silver and gold,
And not in brass tokens of such a base mould.
Which,
&c.
The wisest of lawyers all swear, they will warrant
No money but silver and gold can be current;
And, since they will swear it, we all may be sure
on’t.
Which,
&c.
And I think, after all, it would be very strange,
To give current money for base in exchange,
Like a fine lady swapping her moles for the mange.
Which,
&c.
But read the king’s patent, and there you will
find,
That no man need take them, but who has a mind,
For which we must say that his Majesty’s kind.
Which,
&c.
Now God bless the Drapier who open’d our eyes!
I’m sure, by his book, that the writer is wise:
He shows us the cheat, from the end to the rise.
Which,
&c.
Nay, farther, he shows it a very hard case,
That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race,
Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place.
Which,
&c.
That he and his halfpence should come to weigh down
Our subjects so loyal and true to the crown:
But I hope, after all, that they will be his own.
Which,
&c.
This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods,
And a very good book ’tis against Mr. Wood’s,
If you stand true together, he’s left in the
suds.
Which,
&c.
Ye shopmen, and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it,
For I think in my soul at this time that you need
it;
Or, egad, if you don’t, there’s an end
of your credit.
Which
nobody can deny.
A SERIOUS POEM
UPON WILLIAM WOOD, BRAZIER, TINKER, HARD-WAREMAN,
COINER, FOUNDER,
AND ESQUIRE
When foes are o’ercome, we preserve them from
slaughter,
To be hewers of wood, and drawers of water.
Now, although to draw water is not very good,
Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood.
I own it has often provoked me to mutter,
That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter;
But ancient philosophers wisely remark,
That old rotten wood will shine in the dark.
The Heathens, we read, had gods made of wood,
Who could do them no harm, if they did them no good;
But this idol Wood may do us great evil,
Their gods were of wood, but our Wood is the devil.
To cut down fine wood is a very bad thing;
And yet we all know much gold it will bring:
Then, if cutting down wood brings money good store
Our money to keep, let us cut down one more.
Now hear an old tale. There anciently
stood
(I forget in what church) an image of wood;
Concerning this image, there went a prediction,
It would burn a whole forest; nor was it a fiction.
’Twas cut into fagots and put to the flame,
To burn an old friar, one Forest by name,
My tale is a wise one, if well understood:
Find you but the Friar; and I’ll find the Wood.
I hear, among scholars there is a great
doubt,
From what kind of tree this Wood was hewn out,
Teague made a good pun by a brogue in his speech:
And said, “By my shoul, he’s the son of
a BEECH.”
Some call him a thorn, the curse of the nation,
As thorns were design’d to be from the creation.
Some think him cut out from the poisonous yew,
Beneath whose ill shade no plant ever grew.
Some say he’s a birch, a thought very odd;
For none but a dunce would come under his rod.
But I’ll tell the secret; and pray do not blab:
He is an old stump, cut out of a crab;
And England has put this crab to a hard use,
To cudgel our bones, and for drink give us ver-juice;
And therefore his witnesses justly may boast,
That none are more properly knights of the post,
But here Mr. Wood complains that we mock,
Though he may be a blockhead, he’s no real block.
He can eat, drink, and sleep; now and then for a friend
He’ll not be too proud an old kettle to mend;
He can lie like a courtier, and think it no scorn,
When gold’s to be got, to forswear and suborn.
He can rap his own raps[1] and has the true sapience,
To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence.
[Footnote 1: Forge his own bad halfpence.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: He was burnt in effigy.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: The place of execution near Dublin.—Scott.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG,
UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS
OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN
AGAINST WOOD’S HALFPENCE
To the tune of “London is a fine town,” &c.
O Dublin is a fine town
And a gallant city,
For Wood’s trash is tumbled down,
Come listen to my ditty,
O Dublin is a fine town, &c.
In full assembly all did meet
Of every corporation,
From every lane and every street,
To save the sinking nation.
O Dublin, &c.
The bankers would not let it pass
For to be Wood’s tellers,
Instead of gold to count his brass,
And fill their small-beer cellars.
O Dublin, &c.
And next to them, to take his coin
The Gild would not submit,
They all did go, and all did join,
And so their names they writ.
O Dublin, &c.
The brewers met within their hall,
And spoke in lofty strains,
These halfpence shall not pass at all,
They want so many grains.
O Dublin, &c.
The tailors came upon this pinch,
And wish’d the dog in hell,
Should we give this same Wood an inch,
We know he’d take an ell.
O Dublin, &c.
But now the noble clothiers
Of honour and renown,
If they take Wood’s halfpence
They will be all cast down.
O Dublin, &c.
The shoemakers came on the next,
And said they would much rather,
Than be by Wood’s copper vext,
Take money stampt on leather.
O Dublin, &c.
The chandlers next in order came,
And what they said was right,
They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme
Would soon be brought to light.
O Dublin, &c.
And that if Wood were now withstood,
To his eternal scandal,
That twenty of these halfpence should
Not buy a farthing candle.
O Dublin, &c.
The butchers then, those men so brave,
Spoke thus, and with a frown;
Should Wood, that cunning scoundrel knave,
Come here, we’d knock him down.
O Dublin, &c.
For any rogue that comes to truck
And trick away our trade,
Deserves not only to be stuck,
But also to be flay’d.
O Dublin, &c.
The bakers in a ferment were,
And wisely shook their head;
Should these brass tokens once come here
We’d all have lost our bread.
O Dublin, &c.
It set the very tinkers mad,
The baseness of the metal,
Because, they said, it was so bad
It would not mend a kettle.
O Dublin, &c.
The carpenters and joiners stood
Confounded in a maze,
They seem’d to be all in a wood,
And so they went their ways.
O Dublin, &c.
This coin how well could we employ it
In raising of a statue,
To those brave men that would destroy it,
And then, old Wood, have at you.
O Dublin, &c.
God prosper long our tradesmen then,
And so he will I hope,
May they be still such honest men,
When Wood has got a rope.
O Dublin is a fine town, &c.
VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE, WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER’S PRINTER
The church I hate, and have good reason,
For there my grandsire cut his weasand:
He cut his weasand at the altar;
I keep my gullet for the halter.
In church your grandsire cut his throat;
To do the job too long he tarried:
He should have had my hearty vote
To cut his throat before he married.
THE JUDGE SPEAKS
I’m not the grandson of that ass Quin;[1]
Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin.
My grandame had gallants by twenties,
And bore my mother by a ’prentice.
This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he
In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy.
And, since the alderman was mad you say,
Then I must be so too, ex traduce.
[Footnote 1: Alderman Quin, the judge’s maternal grandfather, who cut his throat in church.—W. E. B.]
IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN’S VERSES
ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS [1]
What though the Dean hears not the knell
Of the next church’s passing bell;
What though the thunder from a cloud,
Or that from female tongue more loud,
Alarm not; At the Drapier’s ear,
Chink but Wood’s halfpence, and he’ll
hear.
[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 284.]
HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XIV PARAPHRASED AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726
THE INSCRIPTION
Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune’s
waves,
Ordain’d by fate to be the land
of slaves;
Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand;
Thou fix’d of old, be now the moving
land!
Although the metaphor be worn and stale,
Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail;
Let me suppose thee for a ship a while,
And thus address thee in the sailor style.
Unhappy ship, thou art return’d in vain;
New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.[1]
Look to thyself, and be no more the sport
Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port.
Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide,
Like faithful counsellors, on either side.
Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood,
The single pillar for his country’s good,
To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind,
Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind;
Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel
The waves impetuous enter at your keel;
Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke,
When the strong cords of union once are broke.
Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail,
Expanded to invite a milder gale.
As when some writer in a public cause
His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws,
While all is calm, his arguments prevail;
The people’s voice expands his paper sail;
Till power, discharging all her stormy bags,
Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags,
The nation scared, the author doom’d to death,
Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath.
A larger sacrifice in vain you vow;
There’s not a power above will help you now;
A nation thus, who oft Heaven’s call neglects,
In vain from injured Heaven relief expects.
’Twill not avail, when thy strong
sides are broke
That thy descent is from the British oak;
Or, when your name and family you boast,
From fleets triumphant o’er the Gallic coast.
Such was Ierne’s claim, as just as thine,
Her sons descended from the British line;
Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains
On French records for twenty long campaigns;
Yet, from an empress now a captive grown,
She saved Britannia’s rights, and lost her own.
In ships decay’d no mariner confides,
Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides:
Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight
In the gay trappings of a birth-day night:
They on the gold brocades and satins raved,
And quite forgot their country was enslaved.
Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just,
Nor change thy course with every sudden gust;
Like supple patriots of the modern sort,
Who turn with every gale that blows from court.
Weary and sea-sick, when in thee confined,
Now for thy safety cares distract my mind;
As those who long have stood the storms of state
Retire, yet still bemoan their country’s fate.
Beware, and when you hear the surges roar,
Avoid the rocks on Britain’s angry shore.
They lie, alas! too easy to be found;
For thee alone they lie the island round.
[Footnote 1:
“O navis, referent in mare te novi
Fluctus! O quid agis?”]
VERSES
ON THE SUDDEN DRYING UP OF ST. PATRICK’S WELL
NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN. 1726
By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame,
To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came;
What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun,
Had my own native Italy[1] o’errun.
Ierne, to the world’s remotest parts,
Renown’d for valour, policy, and arts.
Hither from Colchos,[2] with the fleecy
ore,
Jason arrived two thousand years before.
Thee, happy island, Pallas call’d her own,
When haughty Britain was a land unknown:[3]
From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace[4]
The glorious founder of their kingly race:
Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise,
Did once their land subdue and civilize;
Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name,
Confess the soil from whence the victors came.
Well may they boast that ancient blood which runs
Within their veins, who are thy younger sons.
A conquest and a colony from thee,
The mother-kingdom left her children free;
From thee no mark of slavery they felt:
Not so with thee thy base invaders dealt;
Invited here to vengeful Morrough’s aid,[5]
Those whom they could not conquer they betray’d.
Britain, by thee we fell, ungrateful isle!
Not by thy valour, but superior guile:
Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine
First taught thee human knowledge and divine;
My prelates and my students, sent from hence,
Made your sons converts both to God and sense:
Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed,
Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed.
Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see
The fatal changes time has made in thee!
The Christian rites I introduced in vain:
Lo! infidelity return’d again!
Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found,
Who now in vice and slavery are drown’d.
By faith and prayer, this crosier in my
hand,
I drove the venom’d serpent from thy land:
The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing,[6]
Nor dread the adder’s tooth, nor scorpion’s
sting.
With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains,
Omens, the types of thy impending chains.
I sent the magpie from the British soil,
With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil;
To din thine ears with unharmonious clack,
And haunt thy holy walls in white and black.
What else are those thou seest in bishop’s gear,
Who crop the nurseries of learning here;
Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate,
Devour the church, and chatter to the state?
As you grew more degenerate and base,
I sent you millions of the croaking race;
Emblems of insects vile, who spread their spawn
Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn;
A nauseous brood, that fills your senate walls,
And in the chambers of your viceroy crawls!
See, where that new devouring vermin runs,
Sent in my anger from the land of Huns!
With harpy-claws it undermines the ground,
And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round.
Th’ amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band,
[Footnote 1: Italy was not properly the native place of St. Patrick, but the place of his education, and whence he received his mission; and because he had his new birth there, by poetical license, and by scripture figure, our author calls that country his native Italy.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 2: Orpheus, or the ancient author of
the Greek poem on the
Argonautic expedition, whoever he be, says, that Jason,
who manned the
ship Argos at Thessaly, sailed to Ireland. And
Adrianus Junius says the
same thing, in these lines:
“Ilia ego sum Graiis, olim glacialis
Ierne
Dicta, et Jasoniae puppis bene cognita
nautis.”—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 3: Tacitus, comparing Ireland to Britain, says of the former: “Melius aditus portusque per commercia et negotiatores cogniti.”—Agricola, xxiv.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Fordun, in his Scoti-Chronicon, Hector Boethius, Buchanan, and all the Scottish historians, agree that Fergus, son of Ferquard, King of Ireland, was the first King of Scotland, which country he subdued.—Scott.]
[Footnote 5: In the reign of Henry II, 1172, Dermot Macmorrogh, King of Leinster, having been expelled from his kingdom by Roderick, King of Connaught, sought and obtained the assistance of the English for the recovery of his dominions. See Hume’s “History of England,” vol. i, p. 380.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 6: There are no snakes, vipers, or toads in Ireland; and even frogs were not known here till about the year 1700. The magpies came a short time before; and the Norway rats since.—Dublin Edition. These plagues are all alluded to in this and the subsequent stanzas.—Scott.]
[Footnote 7: The University of Dublin, called Trinity College, was founded by Queen Elizabeth in 1591.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 8: Wood’s ruinous project against the people of Ireland was supported by Sir Robert Walpole in 1724.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 9: The absentees, who spent the income of their Irish estates, places, and pensions, in England.—Dublin Edition.]
ON READING DR. YOUNG’S SATIRE,
CALLED THE UNIVERSAL PASSION
1726
If there be truth in what you sing,
Such godlike virtues in the king;
A minister[1] so fill’d with zeal
And wisdom for the commonweal;
If he[2] who in the chair presides,
So steadily the senate guides;
If others, whom you make your theme,
Are seconds in the glorious scheme;
If every peer whom you commend,
To worth and learning be a friend;
If this be truth, as you attest,
What land was ever half so blest!
No falsehood now among the great,
And tradesmen now no longer cheat:
Now on the bench fair Justice shines;
Her scale to neither side inclines:
Now Pride and Cruelty are flown,
And Mercy here exalts her throne;
For such is good example’s power,
It does its office every hour,
Where governors are good and wise;
Or else the truest maxim lies:
For so we find all ancient sages
Decree, that, ad exemplum regis,
Through all the realm his virtues run,
Ripening and kindling like the sun.
If this be true, then how much more
When you have named at least a score
Of courtiers, each in their degree,
If possible, as good as he?
Or take it in a different view.
I ask (if what you say be true)
If you affirm the present age
Deserves your satire’s keenest rage;
If that same universal passion
With every vice has fill’d the nation:
If virtue dares not venture down
A single step beneath the crown:
If clergymen, to show their wit,
Praise classics more than holy writ:
If bankrupts, when they are undone,
Into the senate-house can run,
And sell their votes at such a rate,
As will retrieve a lost estate:
If law be such a partial whore,
To spare the rich, and plague the poor:
If these be of all crimes the worst,
What land was ever half so curst?
[Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford. Young’s seventh satire is inscribed to him.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Spencer Compton, then Speaker, afterwards Earl of Wilmington, to whom the eighth satire is dedicated. See vol. i, 219.—W. E. B.]
Quoth the thief to the dog, let me into your door
And I’ll give you these delicate
bits.
Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you’re,
And besides must be out of my wits.
Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal,
But my master each day gives me bread;
You’ll fly, when you get what you came here
to steal,
And I must be hang’d in your stead.
The stockjobber thus from ’Change Alley goes
down,
And tips you the freeman a wink;
Let me have but your vote to serve for the town,
And here is a guinea to drink.
Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent!
Your offers of bribery cease:
I’ll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent,
Or else I may forfeit my lease.
From London they come, silly people to chouse,
Their lands and their faces unknown:
Who’d vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
That would turn a man out of his own?
A DIALOGUE[1] BETWEEN MAD MULLINIX AND TIMOTHY 1728
M.
I own, ’tis not my bread and butter,
But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter?
Why ever in these raging fits,
Damning to hell the Jacobites?
When if you search the kingdom round,
There’s hardly twenty to be found;
No, not among the priests and friars——
T. ’Twixt you and me,
G—d d—n the liars!
M. The Tories are gone every
man over
To our illustrious house of Hanover;
From all their conduct this is plain;
And then——
T. G—d d—n
the liars again!
Did not an earl but lately vote,
To bring in (I could cut his throat)
Our whole accounts of public debts?
M. Lord, how this frothy coxcomb
frets! [Aside.
T. Did not an able statesman
bishop
This dangerous horrid motion dish up
As Popish craft? did he not rail on’t?
Show fire and fagot in the tail on’t?
Proving the earl a grand offender;
And in a plot for the Pretender;
Whose fleet, ‘tis all our friends’ opinion,
Was then embarking at Avignon?
M. These wrangling jars of
Whig and Tory,
Are stale and worn as Troy-town story:
The wrong, ’tis certain, you were both in,
And now you find you fought for nothing.
Your faction, when their game was new,
Might want such noisy fools as you;
But you, when all the show is past,
Resolve to stand it out the last;
Like Martin Marall,[2] gaping on,
Not minding when the song is done.
[Footnote 1: This is a severe satire upon Richard Tighe, Esq., whom the Dean regarded as the officious informer against Sheridan, in the matter of the choice of a text for the accession of George I, Swift had faithfully promised to revenge the cause of his friend, and has certainly fully redeemed his pledge, in this and the following pasquinades. Mad Mullinix, or Molyneux, was a sort of crazy beggar, a Tory politician in His madness, who haunted the streets of Dublin about this time. In a paper subscribed Dr. Anthony, apparently a mountebank of somewhat the same description, the doctor is made to vindicate his loyalty and regard for the present constitution in church and state, by declaring that he always acted contrary to the politics of Captain John Molyneux. The immediate occasion for publication is assigned in the Intelligencer, in which paper the dialogue first appeared.—Scott.
“Having lately had an account, that a certain person of some distinction swore in a public coffee-house, that party should never die while he lived, (although it has been the endeavour of the best and wisest among us, to abolish the ridiculous appellations of Whig and Tory, and entirely to turn our thoughts to the good of our prince and constitution in church and state,) I hope those who are well-wishers to our country, will think my labour not ill-bestowed, in giving this gentleman’s principles the proper embellishments which they deserve; and since Mad Mullinix is the only Tory now remaining, who dares own himself to be so, I hope I may not be censured by those of his party, for making him hold a dialogue with one of less consequence on the other side. I shall not venture so far as to give the Christian nick-name of the person chiefly concerned, lest I should give offence, for which reason I shall call him Timothy, and leave the rest to the conjecture of the world.”—Intelligencer, No. viii. See an account of this paper in “Prose Works,” ix, 311.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: “Sir Martin Marall,” one of Dryden’s most successful comedies. See Malone’s “Life of Dryden,” p. 93.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: “Ilias,” lib. ii, 211, seq.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: To reach at vomiting.]
[Footnote 5: King William III.]
[Footnote 6: Old word for a puppet-show.—Scott.]
MY meaning will be best unravell’d,
When I premise that Tim has travell’d.
In Lucas’s by chance there lay
The Fables writ by Mr. Gay.
Tim set the volume on a table,
Read over here and there a fable:
And found, as he the pages twirl’d,
The monkey who had seen the world;
(For Tonson had, to help the sale,
Prefix’d a cut to every tale.)
The monkey was completely drest,
The beau in all his airs exprest.
Tim, with surprise and pleasure staring,
Ran to the glass, and then comparing
His own sweet figure with the print,
Distinguish’d every feature in’t,
The twist, the squeeze, the rump, the fidge in all,
Just as they look’d in the original.
“By —,” says Tim, and let a
f—t,
“This graver understood his art.
’Tis a true copy, I’ll say that for’t;
I well remember when I sat for’t.
My very face, at first I knew it;
Just in this dress the painter drew it.”
Tim, with his likeness deeply smitten,
Would read what underneath was written,
The merry tale, with moral grave;
He now began to storm and rave:
“The cursed villain! now I see
This was a libel meant at me:
These scribblers grow so bold of late
Against us ministers of state!
Such Jacobites as he deserve—
D—n me! I say they ought to starve.”
Tim[2] and Dick had equal fame,
And both had equal knowledge;
Tom could write and spell his name,
But Dick had seen the college.
Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad,
And both alike diverting;
Tom was held the merrier lad,
But Dick the best at farting.
Dick would cock his nose in scorn,
But Tom was kind and loving;
Tom a footboy bred and born,
But Dick was from an oven.[3]
Dick could neatly dance a jig,
But Tom was best at borees;
Tom would pray for every Whig,
And Dick curse all the Tories.
Dick would make a woful noise,
And scold at an election;
Tom huzza’d the blackguard boys,
And held them in subjection.
Tom could move with lordly grace,
Dick nimbly skipt the gutter;
Tom could talk with solemn face,
But Dick could better sputter.
Dick was come to high renown
Since he commenced physician;
Tom was held by all the town
The deeper politician.
Tom had the genteeler swing,
His hat could nicely put on;
Dick knew better how to swing
His cane upon a button.
Dick for repartee was fit,
And Tom for deep discerning;
Dick was thought the brighter wit,
But Tom had better learning.
Dick with zealous noes and ayes
Could roar as loud as Stentor,
In the house ’tis all he says;
But Tom is eloquenter.
[Footnote 1: This satire is a parody on a song then fashionable.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See post, “The Legion Club.”]
[Footnote 3: Tighe’s ancestor was a contractor for furnishing the Parliament forces with bread during the civil wars. Hence Swift calls him Elsewhere Pistorides. See “Prose Works,” vii, 233; and in “The Legion Club,” Dick Fitzbaker.—W.E.B.]
As when, from rooting in a bin,
All powder’d o’er from tail to chin,
A lively maggot sallies out,
You know him by his hazel snout:
So when the grandson of his grandsire
Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
With powder’d rump and back and side,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
For ’tis beyond the power of meal
The gipsy visage to conceal;
For as he shakes his wainscot chops,
Down every mealy atom drops,
And leaves the tartar phiz in show,
Like a fresh t—d just dropp’d on
snow.
TO DICK[1]
Foulest brute that stinks below,
Why in this brown dost thou
appear?
For wouldst thou make a fouler show,
Thou must go naked all the
year.
Fresh from the mud, a wallowing sow
Would then be not so brown as thou.
’Tis not the coat that looks so
dun,
His hide emits a foulness
out;
Not one jot better looks the sun
Seen from behind a dirty clout.
So t—ds within a glass enclose,
The glass will seem as brown as those.
Thou now one heap of foulness art,
All outward and within is
foul;
Condensed filth in every part,
Thy body’s clothed like
thy soul:
Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff
Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff.
Old carted bawds such garments wear,
When pelted all with dirt
they shine;
Such their exalted bodies are,
As shrivell’d and as
black as thine.
If thou wert in a cart, I fear
Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they’re.
Yet, when we see thee thus array’d,
The neighbours think it is
but just,
That thou shouldst take an honest trade,
And weekly carry out the dust.
Of cleanly houses who will doubt,
When Dick cries “Dust to carry out!”
[Footnote 1: This is a parody on the tenth poem of Cowley’s “Mistress,” entitled, “Clad all in White.”—Scott.]
Dull uniformity in fools
I hate, who gape and sneer by rules;
You, Mullinix, and slobbering C——
Who every day and hour the same are
That vulgar talent I despise
Of pissing in the rabble’s eyes.
And when I listen to the noise
Of idiots roaring to the boys;
To better judgment still submitting,
I own I see but little wit in:
Such pastimes, when our taste is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
[Footnote 1: “Dick Tighe and his wife lodged over against us; and he has been seen, out of our upper windows, beating her two or three times; ... I am told she is the most urging, provoking devil that ever was born; and he a hot whiffling puppy, very apt to resent.”—Journal to Stella, “Prose Works,” ii, 229.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Farquhar, who inscribed his play of the “Inconstant” to Richard Tighe, has painted him in very different colours from those of the Dean’s satirical pencil. Yet there may be discerned, even in that dedication, the oulines of a light mercurial character, capable of being represented as a coxcomb or fine gentleman, as should suit the purpose of the writer who was disposed to immortalize him.—Scott.]
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN[1] 1730
Tom.
Say, Robin, what can Traulus[2] mean
By bellowing thus against the Dean?
Why does he call him paltry scribbler,
Papist, and Jacobite, and libeller,
Yet cannot prove a single fact?
Robin. Forgive him, Tom: his head is crackt.
T. What mischief can the Dean have done
him,
That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?
Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it
In vain against the people’s favourite?
Revile that nation-saving paper,
Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?
R. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain; Party and spleen have turn’d his brain.
T. Such friendship never man profess’d,
The Dean was never so caress’d;
For Traulus long his rancour nursed,
Till, God knows why, at last it burst.
That clumsy outside of a porter,
How could it thus conceal a courtier?
R. I own, appearances are bad; Yet still insist the man is mad.
T. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows
How to distinguish friends from foes;
And though perhaps among the rout
He wildly flings his filth about,
He still has gratitude and sap’ence,
To spare the folks that give him ha’pence;
Nor in their eyes at random pisses,
But turns aside, like mad Ulysses;
While Traulus all his ordure scatters
To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
Whence comes these inconsistent fits?
R. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits.
T, Agreed: and yet, when Towzer snaps
At people’s heels, with frothy chaps,
Hangs down his head, and drops his tail,
To say he’s mad will not avail;
The neighbours all cry, “Shoot him dead,
Hang, drown, or knock him on the head.”
So Traulus, when he first harangued,
I wonder why he was not hang’d;
For of the two, without dispute,
Towzer’s the less offensive brute.
R, Tom, you mistake the matter quite;
Your barking curs will seldom bite
And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter,
He barks as fast as he can utter.
He prates in spite of all impediment,
While none believes that what he said he meant;
Puts in his finger and his thumb
To grope for words, and out they come.
He calls you rogue; there’s nothing in it,
He fawns upon you in a minute:
“Begs leave to rail, but, d—n his
blood!
He only meant it for your good:
His friendship was exactly timed,
He shot before your foes were primed:
By this contrivance, Mr. Dean,
By G—! I’ll bring you off as clean—“[3]
Then let him use you e’er so rough,
“’Twas all for love,” and that’s
enough.
But, though he sputter through a session,
It never makes the least impression:
Whate’er he speaks for madness goes,
With no effect on friends or foes.
T. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack
Can set the mastiff on your back.
I own, his madness is a jest,
If that were all. But he’s possest
Incarnate with a thousand imps,
To work whose ends his madness pimps;
Who o’er each string and wire preside,
Fill every pipe, each motion guide;
Directing every vice we find
In Scripture to the devil assign’d;
Sent from the dark infernal region,
In him they lodge, and make him legion.
Of brethren he’s a false accuser;
A slanderer, traitor, and seducer;
A fawning, base, trepanning liar;
The marks peculiar of his sire.
Or, grant him but a drone at best;
A drone can raise a hornet’s nest.
The Dean had felt their stings before;
And must their malice ne’er give o’er?
Still swarm and buzz about his nose?
But Ireland’s friends ne’er wanted foes.
A patriot is a dangerous post,
When wanted by his country most;
Perversely comes in evil times,
Where virtues are imputed crimes.
His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant;
A traitor to the vices regnant.
What spirit, since the world began,
Could always bear to strive with man?
Which God pronounced he never would,
And soon convinced them by a flood.
Yet still the Dean on freedom raves;
His spirit always strives with slaves.
’Tis time at last to spare his ink,
And let them rot, or hang, or sink.
[Footnote 1: Son of Dr. Charles Leslie.—Scott.]
[Footnote 4: Joshua, Lord Allen. For particulars of the satire upon this individual, see “Advertisement by Swift in his defence against Joshua, Lord Allen,” “Prose Works,” vii, 168-175, and notes.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: This is the usual excuse of Traulus, when he abuses you to others without provocation.—Swift.]
TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mongrel seed;
By the dam from lordlings sprung.
By the sire exhaled from dung:
Think on every vice in both,
Look on him, and see their growth.
View him on the mother’s side,[2]
Fill’d with falsehood, spleen, and pride;
Positive and overbearing,
Changing still, and still adhering;
Spiteful, peevish, rude, untoward,
Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward;
When his friends he most is hard on,
Cringing comes to beg their pardon;
Reputation ever tearing,
Ever dearest friendship swearing;
Judgment weak, and passion strong,
Always various, always wrong;
Provocation never waits,
Where he loves, or where he hates;
Talks whate’er comes in his head;
Wishes it were all unsaid.
Let me now the vices trace,
From the father’s scoundrel race.
Who could give the looby such airs?
Were they masons, were they butchers?
Herald, lend the Muse an answer
From his atavus and grandsire:[1]
This was dexterous at his trowel,
That was bred to kill a cow well:
Hence the greasy clumsy mien
In his dress and figure seen;
Hence the mean and sordid soul,
Like his body, rank and foul;
Hence that wild suspicious peep,
Like a rogue that steals a sheep;
Hence he learnt the butcher’s guile,
How to cut your throat and smile;
Like a butcher, doom’d for life
In his mouth to wear a knife:
Hence he draws his daily food
From his tenants’ vital blood.
Lastly, let his gifts be tried,
Borrow’d from the mason’s side:
Some perhaps may think him able
In the state to build a Babel;
Could we place him in a station
To destroy the old foundation.
True indeed I should be gladder
Could he learn to mount a ladder:
May he at his latter end
Mount alive and dead descend!
In him tell me which prevail,
Female vices most, or male?
What produced him, can you tell?
Human race, or imps of Hell?
[Footnote 1: The mother of Lord Alen was sister to Robert, Earl of Kildare.—Scott]
[Footnote 2: John, Lord Allen, father of Joshua, the Traulus of the satire, was son of Sir Joshua Allen, Lord Mayor of Dublin in 1673, and grandson of John Allen, an architect in great esteem in the reign of Queen Elizabeth._Scott_]
A FABLE OF THE LION AND OTHER BEASTS
One time a mighty plague did pester
All beasts domestic and sylvester,
The doctors all in concert join’d,
To see if they the cause could find;
And tried a world of remedies,
But none could conquer the disease.
The lion in this consternation.
Sends out his royal proclamation,
To all his loving subjects greeting,
Appointing them a solemn meeting:
And when they’re gather’d round his den,
He spoke,—My lords and gentlemen,
I hope you’re met full of the sense
Of this devouring pestilence;
For sure such heavy punishment,
On common crimes is rarely sent;
It must be some important cause,
Some great infraction of the laws.
Then let us search our consciences,
And every one his faults confess:
Let’s judge from biggest to the least
That he that is the foulest beast,
May for a sacrifice be given
To stop the wrath of angry Heaven.
And since no one is free from sin,
I with myself will first begin.
I have done many a thing that’s ill
From a propensity to kill,
Slain many an ox, and, what is worse,
Have murder’d many a gallant horse;
Robb’d woods and fens, and, like a glutton,
Devour’d whole flocks of lamb and mutton;
Nay sometimes, for I dare not lie,
The shepherd went for company.—
He had gone on, but Chancellor Fox
Stands up——What signifies an ox?
What signifies a horse? Such things
Are honour’d when made sport for kings.
Then for the sheep, those foolish cattle,
Not fit for courage, or for battle;
And being tolerable meat,
They’re good for nothing but to eat.
The shepherd too, young enemy,
Deserves no better destiny.
Sir, sir, your conscience is too nice,
Hunting’s a princely exercise:
And those being all your subjects born,
Just when you please are to be torn.
And, sir, if this will not content ye,
We’ll vote it nemine contradicente.
Thus after him they all confess,
They had been rogues, some more some less;
And yet by little slight excuses,
They all get clear of great abuses.
The Bear, the Tiger, beasts of flight,
And all that could but scratch and bite,
Nay e’en the Cat, of wicked nature,
That kills in sport her fellow-creature,
Went scot-free; but his gravity,
An ass of stupid memory,
Confess’d, as he went to a fair,
His back half broke with wooden-ware,
Chancing unluckily to pass
By a church-yard full of good grass,
Finding they’d open left the gate,
He ventured in, stoop’d down and ate
Hold, says Judge Wolf, such are the crimes
Have brought upon us these sad times,
’Twas sacrilege, and this vile ass
Shall die for eating holy grass.
Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe
A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe;
And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell?
Why truly ’tis Satan, Archbishop of Hell.
And He was a primate, and He wore a mitre,
Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre.
How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles!
But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles,
Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny,
You’d swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:[2]
Poor Satan will think the comparison odious,
I wish I could find him out one more commodious;
But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon
Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan;
And all men believe he resides there incog,
To give them by turns an invisible jog.
Our bishops, puft up with wealth and with pride,
To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride.
They mounted and labour’d with whip and with
spur
In vain—for the devil a parson would stir.
So the commons unhors’d them; and this was their
doom,
On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom.
Though they gallop’d so fast, on the road you
may find ’em,
And have left us but three out of twenty behind ’em.
Lord Bolton’s good grace, Lord Carr and Lord
Howard,[3]
In spite of the devil would still be untoward:
They came of good kindred, and could not endure
Their former companions should beg at their door.
When Christ was betray’d to Pilate
the pretor
Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor:
One traitor alone, and faithful eleven;
But we can afford you six traitors in seven.
What a clutter with clippings, dividings,
and cleavings!
And the clergy forsooth must take up with their leavings;
If making divisions was all their intent,
They’ve done it, we thank them, but not as they
meant;
And so may such bishops for ever divide,
That no honest heathen would be on their side.
How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first,
Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst!
Now hear an allusion:—A mitre,
you know,
Is divided above, but united below.
If this you consider our emblem is right;
The bishops divide, but the clergy unite.
Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread
That the mitre would never stick fast on their head:
And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign,
As Machiavel taught them, “divide and ye govern.”
But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said
That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head;
I’ll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see’t)
If your stockings were off, you could show cloven
feet.
But hold, cry the bishops, and give us
fair play;
Before you condemn us, hear what we can say.
What truer affections could ever be shown,
Than saving your souls by damning our own?
And have we not practised all methods to gain you;
With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain
you;
Provided a fund for building you spittals!
You are only to live four years without victuals.
Content, my good lords; but let us change hands;
First take you our tithes, and give us your lands.
So God bless the Church and three of our mitres;
And God bless the Commons, for biting the biters.
[Footnote 1: Occasioned by two bills; a Bill of Residence to compel the clergy to reside on their livings, and a Bill of Division, to divide the church livings. See Considerations upon two Bills, “Prose Works,” iii, and Swift’s letter to the Bishop of Clogher, July, 1733, in which he describes “those two abominable bills for enslaving and beggaring the clergy.” Edit. Scott, xviii, p. 147. The bills were passed by the House of Lords, but rejected by the Commons. See note, next page.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, who promoted the Bills. See “Prose Works,” xii, p.26.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Theophilus Bolton, Archbishop of Cashel from 1729 to 1744; Charles Carr, Bishop of Killaloe from 1716 to 1739; and Robert Howard, Bishop of Elphin from 1729 to 1740, who voted against the bills on a division.—W. E. B.]
ADDRESSED TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ.[1]
LATE LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN
PATRON of the tuneful throng,
O! too nice, and too severe!
Think not, that my country song
Shall displease thy honest ear.
Chosen strains I proudly bring,
Which the Muses’ sacred choir,
When they gods and heroes sing,
Dictate to th’ harmonious lyre.
Ancient Homer, princely bard!
Just precedence still maintains,
With sacred rapture still are heard
Theban Pindar’s lofty strains.
Still the old triumphant song,
Which, when hated tyrants fell,
Great Alcaeus boldly sung,
Warns, instructs, and pleases well.
Nor has Time’s all-darkening shade
In obscure oblivion press’d
What Anacreon laugh’d and play’d;
Gay Anacreon, drunken priest!
Gentle Sappho, love-sick muse,
Warms the heart with amorous fire;
Still her tenderest notes infuse
Melting rapture, soft desire.
Beauteous Helen, young and gay,
By a painted fopling won,
Went not first, fair nymph, astray,
Fondly pleased to be undone.
Nor young Teucer’s slaughtering bow,
Nor bold Hector’s dreadful sword,
Alone the terrors of the foe,
Sow’d the field with hostile blood.
Many valiant chiefs of old
Greatly lived and died before
Agamemnon, Grecian bold,
Waged the ten years’ famous war.
But their names, unsung, unwept,
Unrecorded, lost and gone,
Long in endless night have slept,
And shall now no more be known.
Virtue, which the poet’s care
Has not well consign’d to fame,
Lies, as in the sepulchre
Some old king, without a name.
But, O Humphry, great and free,
While my tuneful songs are read,
Old forgetful Time on thee
Dark oblivion ne’er shall spread.
When the deep cut notes shall fade
On the mouldering Parian stone,
On the brass no more be read
The perishing inscription;
Forgotten all the enemies,
[Footnote 1: Elected M. P. for Dublin, by the interest of Swift, in the name of the Drapier. See Advice to the Freemen of the City of Dublin, etc., “Prose Works,” vii, 310.—W. E. B.]
SIR ROBERT,[2] wearied by Will Pulteney’s teasings,
Who interrupted him in all his leasings,
Resolved that Will and he should meet no more,
Full in his face Bob shuts the council door;
Nor lets him sit as justice on the bench,
To punish thieves, or lash a suburb wench.
Yet still St. Stephen’s chapel open lies
For Will to enter—What shall I advise?
Ev’n quit the house, for thou too long hast
sat in’t,
Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent;
There near thy master’s throne in shelter placed,
Let Will, unheard by thee, his thunder waste;
Yet still I fear your work is done but half,
For while he keeps his pen you are not safe.
Hear an old fable, and a dull one too;
It bears a moral when applied to you.
A hare had long escaped pursuing hounds,
By often shifting into distant grounds;
Till, finding all his artifices vain,
To save his life he leap’d into the main.
But there, alas! he could no safety find,
A pack of dogfish had him in the wind.
He scours away; and, to avoid the foe,
Descends for shelter to the shades below:
There Cerberus lay watching in his den,
(He had not seen a hare the lord knows when.)
Out bounced the mastiff of the triple head;
Away the hare with double swiftness fled;
Hunted from earth, and sea, and hell, he flies
(Fear lent him wings) for safety to the skies.
How was the fearful animal distrest!
Behold a foe more fierce than all the rest:
Sirius, the swiftest of the heavenly pack,
Fail’d but an inch to seize him by the back.
He fled to earth, but first it cost him dear;
He left his scut behind, and half an ear.
[Footnote 1: Right Honourable William Pulteney, afterwards Earl of Bath.]
[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, at that time Prime Minister, afterwards first Earl of Orford.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: This hunting ended in the promotion of Will and Bob. Bob was no longer first minister, but Earl of Orford; and Will was no longer his opponent, but Earl of Bath.—H.]
ON THE WORDS BROTHER PROTESTANTS AND FELLOW CHRISTIANS, SO FAMILIARLY USED BY THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REPEAL OF THE TEST-ACT IN IRELAND 1733
AN inundation, says the fable,
Overflow’d a farmer’s barn and stable;
Whole ricks of hay and stacks of corn
Were down the sudden current borne;
While things of heterogeneous kind
Together float with tide and wind.
The generous wheat forgot its pride,
And sail’d with litter side by side;
Uniting all, to show their amity,
As in a general calamity.
A ball of new-dropp’d horse’s dung,
Mingling with apples in the throng,
Said to the pippin plump and prim,
“See, brother, how we apples swim.”
Thus Lamb, renown’d for cutting
corns,
An offer’d fee from Radcliff scorns,
“Not for the world—we doctors, brother,
Must take no fees of one another.”
Thus to a dean some curate sloven
Subscribes, “Dear sir, your brother loving.”
Thus all the footmen, shoeboys, porters,
About St. James’s, cry, “We courtiers.”
Thus Horace in the house will prate,
“Sir, we, the ministers of state.”
Thus at the bar the booby Bettesworth,[1]
Though half a crown o’erpays his sweat’s
worth;
Who knows in law nor text nor margent,
Calls Singleton[2] his brother sergeant.
And thus fanatic saints, though neither in
Doctrine nor discipline our brethren,
Are brother Protestants and Christians,
As much as Hebrews and Philistines:
But in no other sense, than nature
Has made a rat our fellow-creature.
Lice from your body suck their food;
But is a louse your flesh and blood?
Though born of human filth and sweat, it
As well may say man did beget it.
And maggots in your nose and chin
As well may claim you for their kin.
Yet critics may object, why not?
Since lice are brethren to a Scot:
Which made our swarm of sects determine
Employments for their brother vermin.
But be they English, Irish, Scottish,
What Protestant can be so sottish,
While o’er the church these clouds are gathering
To call a swarm of lice his brethren?
As Moses, by divine advice,
[Footnote 1: These lines were the cause of the personal attack upon the Dean. See “Prose Works,” iv, pp. 27,261. _—W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Henry Singleton, Esq., then prime sergeant, afterwards lord-chief-justice of the common pleas, which he resigned, and was some time after made master of the rolls.—F.]
UPON HEARING THAT HIS NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED TO
POSTERITY
IN DR. SWIFT’S WORKS.
BY WILLIAM DUNKIN
Well! now, since the heat of my passion’s abated,
That the Dean hath lampoon’d me, my mind is
elated:—
Lampoon’d did I call it?—No—what
was it then?
What was it?—’Twas fame to be lash’d
by his pen:
For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till
E’en doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile;
Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious,
Obscure, and unheard of—but now I’m
notorious:
Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one;
The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one:
If the end be obtain’d ’tis equal what
portal
I enter, since I’m to be render’d immortal:
So clysters applied to the anus, ’tis said,
By skilful physicians, give ease to the head—
Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard,
A man is a man, though he should be a bastard.
Why sure ’tis some comfort that heroes should
slay us,
If I fall, I would fall by the hand of AEneas;
And who by the Drapier would not rather damn’d
be,
Than demigoddized by madrigal Namby?[1]
A man is no more who has once lost his
breath;
But poets convince us there’s life after death.
They call from their graves the king, or the peasant;
Re-act our old deeds, and make what’s past present:
And when they would study to set forth alike,
So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike,
Whatever the subject be, coward or hero,
A tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero;
To a judge ’tis all one which he fixes his eye
on,
And a well-painted monkey’s as good as a lion.
[Footnote 1: Ambrose Philips. See ante, vol. i, p. 288.—W. E. B.]
The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth,
For indeed I ne’er read them, to speak for once
truth)
That death is the wages of sin, but the just
Shall die not, although they be laid in the dust.
They say so; so be it, I care not a straw,
Although I be dead both in gospel and law;
In verse I shall live, and be read in each climate;
What more can be said of prime sergeant or primate?
While Carter and Prendergast both may be rotten,
And damn’d to the bargain, and yet be forgotten.
AN EPIGRAM INSCRIBED TO THE HONOURABLE SERGEANT KITE
In your indignation what mercy appears,
While Jonathan’s threaten’d with loss
of his ears;
For who would not think it a much better choice,
By your knife to be mangled than rack’d with
your voice.
If truly you [would] be revenged on the parson,
Command his attendance while you act your farce on;
Instead of your maiming, your shooting, or banging,
Bid Povey[1] secure him while you are haranguing.
Had this been your method to torture him, long since,
He had cut his own ears to be deaf to your nonsense.
[Footnote 1: Povey was sergeant-at-arms to the House of Commons.—Scott.]
THE YAHOO’S OVERTHROW, OR, THE KEVAN BAYL’S NEW BALLAD, UPON SERGEANT KITE’S INSULTING THE DEAN [1]
To the Tune of “Derry Down.”
Jolly boys of St. Kevan’s,[2] St.
Patrick’s, Donore
And Smithfield, I’ll tell you, if not told before,
How Bettesworth, that booby, and scoundrel in grain,
Has insulted us all by insulting the Dean.
Knock him down, down, down,
knock him down.
The Dean and his merits we every one know,
But this skip of a lawyer, where the de’il did
he grow?
How greater his merit at Four Courts or House,
Than the barking of Towzer, or leap of a louse!
Knock him down, etc.
That he came from the Temple, his morals
do show;
But where his deep law is, few mortals yet know:
His rhetoric, bombast, silly jests, are by far
More like to lampooning, than pleading at bar.
Knock him down, etc.
This pedler, at speaking and making of
laws,
Has met with returns of all sorts but applause;
Has, with noise and odd gestures, been prating some
years,
What honester folk never durst for their ears.
Knock him down, etc.
Of all sizes and sorts, the fanatical
crew
Are his brother Protestants, good men and true;
Red hat, and blue bonnet, and turban’s the same,
What the de’il is’t to him whence the
devil they came.
Knock him down, etc.
Hobbes, Tindal, and Woolston, and Collins,
and Nayler,
And Muggleton, Toland, and Bradley the tailor,
Are Christians alike; and it may be averr’d,
He’s a Christian as good as the rest of the
herd.
Knock him down, etc.
He only the rights of the clergy debates;
Their rights! their importance! We’ll set
on new rates
On their tithes at half-nothing, their priesthood
at less;
What’s next to be voted with ease you may guess.
Knock him down, etc.
At length his old master, (I need not
him name,)
To this damnable speaker had long owed a shame;
When his speech came abroad, he paid him off clean,
By leaving him under the pen of the Dean.
Knock him down, etc.
He kindled, as if the whole satire had
been
The oppression of virtue, not wages of sin:
He began, as he bragg’d, with a rant and a roar;
He bragg’d how he bounced, and he swore how
he swore.[3]
Knock him down, etc.
Though he cringed to his deanship in very
low strains,
To others he boasted of knocking out brains,
And slitting of noses, and cropping of ears,
While his own ass’s zags were more fit for the
shears.
Knock him down, etc.
On this worrier of deans whene’er
we can hit,
We’ll show him the way how to crop and to slit;
We’ll teach him some better address to afford
To the dean of all deans, though he wears not a sword.
Knock him down, etc.
We’ll colt him through Kevan, St.
Patrick’s, Donore,
And Smithfield, as rap was ne’er colted before;
We’ll oil him with kennel, and powder him with
grains,
A modus right fit for insulters of deans.
Knock him down, etc.
And, when this is over, we’ll make
him amends,
To the Dean he shall go; they shall kiss and be friends:
But how? Why, the Dean shall to him disclose
A face for to kiss, without eyes, ears, or nose.
Knock him down, etc.
If you say this is hard on a man that
is reckon’d
That sergeant-at-law whom we call Kite the Second,
You mistake; for a slave, who will coax his superiors,
May be proud to be licking a great man’s posteriors.
Knock him down, etc.
What care we how high runs his passion
or pride?
Though his soul he despises, he values his hide;
Then fear not his tongue, or his sword, or his knife;
He’ll take his revenge on his innocent wife.
Knock him down, down, down,
keep him down.
[Footnote 1: GRUB STREET JOURNAL, No. 189, August 9,1734.—“In December last, Mr. Bettesworth, of the city of Dublin, serjeant-at-law, and member of parliament, openly swore, before many hundreds of people, that, upon the first opportunity, by the help of ruffians, he would murder or maim the Dean of St. Patrick’s, (Dr. Swift.) Upon which thirty-one of the principal inhabitants of that liberty signed a paper to this effect: ’That, out of their great love and respect to the Dean, to whom the whole kingdom hath so many obligations, they would endeavour to defend the life and limbs of the said Dean against a certain man and all his ruffians and murderers.’
[Footnote 2: Kevan Bayl was a cant term for the rabble of this district of Dublin.]
[Footnote 3: Swift, in a letter to the Duke of Dorset, January, 1733-4, gives a full account of Bettesworth’s visit to him, about which he says that the serjeant had spread some five hundred falsehoods.—W. E. B.]
Dear Dick, pr’ythee tell by what passion you
move?
The world is in doubt whether hatred or love;
And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,
They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite.
You certainly know, though so loudly you vapour,
His spite cannot wound who attempted the Drapier.
Then, pr’ythee, reflect, take a word of advice;
And, as your old wont is, change sides in a trice:
On his virtues hold forth; ’tis the very best
way;
And say of the man what all honest men say.
But if, still obdurate, your anger remains,
If still your foul bosom more rancour contains,
Say then more than they, nay, lavishly flatter;
Tis your gross panegyrics alone can bespatter;
For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak plain,
Like very foul mops, dirty more than they clean.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Theophilus Bolton, a particular friend of the Dean.—Scott.]
Ye paltry underlings of state,
Ye senators who love to prate;
Ye rascals of inferior note,
Who, for a dinner, sell a vote;
Ye pack of pensionary peers,
Whose fingers itch for poets’ ears;
Ye bishops, far removed from saints,
Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This summoning of blackguard boys?
Why so sagacious in your guesses?
Your effs, and tees, and arrs,
and esses!
Take my advice; to make you safe,
I know a shorter way by half.
The point is plain; remove the cause;
Defend your liberties and laws.
Be sometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely despise champagne at court,
And choose to dine at home with port:
Let prelates, by their good behaviour,
Convince us they believe a Saviour;
Nor sell what they so dearly bought,
This country, now their own, for nought.
Ne’er did a true satiric muse
Virtue or innocence abuse;
And ’tis against poetic rules
To rail at men by nature fools:
But * * *
* * * *
[Footnote 1: In the Dublin Edition, 1729—Scott.]
HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT. VI, PARAPHRASED 1733
If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate,
“That he would answer both for church and state;
And, farther, to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;”
All mortals must be curious to inquire,
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire?
“What! thou, the spawn of him[2] who shamed
our isle,
Traitor, assassin, and informer vile!
Though by the female side,[3] you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king:
What was thy grandsire,[4] but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year:
Whose master Moore[5] preserved him from the halter,
For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter!
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase
Thy founder’s grandson,[6] and usurp his place?
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood
Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?[7]
Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,[8]
In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"[9]
[Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See post, p. 266.]
[Footnote 2: The father of Sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot to murder King William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and made a baronet.—F.]
[Footnote 3: Cadogan’s family.—F.]
[Footnote 4: A poor thieving cottager under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmel assizes to be hanged for stealing cows.—F.]
[Footnote 5: The grandfather of Guy Moore, Esq., who procured him a pardon._—F._]
[Footnote 6: Guy Moore was fairly elected member of Parliament for Clonmel; but Sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the title of parson-hunters, petitioned the House against him; out of which he was turned upon pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted to be.—F.]
[Footnote 7: “Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat.”—F.]
[Footnote 8: Mr. George Faulkner. Mr. Sergeant Bettesworth, a member of the Irish Parliament, having made a complaint to the House of Commons against the “Satire on Quadrille,” they voted Faulkner the printer into custody (who was confined closely in prison three days, when he was in a very bad state of health, and his life in much danger) for not discovering the author.—F.]
[Footnote 9: Among the poems, etc., preserved by Mr. Smith are verses on the same subject and person with these in the text. The verses are given in Swift’s works, edit. Scott, xii, 448.—W. E. B.]
ON DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY 1734-5
Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame!
An Arian to usurp the name!
A bishop in the isle of saints!
How will his brethren make complaints!
Dare any of the mitred host
Confer on him the Holy Ghost:
In mother church to breed a variance,
By coupling orthodox with Arians?
Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew:
What is there in it strange or new?
For, let us hear the weak pretence,
His brethren find to take offence;
Of whom there are but four at most,
Who know there is a Holy Ghost;
The rest, who boast they have conferr’d it,
Like Paul’s Ephesians, never-heard it;
And, when they gave it, well ’tis known
They gave what never was their own.
Rundle a bishop! well he may;
He’s still a Christian more than they.
We know the subject of their quarrels;
The man has learning, sense, and morals.
There is a reason still more weighty;
’Tis granted he believes a Deity.
Has every circumstance to please us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus.
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded?
And is not this objection odd
From rogues who ne’er believed a God?
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not so Gospel-ward devout.
While others, hither sent to save us
Come but to plunder and enslave us;
Nor ever own’d a power divine,
But Mammon, and the German line.
Say, how did Rundle undermine ’em?
Who shew’d a better jus divinum?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refused episcopari.
Our bishop’s predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus;
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay on hands:
But all his gold could not avail
To have the spirit set to sale.
Said surly Peter, “Magus, prithee,
Be gone: thy money perish with thee.”
Were Peter now alive, perhaps,
He might have found a score of chaps,
Could he but make his gift appear
In rents three thousand pounds a-year.
Some fancy this promotion odd,
As not the handiwork of God;
Though e’en the bishops disappointed
Must own it made by God’s anointed,
And well we know, the conge regal
Is more secure as well as legal;
Because our lawyers all agree,
That bishoprics are held in fee.
Dear Baldwin[1] chaste, and witty Crosse,[2]
How sorely I lament your loss!
That such a pair of wealthy ninnies
Should slip your time of dropping guineas;
For, had you made the king your debtor,
Your title had been so much better.
[Footnote 1: Richard Baldwin, Provost of Trinity College in 1717. He left behind him many natural children.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Rector of St. Mary’s Dublin, in 1722; before which time he had been chaplain to the Smyrna Company. See the Epistolary Correspondence, May 26, 1720.—Scott.]
Friend Rundle fell, with grievous bump,
Upon his reverential rump.
Poor rump! thou hadst been better sped,
Hadst thou been join’d to Boulter’s head;
A head, so weighty and profound,
Would needs have kept thee from the ground.
1736
The immediate provocation to this fierce satire upon the Irish Parliament was the introduction of a Bill to put an end to the tithe on pasturage, called agistment, and thus to free the landlords from a legal payment, with severe loss to the Church.
As I stroll the city, oft I
See a building large and lofty,
Not a bow-shot from the college;
Half the globe from sense and knowledge
By the prudent architect,
Placed against the church direct,[1]
Making good my grandam’s jest,
“Near the church”—you know
the rest.[2]
Tell us what the pile contains?
Many a head that has no brains.
These demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion[3] Club.
Such assemblies, you might swear,
Meet when butchers bait a bear:
Such a noise, and such haranguing,
When a brother thief’s a hanging:
Such a rout and such a rabble
Run to hear Jackpudding gabble:
Such a crowd their ordure throws
On a far less villain’s nose.
Could I from the building’s top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder proof)
Should with poker fiery red
Crack the stones, and melt the lead;
Drive them down on every skull,
When the den of thieves is full;
Quite destroy that harpies’ nest;
How might then our isle be blest!
For divines allow, that God
Sometimes makes the devil his rod;
And the gospel will inform us,
He can punish sins enormous.
Yet should Swift endow the schools,
For his lunatics and fools,
With a rood or two of land,
I allow the pile may stand.
You perhaps will ask me, Why so?
But it is with this proviso:
Since the house is like to last,
Let the royal grant be pass’d,
That the club have right to dwell
Each within his proper cell,
With a passage left to creep in
And a hole above for peeping.
Let them, when they once get in,
Sell the nation for a pin;
While they sit a-picking straws,
Let them rave of making laws;
While they never hold their tongue,
Let them dabble in their dung:
Let them form a grand committee,
How to plague and starve the city;
Let them stare, and storm, and frown,
When they see a clergy gown;
Let them, ere they crack a louse,
Call for th’orders of the house;
Let them, with their gosling quills,
Scribble senseless heads of bills;
We may, while they strain their throats,
Wipe our a—s with their votes.
[Footnote 1: St. Andrew’s Church, close to the site of the Parliament House.]
[Footnote 2: On a scrap of paper, containing
the memorials respecting the
Dean’s family, there occur the following lines,
apparently the rough
draught of the passage in the text:
“Making good that proverb odd,
Near the church and far from God,
Against the church direct is placed,
Like it both in head and waist.”—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: From the answer of the demoniac that the devils which possessed him were Legion.—St. Mark, v, 9.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Sir Thomas Prendergast, a prominent opponent of the clergy, and a servile supporter of the government. See the verses on “Noisy Tom,” ante, p. 260.]
[Footnote 5: “Di quibus imperium est animarum umbraeque silentes Sit mihi fas audita loqui.”—VIRG., Aen., vi, 264.]
[Footnote 6: “Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae;”—273.]
[Footnote 7:”——Discordia demens Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis.”—281.]
[Footnote 8: “Corripit his subita trepidus, ——strictamque aciem venientibus offert.”—290.]
[Footnote 9: “Et ni docta comes tenues sine corpore vitas.”—VIRG., Aen., vi, 291.]
[Footnote 10: “Et centumgeminus Briareus.”—287.]
[Footnote 11: The Right Honourable Walter Carey. He was secretary to the Duke of Dorset when lord-lieutenant of Ireland. The Duke of Dorset came to Ireland in 1731.]
[Footnote 12: “Two hundred” written by Swift in the margin.—Forster.]
[Footnote 13: John Waller, Esq., member for the borough of Dongaile. He was grandson to Sir Hardress Waller, one of the regicide judges, and who concurred with them in passing sentence on Charles I. This Sir Hardressmarried the daughter and co-heir of John Dowdal of Limerick, in Ireland, by which alliance he became so connected with the country, that after the rebellion was over, the family made it their residence.—Scott.]
[Footnote 14: Rev. Roger Throp, whose death was said to have been occasioned by the persecution which he suffered from Waller. His case was published by his brother, and never answered, containing such a scene of petty vexatious persecutions as is almost incredible; the cause being the refusal of Mr. Throp to compound, for a compensation totally inadequate, some of the rights of his living which affected Waller’s estate. In 1739, a petition was presented to the House of Commons by his brother, Robert Throp, gentleman, complaining of this persecution, and applying to parliament for redress, relative to the number of attachments granted by the King’s Bench, in favour of his deceased brother, and which could not be executed against the said Waller, on account of the privilege of Parliament, etc. But this petition was rejected by the House, nem. con. The Dean seems to have employed his pen against Waller. See a letter from Mrs. Whiteway to Swift, Nov. 15, 1735, edit. Scott, xviii, p. 414.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 15: Richard Tighe, so called because descended from a baker who supplied Cromwell’s army with bread. Bettesworth is termed the player, from his pompous enunciation.]
[Footnote 16: “Right Honourable Owen Wynne, county of Sligo.—–Owen Wynne, Esq., borough of Sligo.—John Wynne, Esq., borough of Castlebar.”]
[Footnote 17: “Sir John Bingham, Bart., county of Mayo.—His brother, Henry Bingham, sat in parliament for some time for Castlebar.”]
[Footnote 18: John Allen represented the borough of Carysfort; Robert Allen the county of Wicklow. The former was son, and the latter brother to Joshua, the second Viscount Allen, hated and satirized by Swift, under the name of Traulus. The ancestor of the Allens, as has been elsewhere noticed, was an architect in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign; and was employed as such by many of the nobility, particularly Lord Howth. He settled in Ireland, and was afterwards consulted by Lord Stafford in some of his architectural plans.—Scott.]
[Footnote 19: There were then two Clements in parliament, brothers, Nathaniel and Henry. Michael Obrien Dilks represented the borough of Castlemartye. He was barrack-master-general.]
[Footnote 20: Doctor Marcus Antonius (which Swift calls his “heathenish Christian name”) Morgan, chairman to that committee to whom was referred the petition of the farmers, graziers, etc. against tithe agistment. On this petition the House reported, and agreed that it deserved the strongest support.]
[Footnote 21: Whose hair consisted of snakes, and who turned all she looked upon to stone.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 22: A suggestion that if the tithe of agistment were abolished, the clergy might be sent to graze.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 23: On the margin of a Broadside containing
this poem is
written by Swift:
“Except the righteous Fifty Two
To whom immortal honour’s due,
Take them, Satan, as your due
All except the Fifty Two.”—Forster.
probably the number of those who opposed the Bill.—W.
E. B.]
Better we all were in our graves,
Than live in slavery to slaves;
Worse than the anarchy at sea,
Where fishes on each other prey;
Where every trout can make as high rants
O’er his inferiors, as our tyrants;
And swagger while the coast is clear:
But should a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the varlet scud,
Or hide his coward snout in mud.
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dares not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rise,
And, like Domitian,[2] leap at flies.
[Footnote 1: Mr. Faulkner, for printing the “Proposal for the better Regulation and Improvement of Quadrille.”]
[Footnote 2: “Inter initia principatus cotidie secretum sibi horarum sumere solebat, nec quicquam amplius quam muscas captare ac stilo praeacuto configere; ut cuidam interroganti, essetne quis intus cum Caesare, non absurde responsum sit a Vibio Crispo, ne muscam quidem” (Suet. 3).—W. E. B.]
A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL;
OR, A NEW BALLAD, WRITTEN BY A SHOE-BOY, ON AN ATTORNEY
WHO WAS FORMERLY A SHOE-BOY
“Qui color ater erat, nunc est contrarius atro."[1]
WITH singing of ballads, and crying of news,
With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes,
Did Hartley set out, both shoeless and shirtless,
And moneyless too, but not very dirtless;
Two pence he had gotten by begging, that’s all;
One bought him a brush, and one a black ball;
For clouts at a loss he could not be much,
The clothes on his back as being but such;
Thus vamp’d and accoutred, with clouts, ball,
and brush,
He gallantly ventured his fortune to push:
Vespasian[2] thus, being bespatter’d with dirt,
Was omen’d to be Rome’s emperor for’t.
But as a wise fiddler is noted, you know,
To have a good couple of strings to one bow;
So Hartley[3] judiciously thought it too little,
To live by the sweat of his hands and his spittle:
He finds out another profession as fit,
And straight he becomes a retailer of wit.
One day he cried—“Murders, and songs,
and great news!”
Another as loudly—“Here blacken your
shoes!”
At Domvile’s[4] full often he fed upon bits,
For winding of jacks up, and turning of spits;
Lick’d all the plates round, had many a grubbing,
And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing;
Such bastings effect upon him could have none:
The dog will be patient that’s struck with a
bone.
Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal
So expert and so active at brushes and ball,
Was moved with compassion, and thought it a pity
A youth should be lost, that had been so witty:
Without more ado, he vamps up my spark,
And now we’ll suppose him an eminent clerk!
Suppose him an adept in all the degrees
Of scribbling cum dasho, and hooking of fees;
Suppose him a miser, attorney, per bill,
Suppose him a courtier—suppose what you
will—
Yet, would you believe, though I swore by the Bible,
That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel?
[Footnote 1: Variation from Ovid, “Met.,” ii, 541: “Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo.”—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: So in Hudibras, Pt.
II, Canto II:
“Vespasian being dawb’d
with Durt,
Was destin’d to the Empire for’t
And from a Scavinger did come
To be a mighty Prince in Rome.”]
[Footnote 3: Squire Hartley Hutcheson, “that zealous prosecutor of hawkers and libels,” who signed Faulkner’s committal to prison. See “Prose Works,” vii, 234.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper office.—F.]
A FRIENDLY APOLOGY FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE BY WAY OF DEFENCE OF HARTLEY HUTCHESON, ESQ. BY JAMES BLACK-WELL, OPERATOR FOR THE FEET
But he by bawling news about,
And aptly using brush and clout,
A justice of the peace became,
To punish rogues who do the same.
I sing the man of courage tried,
O’errun with ignorance and pride,
Who boldly hunted out disgrace
With canker’d mind, and hideous face;
The first who made (let none deny it)
The libel-vending rogues be quiet.
The fact was glorious, we must own,
For Hartley was before unknown,
Contemn’d I mean;—for who would chuse
So vile a subject for the Muse?
’Twas once the noblest of his wishes
To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes,
For which he’d parch before the grate,
Or wind the jack’s slow-rising weight,
(Such toils as best his talents fit,)
Or polish shoes, or turn the spit;
But, unexpectedly grown rich in
Squire Domvile’s family and kitchen,
He pants to eternize his name,
And takes the dirty road to fame;
Believes that persecuting wit
Will prove the surest way to it;
So with a colonel[1] at his back,
The Libel feels his first attack;
He calls it a seditious paper,
Writ by another patriot Drapier;
Then raves and blunders nonsense thicker
Than alderman o’ercharged with liquor:
And all this with design, no doubt,
To hear his praises hawk’d about;
To send his name through every street,
Which erst he roam’d with dirty feet;
Well pleased to live in future times,
Though but in keen satiric rhymes.
So, Ajax, who, for aught we know,
Was justice many years ago,
And minding then no earthly things,
But killing libellers of kings;
Or if he wanted work to do,
To run a bawling news-boy through;
Yet he, when wrapp’d up in a cloud,
Entreated father Jove aloud,
Only in light to show his face,
Though it might tend to his disgrace.
And so the Ephesian villain [2] fired
The temple which the world admired,
Contemning death, despising shame,
To gain an ever-odious name.
[Footnote 1: Colonel Ker, a Scotchman, lieutenant-colonel to Lord Harrington’s regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against The printer.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Herostratus, who set fire to the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, 356 B.C.—W. E. B.]
A TALE FROM DUBLIN.[1] WRITTEN IN 1737
At Dublin’s high feast sat Primate and Dean,
Both dress’d like divines, with band and face
clean:
Quoth Hugh of Armagh, “The mob is grown bold.”
“Ay, ay,” quoth the Dean, “the cause
is old gold.”
“No, no,” quoth the Primate, “if
causes we sift,
This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift.”
The smart one replied, “There’s no wit
in the case;
And nothing of that ever troubled your grace.
Though with your state sieve your own notions you
split,
A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit.
It’s matter of weight, and a mere money job;
But the lower the coin the higher the mob.
Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk,
That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke.
The Irish dear joys have enough common sense,
To treat gold reduced like Wood’s copper pence.
It is a pity a prelate should die without law;
But if I say the word—take care of Armagh!”
[Footnote 1: In 1737, the gold coin had sunk in current value to the amount of 6_d._ in each guinea, which made it the interest of the Irish dealers to send over their balances in silver. To bring the value of the precious metals nearer to a par, the Primate, Boulter, who was chiefly trusted by the British Government in the administration of Ireland, published a proclamation reducing the value of the gold coin threepence in each guinea. This scheme was keenly opposed by Swift; and such was the clamour excited against the archbishop, that his house was obliged to be guarded by soldiers. The two following poems relate to this controversy, which was, for the time it lasted, nearly as warm as that about Wood’s halfpence. The first is said to be the paraphrase of a conversation which actually passed between Swift and the archbishop. The latter charged the Dean with inflaming the mob, “I inflame them?” retorted Swift, “were I to lift but a finger, they would tear you to pieces.”—Scott.]
Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town?
By my soul there’s bad news, for the gold she
was pull’d down,
The gold she was pull’d down, of that I’m
very sure,
For I saw’d them reading upon the towlsel[2]
doore.
Sing, och, och,
hoh, hoh.[3]
Arrah! who was him reading? ’twas jauntleman
in ruffles,
And Patrick’s bell she was ringing all in muffles;
She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with
rag,
Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black
flag.[4]
Sing, och, &c.
Patrick astore, who was him made this law?
Some they do say, ’twas the big man of straw;[5]
But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6]
The devil he may take her into hell and Boult-her!
Sing, och, &c.
Musha! Why Parliament wouldn’t you maul,
Those carters, and paviours, and footmen, and
all;[7]
Those rascally paviours who did us undermine,
Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of
swine!
Sing, och, &c.
[Footnote 1: Astore, means my dear, my heart.]
[Footnote 2: The Tholsel, where criminals for the city were tried, and where proclamations, etc., were posted. It was invariably called the Touls’el by the lower class.]
[Footnote 3: It would appear that the chorus here introduced, was intended to chime with the howl, the ululatus, or funeral cry, of the Irish.]
[Footnote 4: Swift, it is said, caused a muffled peal to be rung from the steeple of St. Patrick’s, on the day of the proclamation, and a black flag to be displayed from its battlements.—Scott.]
[Footnote 5: The big man of straw, means the Duke of Dorset, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; he had only the name of authority, the essential power being vested in the primate.]
[Footnote 6: Jug-Joulter means Primate Boulter, whose name is played upon in the succeeding line. In consequence of the public dissatisfaction expressed at the lowering the gold coin, the primate became very unpopular.]
[Footnote 7: “Footmen” alludes to a supporter of the measure, said to have been the son or grandson of a servant.]
[Footnote 8: Means "my hundred thousand hearty curses on the feeders of swine.”]
While the king and his ministers keep such a pother,
And all about changing one whore for another,
Think I to myself, what need all this strife,
His majesty first had a whore of a wife,
And surely the difference mounts to no more
Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore.
Now give me your judgment a very nice case on;
Each queen has a son, say which is the base one?
Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales,
To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails;
Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines
To unite these two Protestant parallel lines,
From a left-handed wife, and one turn’d out
of doors,
Two reputed king’s sons, both true sons of whores;
No law can determine it, which is first oars.
But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master’d;
For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard.
[Footnote 1: So the following very remarkable verses are entitled, in a copy which exists in the Dean’s hand-writing bearing the following characteristic memorandum on the back: “A traitorous libel, writ several years ago. It is inconsistent with itself. Copied September 9, 1735. I wish I knew the author, that I might hang him.” And at the bottom of the paper is subjoined this postscript. “I copied out this wicked paper many years ago, in hopes to discover the traitor of an author, that I might inform against him.” For the foundation of the scandals current during the reign of George I, to which the lines allude, see Walpole’s Reminiscences of the Courts of George the first and second, chap, ii, at p. cii, Walpole’s Letters, edit. Cunningham.—W. E. B.]
EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY BY SWIFT AND OTHERS
CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin,
was publisher of a translation of Horace, in which
the Latin was printed on the one side, and the English
on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius,
alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained
the dead to the living.
Carthy was almost continually involved
in satirical skirmishes with
Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship,
and there is no doubt that the Dean himself engaged
in the warfare.—Scott.
Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own version.
This I may boast, which few e’er could,
Half of my book at least is good.
How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced, For here we see the man and there the beast.
Once Horace fancied from a man,
He was transformed to a swan;[1]
But Carthy, as from him thou learnest,
Has made the man a goose in earnest.
[Footnote 1:
“Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae
Pelles, et album mutor in alitem
Superne, nascunturque leves
Per digitos humerosque
plumae.”
Lib. ii, Carm. xx.]
Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux,
Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro;
Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus,
Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies.
So blush’d Aurora with celestial charms,
So bloom’d the goddess in a mortal’s arms;
He sunk at length to wasting age a prey,
But thy book perish’d on its natal day.
Lectores ridere jubes dum Carthius astat?
Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes:
Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles
Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore.
Could Horace give so sad a monster birth?
Why then in vain he would excite our mirth;
His humour well our laughter might command,
But who can bear the death’s head in his hand?
While with the fustian of thy book,
The witty ancient you enrobe,
You make the graceful Horace look
As pitiful as Tom M’Lobe.[1]
Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount,
And Helicon, for if this log
Should stumble once into the fount,
He’ll make it muddy as a bog.
[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become proverbial.—Scott.]
High as Longinus to the stars ascends,
So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.
Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras,
Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.
What Midas touch’d became true gold, but then, Gold becomes lead touch’d lightly by thy pen.
For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy’s works, as they did not sell.
I must confess that I was somewhat warm, I broke his teeth, but where’s the mighty harm? My work he said could ne’er afford him meat, And teeth are useless where there’s nought to eat!
TO CARTHY
On his sending about specimens to force people to
subscribe to his
Longinus.
Thus vagrant beggars, to extort
By charity a mean support,
Their sores and putrid ulcers show,
And shock our sense till we bestow.
TO CARTHY
On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his
book of Poems.
How different from thine is Dunkin’s lot!
Thou’rt curst for publishing, and he for not.
ON CARTHY’S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS
So witches bent on bad pursuits,
Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.
Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal’d from light,
Piled in a garret, charm’d the author’s
sight,
But forced from their retirement into day,
The tender embryos half unknown decay;
Thus lamps which burn’d in tombs with silent
glare,
Expire when first exposed to open air.
From the Gentleman’s London Magazine for January.
My lines to him you give; to speak your due,
’Tis what no man alive will say of you.
Your works are like old Jacob’s speckled goats,
Known by the verse, yet better by the notes.
Pope’s essays upon some for Young’s may
pass,
But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass;
So green in different lights may pass for blue,
But what’s dyed black will take no other hue.
You have undone Horace,—what should hinder
Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar?
But ere you mount his fiery steed,
Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:—
For should you give him once the reins,
High up in air he’ll turn your brains;
And if you should his fury check,
’Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.
On one Delacourt’s complimenting Carthy on his Poetry
Carthy, you say, writes well—his genius
true,
You pawn your word for him—he’ll
vouch for you.
So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.
Some ancient authors wisely write,
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence:
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
’Tis six to five he’ll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep.
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her.
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry’s and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You’d live till all your friends were weary
of you.
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn’d you what would follow.
Are the Deanery sober hours?
Be witness for me all ye powers.
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me.
Ask how I fret when she has beckon’d
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite.
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I ’scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I’d think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven,—get out of doors.—
This is my constant farewell
Yours,
J. S.
October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.
You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the provost.
Resolve me this, ye happy dead,
Who’ve lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free
That in this wretched life we see;
Would ye resume a second birth,
And choose once more to live on earth?
[Footnote 1: Soon after Swift’s acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it has been since restored.—Scott.]
DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE FOLLOWING LINES
Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb:
“Mortal, I would not change my doom,
To live in such a restless state,
To be unfortunately great;
To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves,
To shine amidst a race of slaves;
To learn from wise men to complain
And only rise to fall again:
No! let my dusty relics rest,
Until I rise among the blest.”
[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel’s tomb lies within view of the window.]
The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the editor, ascribed to Swift.—Scott.
“—— The rascal! that’s
too mild a name;
Does he forget from whence he came?
Has he forgot from whence he sprung?
A mushroom in a bed of dung;
A maggot in a cake of fat,
The offspring of a beggar’s brat;
As eels delight to creep in mud,
To eels we may compare his blood;
His blood delights in mud to run,
Witness his lazy, lousy son!
Puff’d up with pride and insolence,
Without a grain of common sense.
See with what consequence he stalks!
With what pomposity he talks!
See how the gaping crowd admire
The stupid blockhead and the liar!
How long shall vice triumphant reign?
How long shall mortals bend to gain?
How long shall virtue hide her face,
And leave her votaries in disgrace?
—Let indignation fire my strains,
Another villain yet remains—
Let purse-proud C——n next approach;
With what an air he mounts his coach!
A cart would best become the knave,
A dirty parasite and slave!
His heart in poison deeply dipt,
His tongue with oily accents tipt,
A smile still ready at command,
The pliant bow, the forehead bland—”
*
* * * *
*
* * * *
—URBS INTACTA MANET—semper intacta
manebit,
Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat?
[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he said, of the ladies.—Scott.]
A thistle is the Scottish arms,
Which to the toucher threatens harms,
What are the arms of Waterford,
That no man touches—but a ——?
Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam
Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non
habitas!
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.
See, here’s the grand approach,
That way is for his grace’s coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;[2]
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design’d,
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, ’tis very fine,
But where d’ye sleep, or where d’ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That ’tis a house, but not a dwelling.
[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See vol. i, p. 74.—W.E..B_]
[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed over two of the portals of Blenheim House; “for the better understanding of which device,” says Addison, “I must acquaint my English reader that a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation,” and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The “Spectator,” No. 59.—W. E. B.]
Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, ’tis known far and
near;
To whom did he lose it?—A judge or a peer.[2]
Which nobody can
deny.
This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
Which nobody can
deny.
O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long
since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
Which nobody can
deny.
So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
Which nobody can
deny.
But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue,
Since selling de contre be now all de vogue,
You be but von fool after seventeen rogue.
Which nobody can
deny.
Some sell it for profit, ’tis very well known,
And some but for sitting in sight of the throne,
And other some sell what is none of their own.
Which nobody can
deny.
But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze,
And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise,
With six other worthies as glorious as these.
Which nobody can
deny.
There’s Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood.
Which nobody can
deny.
But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on’t
in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We’ll paint ’em in colours as black as
their crime.
Which nobody can
deny.
But P——r and copper L——h
we’ll excuse,
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse,
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes.
Which nobody can
deny.
[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written by Swift.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN
Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift’s estimation by his opposition to Wood’s coinage.
I sing not of the Drapier’s praise, nor yet
of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country’s
good;
Lord William’s grace of Dublin town, ’tis
he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In ev’ry council and debate he stands for what
is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate’er
he loses by’t.
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still
there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace
had reason.
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows
it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand
pounds and more.
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him
not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood’s
dross.
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to
win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give
a pin.
Why, there’s my landlord now, the squire, who
all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from
the gallows.
“A bishop,” says the noble squire, “I
hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year—O ’tis
a burning shame!
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I
to have but five!”
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive:
Now from his lordship’s grace I hold a little
piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in
the pound.
A POEM
Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
Laetus intersis populo.—HOR.,
Carm. I, ii, 45.
Great, good, and just, was once applied
To one who for his country died;[l]
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense.
O may the fates thy life prolong!
Our country then can dread no wrong:
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou’rt great, and good, and just:
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes:
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat.
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev’rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face.
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius’ fall,
The godlike hero with a frown
Struck all his rage and malice down;
Then how can we dread William Wood,
If by thy presence he’s withstood?
Where wisdom stands to keep the field,
In vain he brings his brazen shield;
Though like the sibyl’s priest he comes,
With furious din of brazen drums
The force of thy superior voice
Shall strike him dumb, and quell their noise.
[Footnote 1: The epitaph on Charles I by the Marquis of Montrose:
“Great, good, and just! could I but rate
My griefs to thy too rigid fate,
I’d weep the world in such a strain
As it should deluge once again;
But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus’ hands than Argus’
eyes,
I’ll sing thine obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds.”
See Napier’s “Montrose and the Covenanters,” i, 520.—W. E. B.]
And shall the Patriot who maintain’d your cause,
From future ages only meet applause?
Shall he, who timely rose t’his country’s
aid,
By her own sons, her guardians, be betray’d?
Did heathen virtues in your hearts reside,
These wretches had been damn’d for parricide.
Should you behold, whilst dreadful armies
threat
The sure destruction of an injured state,
Some hero, with superior virtue bless’d,
Avert their rage, and succour the distress’d;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,
Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil’d of their expected prey,
Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero’s heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with
grief,
And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief,
But, if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to—die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?
If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don’t deserve, and won’t draw down
your ruin,
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, “he went too far,” despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,
And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.
M. B.
[Footnote 1: The Address to the Citizens appears, from the signature M. B., to have been written by Swift himself, and published when the Prosecution was depending against Harding, the printer of the Drapier’s Letters, and a reward had been proclaimed for the discovery of the author. Some of those who had sided with the Drapier in his arguments, while confined to Wood’s scheme, began to be alarmed, when, in the fourth letter, he entered upon the more high and dangerous matter of the nature of Ireland’s connection with England. The object of these verses is, to encourage the timid to stand by their advocate in a cause which was truly their own.—Scott.]
——Quid non mortalia
pectora cogis,
Auri sacra fames!——VIRG.,
Aen., iii.
This poem partly relates to Wood’s halfpence, but resembles the style of Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.—Scott. See vol. i, p. 169.—W. E. B.
Fair ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite—Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you’ll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh’invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land—and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call’d our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E’en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage;
And faith our fright was very great
To see a minister of state,
Arm’d with power and fury come
To force us from our little home—
We fear’d, as I am sure we had reason,
An accusation of high-treason;
Till, starting up, says Banamiere,
“Treason, my friends, we need not fear,
For ’gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the chancellor.[1]
Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochford or the Meath election;
Nor did we sing,—’Machugh he means.’”
“You villain, I’ll dash out your brains,
’Tis no affair of state which brings
Me here—or business of the King’s;
I’m come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound’s to me paid down.”
—“Fifty!” quoth I, “a
devilish sum;
But stay till the brass farthings come,
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
Though now we cannot furnish gold.”
Quoth he, “thou vile mis-shapen
beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest;
And dost thou think that I am come
To carry nought but farthings home!
Thou fool, I ne’er do things by halves,
Farthings are made for Irish slaves;
No brass for me, it must be gold,
Or fifty pounds in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train.”
“Votre tres humble serviteur,
I’m not in jest,” said I, “I’m
sure,
But from the bottom of my belly,
I do in sober sadness tell you,
I thought it was good reasoning,
For us fictitious men to bring
Brass counters made by William Wood
Intrinsic as we flesh and blood;
Then since we are but mimic men,
[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant, who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.—Scott.]
[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, rythmi gratia.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: See Ovid, “Metam.” xi, 85; Martial, vi, 86.—W. E. B.]
Great folks are of a finer mould;
Lord! how politely they can scold!
While a coarse English tongue will itch,
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.
ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM, WHO, ON ONE OCCASION, LEFT HIS CHURCH DURING SERVICE IN ORDER TO WAIT ON THE DUKE OF DORSET[2]
Lord Pam[3] in the church (you’d you think it)
kneel’d down;
When told that the Duke was just come to Town—
His station despising, unawed by the place,
He flies from his God to attend to his Grace.
To the Court it was better to pay his devotion,
Since God had no hand in his Lordship’s promotion.
[Footnote 1: See vol. i, “The Storm,” at p. 242.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Lionel Cranfield, first Duke of Dorset, was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland from 1730 to 1735.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Pam, the cant name for the knave of clubs, from the French Pamphile. The person here intended was a famous B. known through the whole kingdom by the name of Lord Pam. He was a great enemy to all men of wit and learning, being himself the most ignorant as well as the most vicious P. of all who had ever been honoured with that Title from the days of the Apostles to the present year of the Christian Aera. He was promoted non tam providentia divina quam temporum iniquitate E-scopus. From a note in “The Toast,” by Frederick Scheffer, written in Latin verse, done into English by Peregrine O Donald, Dublin and London, 1736.—W. E. B.]
Behold! a proof of Irish sense;
Here Irish wit is seen!
When nothing’s left that’s worth defence,
We build a magazine.
[Footnote 1: Swift, in his latter days, driving out with his physician, Dr. Kingsbury, observed a new building, and asked what it was designed for. On being told that it was a magazine for arms and powder, “Oh! Oh!” said the Dean, “This is worth remarking; my tablets, as Hamlet says, my tablets”—and taking out his pocket-book, he wrote the above epigram.—W. E. B.]
GEORGE ROCHFORT’S VERSES
FOR THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S,
AT LARACOR, NEAR TRIM
That Downpatrick’s Dean, or Patrick’s
down went,
Like two arrand Deans, two Deans errant I meant;
So that Christmas appears at Bellcampe like a Lent,
Gives the gamesters of both houses great discontent.
Our parsons agree here, as those did at
Trent,
Dan’s forehead has got a most damnable dent,
Besides a large hole in his Michaelmas rent.
But your fancy on rhyming so cursedly
bent,
With your bloody ouns in one stanza pent;
Does Jack’s utter ruin at picket prevent,
For an answer in specie to yours must be sent;
So this moment at crambo (not shuffling) is spent,
And I lose by this crotchet quaterze, point, and quint,
Which you know to a gamester is great bitterment;
But whisk shall revenge me on you, Batt, and Brent.
Bellcampe, January 1, 1717.
TO DR. SHERIDAN, 1718
Delany reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, That we both act the part of the clown and cow-dung; We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst, Yet still are no wiser than we were at first.
Pudet haec opprobria, I freely must tell ye,
Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli.
Though Delany advised you to plague me no longer,
You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor[2]; I must
now, at one sitting, pay off my old score; How many
to answer? One, two, three, or four, But, because
the three former are long ago past, I shall, for method-sake,
begin with the last. You treat me like a boy
that knocks down his foe, Who, ere t’other gets
up, demands the rising blow. Yet I know a young
rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, Would, as he
lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.
So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them,
Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly, Te
Deum.
So the famous Tom Leigh[3], when quite run a-ground,
Comes off by out-laughing the company round:
In every vile pamphlet you’ll read the same
fancies,
Having thus overthrown all our farther advances.
I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and the other hand was employed at the same time in writing some letters of business. September 20, 1718.—I will send you the rest when I have leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.
[Footnote 1: The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility of printing it left-handed as it was written.—H.]
[Footnote 2: Bishop of Bangor. For an account of him, see “Prose Works,” v, 326.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Frequently mentioned by Swift in the Journal to Stella, “Prose Works,” ii, especially p. 404.—W. E. B.]
Since your poetic prancer is turn’d into Cancer,
I’ll tell you at once, sir, I’m now not
your man, sir;
For pray, sir, what pleasure in fighting is found
With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground?
When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran back;
But I found out the way to your den by its track:
From thence the black monster I drew, o’ my
conscience,
And so brought to light what before was stark nonsense.
When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue,
You turn’d to your left, and you writ like a
Jew;
Which, good Mister Dean, I can’t think so fair,
Therefore turn about to the right, as you were;
Then if with true courage your ground you maintain,
My fame is immortal, when Jonathan’s slain:
Who’s greater by far than great Alexander,
As much as a teal surpasses a gander;
As much as a game-cock’s excell’d by a
sparrow;
As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow:
As much and much more as the most handsome man
Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan.
T. SHERIDAN.
This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called the left hand.
Oft have I been by poets told,
That, poor Jonathan, thou grow’st old.
Alas, thy numbers failing all,
Poor Jonathan, how they do fall!
Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell,
Now jingle like a rusty bridle:
Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet,
Now limp upon their gouty feet:
Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime,
Are humbled by the tyrant, Time:
This was written with my right hand, at the same time with the other.
How does Melpy like this? I think I have vex’d
her;
Little did she know, I was ambidexter.
T. SHERIDAN.
REVEREND AND LEARNED SIR,
I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to
a poor charity-school, in the lower end of St. Thomas’s
Street; but in my time I have been a Virgilian, though
I am now forced to teach English, which I understood
less than my own native language, or even than Latin
itself: therefore I made bold to send you the
enclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may qualify
me for the honour of being one of your most inferior
Ushers: if you will vouchsafe to send me an answer,
direct to me next door but one to the Harrow, on the
left hand in Crocker’s Lane.
I am yours,
Reverend Sir, to command,
PAT. REYLY.
Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim. HOR., Epist. II, i, 117
Deliciae, Sheridan, Musarum, dulcis amice,
Sic tibi propitius Permessi ad flumen Apollo
Occurrat, seu te mimum convivia rident,
Aequivocosque sales spargis, seu ludere versu
Malles; dic, Sheridan, quisnam fuit ille deorum,
Quae melior natura orto tibi tradidit artem
Rimandi genium puerorum, atque ima cerebri
Scrutandi? Tibi nascenti ad cunabula Pallas
Astitit; et dixit, mentis praesaga futurae,
Heu, puer infelix! nostro sub sidere natus;
Nam tu pectus eris sine corpore, corporis umbra;
Sed levitate umbram superabis, voce cicadam:
Musca femur, palmas tibi mus dedit, ardea crura.
Corpore sed tenui tibi quod natura negavit,
Hoc animi dotes supplebunt; teque docente,
Nec longum tempus, surget tibi docta juventus,
Artibus egregiis animas instructa novellas.
Grex hinc Paeonius venit, ecce, salutifer orbi;
Ast, illi causas orant: his insula visa est
Divinam capiti nodo constringere mitram.
Natalis te horae non fallunt signa, sed
usque
Conscius, expedias puero seu laetus Apollo
Nascenti arrisit; sive ilium frigidus horror
Saturni premit, aut septem inflavere triones.
Quin tu alte penitusque latentia semina
cernis
Quaeque diu obtundendo olim sub luminis auras
Erumpent, promis; quo ritu saepe puella
Sub cinere hesterno sopitos suscitat ignes.
Te dominum agnoscit quocunque sub aere
natus:
Quos indulgentis nimium custodia matris
Pessundat: nam saepe vides in stipite matrem.
Aureus at ramus, venerandae dona Sibyllae,
Aeneae sedes tantum patefecit Avernas;
Saepe puer, tua quem tetigit semel aurea virga,
Et coelum, terrasque videt, noctemque profundam.
Ad te, doctissime Delany,
Pulsus a foribus Decani,
Confugiens edo querelam,
Pauper petens clientelam.
Petebam Swift doctum patronum,
Sed ille dedit nullum donum,
Neque cibum neque bonum.
Quaeris quam male sit stomacho num?
Iratus valde valde latrat,
Crumenicidam ferme patrat:
Quin ergo releves aegrotum,
Dato cibum, dato potum.
Ita in utrumvis oculum,
Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.
Quaeso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis perlegere, quam cum fastidio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam) lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.
Reverende Vir,
De vestra benignitate et clementia in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiae vestrae non scripsissem; quam profecto, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere partem nullus dubito. Saevit Boreas, mugiunt procellae, dentibus invitis maxillae bellum gerunt. Nec minus, intestino depraeliantibus tumultu visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, haec nostra querela. Proh Deum atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule, nostro ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi, ad te, quasi ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nossem succurrere potuisse, mehercule, neque fores vestras pultussem, neque limina tetigissem. Quam longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymae rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In via nullum fuit solatium praeterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Maecenatis convivium, ita me pictura pascens inani, saepius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musarum sacra fames? Haec omnia, quae nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.
Vivitur parvo male, sed canebat
Flaccus ut parvo bene: quod negamus:
Pinguis et laute saturatus ille
Ridet inanes.
Pace sic dicam liceat poetae
Nobilis laeti salibus faceti
Usque jocundi, lepide jocantis
Non sine cura.
Quis potest versus (meditans merendam,
Prandium, coenam) numerare? quis non
Quot panes pistor locat in fenestra
Dicere mallet?
Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus;
Latrat ingenti stomachus furore;
Quaeso digneris renovare fauces,
Docte Patrone.
Vestiant lanae tenues libellos,
Vestiant panni dominum trementem,
Aedibus vestris trepidante penna
Musa propinquat.
Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes
Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam
Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta
Frigore iniquo.
Si modo possem! Vetat heu pudor me
Plura, sed praestat rogitare plura,
An dabis binos digitos crumenae im-
ponere vestrae?
Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise
Have made a recantation,
From your low bended knees arise;
I hate such poor prostration.
’Tis bravery that moves the brave,
As one nail drives another;
If you from me would mercy have,
Pray, Sir, be such another.
You that so long maintain’d the field
With true poetic vigour;
Now you lay down your pen and yield,
You make a wretched figure.
Submit, but do’t with sword in hand,
And write a panegyric
Upon the man you cannot stand;
I’ll have it done in lyric:
That all the boys I teach may sing
The achievements of their Chiron;
What conquests my stern looks can bring
Without the help of iron.
A small goose-quill, yclep’d a pen,
From magazine of standish
Drawn forth, ’s more dreadful to the Dean,
Than any sword we brandish.
My ink’s my flash, my pen’s my bolt;
Whene’er I please to thunder,
I’ll make you tremble like a colt,
And thus I’ll keep you under.
THOMAS
SHERIDAN.
Dear Dean, I’m in a sad condition,
I cannot see to read or write;
Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,
Whose days are all transform’d to
night.
My head, though light, ’s a dungeon grown,
The windows of my soul are closed;
Therefore to sleep I lay me down,
My verse and I are both composed.
Sleep, did I say? that cannot be;
For who can sleep, that wants his eyes?
My bed is useless then to me,
Therefore I lay me down to rise.
Unnumber’d thoughts pass to and fro
Upon the surface of my brain;
In various maze they come and go,
And come and go again.
So have you seen in sheet burnt black,
The fiery sparks at random run;
Now here, now there, some turning back
Some ending where they just begun.
THOMAS
SHERIDAN.
Dear Sherry, I’m sorry for your bloodsheded
sore eye,
And the more I consider your case, still the more
I
Regret it, for see how the pain on’t has wore
ye.
Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye,
In pity cry out, “He’s a poor blinded
Tory.”
But listen to me, and I’ll soon lay before ye
A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.
First wash it with ros, that makes dative rori,
Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore
ye;
Then take a cordial dram to restore ye,
Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree,
Then take a glass of good claret ex more,
Then stay as long as you can ab uxore;
And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door,
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: See “The Country Life,” i, 140.]
I like your collyrium,
Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye ’um,
’Twill gain you a great reputation;
By this you may rise,
Like the doctor so wise,[1]
Who open’d the eyes of the nation.
And these, I must tell ye,
Are bigger than its belly;—
You know, there’s in Livy a story
Of the hands and the feet
Denying of meat,—
Don’t I write in the dark like a
Tory?
Your water so far goes,
’Twould serve for an Argus,
Were all his whole hundred sore;
So many we read
He had in his head,
Or Ovid’s a son of a whore.
For your recipe, sir,
May my lids never stir,
If ever I think once to fee you;
For I’d have you to know,
When abroad I can go,
That it’s honour enough, if I see
you.
[Footnote 1: Probably Dr. Davenant.]
My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise
Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes;
As the Dean of St. Patrick’s says, earth, seas,
and skies!
I cannot lie down, but immediately rise,
To answer your stuff and the Doctor’s likewise.
Like a horse with a gall, I’m pester’d
with flies,
But his head and his tail new succour supplies,
To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs.
The wing of a goose before me now lies,
Which is both shield and sword for such weak enemies.
Whoever opposes me, certainly dies,
Though he were as valiant as Conde or Guise.
The women disturb me a-crying of pies,
With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs.
By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize,
That I’d gain cloth of gold, when you’d
scarce merit frize.
Dear Tom, I’m surprised that your verse did
not jingle;
But your rhyme was not double, ’cause your sight
was but single.
For, as Helsham observes, there’s nothing can
chime,
Or fit more exact than one eye and one rhyme.
If you had not took physic, I’d pay off your
bacon,
But now I’ll write short, for fear you’re
short-taken.
Besides, Dick[1] forbid me, and call’d me a
fool;
For he says, short as ’tis, it will give you
a stool.
Oct. 23, 1718.
[Footnote 1: Dr. Richard Helsham.]
[Footnote 2: Pro potes.—Horat.]
[Footnote 3: Pro quovis fluvio.—Virg.]
[Footnote 4: Saccharo Saturni.]
Tom, for a goose you keep but base quills,
They’re fit for nothing else but pasquils.
I’ve often heard it from the wise,
That inflammations in the eyes
Will quickly fall upon the tongue,
And thence, as famed John Bunyan sung,
From out the pen will presently
On paper dribble daintily.
Suppose I call’d you goose, it is hard
One word should stick thus in your gizzard.
You’re my goose, and no other man’s;
And you know, all my geese are swans:
Only one scurvy thing I find,
Swans sing when dying, geese when blind.
But now I smoke where lies the slander,—
I call’d you goose instead of gander;
For that, dear Tom, ne’er fret and vex,
I’m sure you cackle like the sex.
I know the gander always goes
With a quill stuck across his nose:
So your eternal pen is still
Or in your claw, or in your bill.
But whether you can tread or hatch,
I’ve something else to do than watch.
As for your writing I am dead,
I leave it for the second head.
Deanery-House, Oct. 27, 1718.
Perlegi versus versos, Jonathan bone, tersos;
Perlepidos quidem; scribendo semper es idem.
Laudibus extollo te, tu mihi magnus Apollo;
Tu frater Phoebus, oculis collyria praebes,
Ne minus insanae reparas quoque damna Dianae,
Quae me percussit radiis (nec dixeris ussit)
Frigore collecto; medicus moderamine tecto
Lodicem binum premit, atque negat mihi vinum.
O terra et coelum! quam redit pectus anhelum.
Os mihi jam siccum, liceat mihi bibere dic cum?
Ex vestro grato poculo, tam saepe prolato,
Vina crepant: sales ostendet quis mihi tales?
Lumina, vos sperno, dum cuppae gaudia cerno:
Perdere etenim pellem nostram, quoque crura mavellem.
Amphora, quam dulces risus queis pectora
mulces,
Pangitur a Flacco, cum pectus turget Iaccho:
Clarius evohe ingeminans geminatur et ohe;
Nempe jocosa propago, haesit sic vocis imago.
Whate’er your predecessors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus;
And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence;
But as to comic Aristophanes,
The rogue too vicious and too profane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis
Down in the Strand,[1] just where the New Pole[2]
is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can,
You will not find it in the Vatican.
He and Cratinus used, as Horace says,
To take his greatest grandees for asses.
Poets, in those days, used to venture high;
But these are lost full many a century.
Thus you may see, dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgment of the old comedians.
Proceed to tragics: first Euripides
(An author where I sometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly censured by the Stagirite,
Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author despises
So much he swears the very best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis’s;
And that a woman in these tragedies,
Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is.
At least I’m well assured, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer Eschylus,
Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my Muse but ill able,
To hold out longer in trissyllable.
I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t’ye?
[Footnote 1: N.B.—The Strand in London. The fact may not be true; but the rhyme cost me some trouble.—Swift.]
[Footnote 2: The Maypole. See “The Dunciad,” ii, 28. Pope’s “Works,” Elwin and Courthope, vol. iv.]
Sir,
I thank you for your comedies.
I’ll stay and read ’em now at home a-days,
Because Parcus wrote but sorrily
Thy notes, I’ll read Lambinus thoroughly;
And then I shall be stoutly set a-gog
To challenge every Irish Pedagogue.
I like your nice epistle critical,
Which does in threefold rhymes so witty fall;
Upon the comic dram’ and tragedy
Your notion’s right, but verses maggotty;
’Tis but an hour since I heard a man swear it,
The Devil himself could hardly answer it.
As for your friend the sage Euripides,
I[1] believe you give him now the slip o’ days;
But mum for that—pray come a Saturday
And dine with me, you can’t a better day:
I’ll give you nothing but a mutton chop,
Some nappy mellow’d ale with rotten hop,
A pint of wine as good as Falern’,
Which we poor masters, God knows, all earn;
We’ll have a friend or two, sir, at table,
Right honest men, for few’re comeatable;
Then when our liquor makes us talkative,
We’ll to the fields, and take a walk at eve.
Because I’m troubled much with laziness,
These rhymes I’ve chosen for their
easiness.
[Footnote 1: N.B.—You told me you forgot your Greek.]
DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT 1718
Dear Dean, since in cruxes and puns
you and I deal,
Pray why is a woman a sieve and a riddle?
’Tis a thought that came into my noddle this
morning,
In bed as I lay, sir, a-tossing and turning.
You’ll find if you read but a few of your histories,
All women, as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you’ll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them;
I swear without jest I an honour intend them.
In a sieve, sir, their ancient extraction I quite
tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before; do you know what I mean, sir?
“Not I, by my troth, sir.”—Then
read it again, sir.
The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double,
Is purely through pity, to save you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last,
When your Pegasus canter’d in triple, and rid
fast.
As for my little nag, which I keep at
Parnassus,
With Phoebus’s leave, to run with his asses,
He goes slow and sure, and he never is jaded,
While your fiery steed is whipp’d, spurr’d,
bastinaded.
In reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I crack’d,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.
A woman’s no sieve, (for with that
you begin,)
Because she lets out more than e’er she takes
in.
And that she’s a riddle can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But grant her a sieve, I can say something archer;
Pray what is a man? he’s a fine linen searcher.
Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a maid,[1] was the first man’s
damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11, 1718, past 12 at noon.
[Footnote 1: A damsel, i.e., Adam’s Hell.—H. Vir Gin.—Dublin Edition.]
Don’t think these few lines which I send, a
reproach,
From my Muse in a car, to your Muse in a coach.
The great god of poems delights in a car,
Which makes him so bright that we see him from far;
For, were he mew’d up in a coach, ’tis
allow’d
We’d see him no more than we see through a cloud.
You know to apply this—I do
not disparage
Your lines, but I say they’re the worse for
the carriage.
Now first you deny that a woman’s
a sieve;
I say that she is: What reason d’ye give?
Because she lets out more than she takes in.
Is’t that you advance for’t? you are still
to begin.
Your major and minor I both can refute,
I’ll teach you hereafter with whom to dispute.
A sieve keeps in half, deny’t if you can.
D. “Adzucks, I mistook it, who thought
of the bran?”
I tell you in short, sir, you[1] should have a pair
o’ stocks
For thinking to palm on your friend such a paradox.
Indeed, I confess, at the close you grew better,
But you light from your coach when you finish’d
your letter.
Your thing which you say wants interpretation,
What’s name for a maiden—the first
man’s damnation?
A damsel—Adam’s hell—ay,
there I have hit it,
Just as you conceived it, just so have I writ it.
Since this I’ve discover’d, I’ll
make you to know it,
That now I’m your Phoebus, and you are my poet.
But if you interpret the two lines that follow,
I’ll again be your poet, and you my Apollo.
Why a noble lord’s dog, and my school-house
this weather,
Make up the best catch when they’re coupled
together?
From my Ringsend car, Sept. 12, 1718, past 5 in the morning, on a repetition day.
[Footnote 1: Begging pardon for the expression to a dignitary of thechurch.—S.]
12 o’Clock at Noon Sept. 12, 1718.
SIR,
Perhaps you may wonder, I send you so soon
Another epistle; consider ’tis noon.
For all his acquaintance well know that friend Tom
is,
Whenever he makes one, as good as his promise.
Now Phoebus exalted, sits high on his throne,
Dividing the heav’ns, dividing my crown,
Into poems and business, my skull’s split in
two,
One side for the lawyers, and t’other for you.
With my left eye, I see you sit snug in your stall,
With my right I’m attending the lawyers that
scrawl
With my left I behold your bellower a cur chase;
With my right I’m a-reading my deeds for a purchase.
My left ear’s attending the hymns of the choir,
My right ear is stunn’d with the noise of the
crier.
My right hand’s inditing these lines to your
reverence,
My left is indenting for me and heirs ever-hence.
Although in myself I’m divided in two,
Dear Dean, I shall ne’er be divided from you.
TO THOMAS SHERIDAN
SIR, I cannot but think that we live in a bad age,
O tempora, O mores! as ’tis in the adage.
My foot was but just set out from my cathedral, When
into my hands comes a letter from the droll.
I can’t pray in quiet for you and your verses;
But now let us hear what the Muse from your car says.
Hum—excellent good—your
anger was stirr’d;
Well, punners and rhymers must have the last word.
But let me advise you, when next I hear from you,
To leave off this passion which does not become you;
For we who debate on a subject important, Must argue
with calmness, or else will come short on’t.
For myself, I protest, I care not a fiddle,
For a riddle and sieve, or a sieve and a riddle;
And think of the sex as you please, I’d as lieve
You call them a riddle, as call them a sieve.
Yet still you are out, (though to vex you I’m
loth,)
For I’ll prove it impossible they can be both;
A school-boy knows this, for it plainly appears
That a sieve dissolves riddles by help of the shears;
For you can’t but have heard of a trick among
wizards,
To break open riddles with shears or with scissars.
Think again of the sieve, and I’ll
hold you a wager,
You’ll dare not to question my minor or major.[1]
A sieve keeps half in, and therefore, no doubt,
Like a woman, keeps in less than it lets out.
Why sure, Mr. Poet, your head got a-jar,
By riding this morning too long in your car:
And I wish your few friends, when they next see your
cargo,
For the sake of your senses would lay an embargo.
You threaten the stocks; I say you are scurrilous
And you durst not talk thus, if I saw you at our ale-house.
But as for your threats, you may do what you can
I despise any poet that truckled to Dan
But keep a good tongue, or you’ll find to your
smart
From rhyming in cars, you may swing in a cart.
You found out my rebus with very much modesty;
But thanks to the lady; I’m sure she’s
too good to ye:
Till she lent you her help, you were in a fine twitter;
You hit it, you say;—you’re a delicate
hitter.
How could you forget so ungratefully a lass,
And if you be my Phoebus, pray who was your Pallas?
As for your new rebus, or riddle, or crux,
I will either explain, or repay it by trucks; Though
your lords, and your dogs, and your catches, methinks,
Are harder than ever were put by the Sphinx.
And thus I am fully revenged for your late tricks,
Which is all at present from the
DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S.
From my closet, Sept, 12, 1718, just 12 at noon.
[Footnote 1: Ut tu perperam argumentaris.—Scott.]
SIR,
Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin
With much greater noise than a conjugal din.
A pox of her bawling, her tempora et mores!
What are times now to me; a’nt I one of the
Tories?
You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers;
Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears?
You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus,
To give his assistance to make out my rebus:
Which I don’t think so fair; leave it off for
the future;
When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter.
I’m now at the tavern, where I drink all I can,
To write with more spirit; I’ll drink no more
Helicon;
For Helicon is water, and water is weak;
’Tis wine on the gross lee, that makes your
Muse speak.
This I know by her spirit and life; but I think
She’s much in the wrong to scold in her drink.
Her damn’d pointed tongue pierced almost to
my heart;
Tell me of a cart,—tell me of a ——,
I’d have you to tell on both sides her ears,
If she comes to my house, that I’ll kick her
down stairs:
Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, O my
knee;
You shall soon have a crutch to buy for your Melpomene.
You may come as her bully, to bluster and swagger;
But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger:
Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you,
If you come I will make your Apollo shine through
you.
Don’t think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would
fear a dun;
Which is all at present from yours,
THOMAS
SHERIDAN.
SIR,
When I saw you to-day, as I went with Lord Anglesey,
Lord, said I, who’s that parson, how awkwardly
dangles he!
When whip you trot up, without minding your betters,
To the very coach side, and threaten your letters.
Is the poison [and dagger] you boast in your jaws,
trow?
Are you still in your cart with convitia ex plaustro?
But to scold is your trade, which I soon should be
foil’d in,
For scolding is just quasi diceres—school-din:
And I think I may say, you could many good shillings
get,
Were you drest like a bawd, and sold oysters at Billingsgate;
But coach it or cart it, I’d have you know,
sirrah,
I’ll write, though I’m forced to write
in a wheelbarrow;
Nay, hector and swagger, you’ll still find me
stanch,
And you and your cart shall give me carte blanche.
Since you write in a cart, keep it tecta et sarta,
’Tis all you have for it; ’tis your best
Magna Carta;
And I love you so well, as I told you long ago,
That I’ll ne’er give my vote for Delenda
Cart-ago.
Now you write from your cellar, I find out your art,
You rhyme as folks fence, in tierce and in
cart:
Your ink is your poison, your pen is what not;
Your ink is your drink, your pen is your pot.
Written, signed, and sealed, five minutes and eleven seconds after the receipt of yours, allowing seven seconds for sealing and superscribing, from my bed-side, just eleven minutes after eleven, Sept. 15, 1718.
Erratum in your last, 1. antepenult, pro “fear a Dun” lege “fear a Dan:” ita omnes MSS. quos ego legi, et ita magis congruum tam sensui quam veritati.
Dec. 14, 1719, Nine at night.
SIR,
It is impossible to know by your letter whether the wine is to be bottled to-morrow, or no.
If it be, or be not, why did not you in plain English tell us so?
For my part, it was by mere chance I came to sit with the ladies[2] this night.
And if they had not told me there was a letter from you; and your man Alexander had not gone, and come back from the deanery; and the boy here had not been sent, to let Alexander know I was here, I should have missed the letter outright.
Truly I don’t know who’s bound to be sending for corks to stop your bottles, with a vengeance.
Make a page of your own age, and send your man Alexander to buy corks; for Saunders already has gone above ten jaunts.
Mrs. Dingley and Mrs. Johnson say, truly they don’t care for your wife’s company, though they like your wine; but they had rather have it at their own house to drink in quiet.
However, they own it is very civil in Mrs. Sheridan to make the offer; and they cannot deny it.
I wish Alexander safe at St. Catherine’s to-night, with all my heart and soul, upon my word and honour:
But I think it base in you to send a poor fellow out so late at this time of year, when one would not turn out a dog that one valued; I appeal to your friend Mr. Connor.
I would present my humble service to my Lady Mountcashel; but truly I thought she would have made advances to have been acquainted with me, as she pretended.
But now I can write no more, for you see plainly my paper is ended.
1 P.S.
I wish, when you prated, your letter you’d dated:
Much plague it created. I scolded and rated;
My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited.
I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited:
Your man is belated: the case I have stated;
And me you have cheated. My stable’s unslated.
Come back t’us well freighted.
I remember my late head; and wish you translated,
For teasing me.
2 P.S.
Mrs. Dingley desires me singly
Her service to present you; hopes that will content
you;
But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame,
For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse.
3 P.S.
You keep such a twattling with you and your bottling;
But I see the sum total, we shall ne’er have
a bottle;
The long and the short, we shall not have a quart,
I wish you would sign’t, that we have a pint.
For all your colloguing,[3] I’d be glad for
a knoggin:[4]
But I doubt ’tis a sham; you won’t give
us a dram.
’Tis of shine a mouth moon-ful, you won’t
part with a spoonful,
And I must be nimble, if I can fill my thimble,
You see I won’t stop, till I come to a drop;
But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum;
Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we
smell it.
STELLA.
[Footnote 1: In this letter, though written in prose, the reader, upon examining, will find each second sentence rhymes to the former.—H.]
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.—F.]
[Footnote 3: A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of kindness without sincerity.—F.]
[Footnote 4: A name used in Ireland for the English quartern.—F.]
I’d have you to know, as sure as you’re
Dean,
On Thursday my cask of Obrien I’ll drain;
If my wife is not willing, I say she’s a quean;
And my right to the cellar, egad, I’ll maintain
As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain:
Go tell her it over and over again.
I hope, as I ride to the town, it won’t rain;
For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain,
Entirely extinguish my poetic vein;
And then I should be as stupid as Kain,
Who preach’d on three heads, though he mention’d
but twain.
Now Wardel’s in haste, and begins to complain;
Your most humble servant, dear Sir, I remain,
T. S.—N.
Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany,
And some Grattans, if there be any:[1]
Take care you do not bid too many.
[Footnote 1: I.e. in Dublin, for they were country clergy.—F.]
The verses you sent on the bottling your wine
Were, in every one’s judgment, exceedingly fine;
And I must confess, as a dean and divine,
I think you inspired by the Muses all nine.
I nicely examined them every line,
And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine;
O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine!
With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine.
I know they have many a wicked design;
And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine.
However, I wish, honest comrade of mine,
You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,[1]
Where I hear you are cramm’d every day like
a swine;
With me you’ll no more have a stomach to dine,
Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine;
So I wish you were toothless, like Lord Masserine.
But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,[2]
I wish you would tell me which way you incline.
If when you return your road you don’t line,
On Thursday I’ll pay my respects at your shrine,
Wherever you bend, wherever you twine,
In square, or in opposite, circle, or trine.
Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine;
I hope you have swill’d with new milk from the
kine,
As much as the Liffee’s outdone by the Rhine;
And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline.
If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyne;
Or may your gown never be good Lutherine.
The beef you have got I hear is a chine;
But if too many come, your madam will whine;
And then you may kiss the low end of her spine.
But enough of this poetry Alexandrine;
I hope you will not think this a pasquine.
[Footnote 1: The seat of Lady Mountcashel, near Dublin.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), an Italian poet noted for his satirical and licentious verse,—W. E. B.]
A COPY OF A COPY OF VERSES FROM THOMAS SHERIDAN, CLERK, TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.[1]
Written July 15, 1721, at night.
I’d have you t’ know, George, Dan, Dean,
and Nim,
That I’ve learned how verse t’ compose
trim,
Much better b’half th’n you, n’r
you, n’r him,
And that I’d rid’cule their’nd your
flam-flim.
Ay b’t then, p’rhaps, says you, t’s
a merry whim,
With ‘bundance of mark’d notes i’
th’ rim,
So th’t I ought n’t for t’ be morose
‘nd t’ look grim,
Think n’t your ‘p’stle put m’
in a megrim;
Though ’n rep’t’t’on day,
I ‘ppear ver’ slim,
Th’ last bowl’t Helsham’s did m’
head t’ swim,
So th’t I h’d man’ aches ’n
v’ry scrubb’d limb,
Cause th’ top of th’ bowl I h’d
oft us’d t’ skim;
And b’sides D’lan’ swears th’t
I h’d swall’w’d s’v’r’l
brim-
Mers, ’nd that my vis’ge’s cov’r’d
o’er with r’d pim-
Ples: m’r’o’er though m’
scull were (’s ’tis n’t) ’s
strong’s tim-
Ber, ‘t must have ach’d. Th’
clans of th’ c’llege Sanh’drim,
Pres’nt the’r humbl’ and ‘fect’nate
respects; that’s t’ say,
D’ln’, ‘chlin,
P. Ludl’, Dic’ St’wart, H’lsham,
Capt’n
P’rr’ Walmsl’,
’nd Long sh’nks Timm.[2]
[Footnote 1: For the persons here alluded to see “The Country Life,” vol. i, p. 137.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Dr. James Stopford, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]
Dear Sheridan! a gentle pair
Of Gaulstown lads (for such they are)
Besides a brace of grave divines,
Adore the smoothness of thy lines:
Smooth as our basin’s silver flood,
Ere George had robb’d it of its mud;
Smoother than Pegasus’ old shoe,
Ere Vulcan comes to make him new.
The board on which we set our a—s,
Is not so smooth as are thy verses;
Compared with which (and that’s enough)
A smoothing-iron itself is rough.
Nor praise I less that circumcision,
By modern poets call’d elision,
With which, in proper station placed,
Thy polish’d lines are firmly braced.[1]
Thus a wise tailor is not pinching,
But turns at every seam an inch in:
Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches
Will ne’er be smooth, nor hold their stitches.
Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather,
When smooth’d by rubbing them together;
Thy words so closely wedged and short are,
Like walls, more lasting without mortar;
By leaving out the needless vowels,
You save the charge of lime and trowels.
One letter still another locks,
Each grooved and dovetail’d like a box;
Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct;
In chains thy syllables are linkt;
Thy words together tied in small hanks,
Close as the Macedonian phalanx;[2]
Or like the umbo[3] of the Romans,
Which fiercest foes could break by no means.
The critic, to his grief will find,
How firmly these indentures bind.
So, in the kindred painter’s art,
The shortening is the nicest part.
Philologers of future ages,
How will they pore upon thy pages!
Nor will they dare to break the joints,
But help thee to be read with points:
Or else, to show their learned labour, you
May backward be perused like Hebrew,
In which they need not lose a bit
Or of thy harmony or wit.
To make a work completely fine,
Number and weight and measure join;
Then all must grant your lines are weighty
Where thirty weigh as much as eighty;
All must allow your numbers more,
Where twenty lines exceed fourscore;
Nor can we think your measure short,
Where less than forty fill a quart,
With Alexandrian in the close,
Long, long, long, long, like Dan’s long nose.[4]
[Footnote 1: In the Dublin edition:
“Makes thy verse smooth, and makes
them last.”]
[Footnote 2: For a clear description of the phalanx, see Smith’s “Greek and Roman Antiquities,” p. 488.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: The projection in the centre of the shield, which caused the missiles of the enemy to glance off. See Smith, as above, p. 298.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: See post, the poems on Dan Jackson’s Picture.—W. E. B.]
GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN’S INVITATION TO THOMAS SHERIDAN
Gaulstown, Aug. 2, 1721.
Dear Tom, this verse, which however the beginning may appear, yet in the end’s good metre, Is sent to desire that, when your August vacation comes, your friends you’d meet here. For why should you stay in that filthy hole, I mean the city so smoky, When you have not one friend left in town, or at least not one that’s witty, to joke w’ ye? For as for honest John,[1] though I’m not sure on’t, yet I’ll be hang’d, lest he Be gone down to the county of Wexford with that great peer the Lord Anglesey.[2] O! but I forgot; perhaps, by this time, you may have one come to town, but I don’t know whether he be friend or foe, Delany: But, however, if he be come, bring him down, and you shall go back in a fortnight, for I know there’s no delaying ye. O! I forgot too: I believe there may be one more, I mean that great fat joker, friend Helsham, he That wrote the prologue,[3] and if you stay with him, depend on’t, in the end, he’ll sham ye. Bring down Longshanks Jim[4] too; but, now I think on’t, he’s not yet come from Courtown,[5] I fancy; For I heard, a month ago, that he was down there a-courting sly Nancy. However, bring down yourself, and you bring down all; for, to say it we may venture, In thee Delany’s spleen, John’s mirth, Helsham’s jokes, and the soft soul of amorous Jemmy, centre.
I had forgot to desire you to bring down what I say
you have, and you’ll believe me as sure as a
gun, and own it; I mean, what no other mortal in the
universe can boast of, your own spirit of pun, and
own wit. And now I hope you’ll excuse this
rhyming, which I must say is (though written somewhat
at large) trim and clean; And so I conclude, with
humble respects as usual
Your most dutiful and obedient
GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN.
[Footnote 1: Supposed to mean Dr. Walmsley.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Arthur, Earl of Anglesey.—Scott.]
[Footnote 3: It was customary with Dr. Sheridan to have a Greek play acted by his head class, just before they entered the university; and, accordingly, in the year 1720, the Doctor having fixed on Hippolytus, writ a prologue in English, to be spoken by Master Thom. Putland, one of the youngest children he had in his school. The prologue was very neat and elegant, but extremely puerile, and quite adapted to the childhood of the speaker, who as regularly was taught and rehearsed his part as any of the upper lads did theirs. However, it unfortunately happened that Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, had promised Sheridan that he would go and see his lads perform the tragedy. Upon which Dr. Helsham writ another prologue, wherein he laughed egregiously at Sheridan’s;
[Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.—F.]
[Footnote 5: The seat of —— Hussay, Esq., in the county of Kildare.—F.]
UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES. BY DR. DELANY IN SHERIDAN’S NAME[1]
Hail, human compound quadrifarious,
Invincible as wight Briareus![2]
Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one,
Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3]
O may your vastness deign t’ excuse
The praises of a puny Muse,
Unable, in her utmost flight,
To reach thy huge colossian height!
T’ attempt to write like thee were frantic,
Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic.
Yet let me bless, in humbler strain,
Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein,
Pour’d out t’ enrich thy native isle,
As Egypt wont to be with Nile.
O, how I joy to see thee wander,
In many a winding loose meander,
In circling mazes, smooth and supple,
And ending in a clink quadruple;
Loud, yet agreeable withal,
Like rivers rattling in their fall!
Thine, sure, is poetry divine,
Where wit and majesty combine;
Where every line, as huge as seven,
If stretch’d in length, would reach to Heaven:
Here all comparing would be slandering,
The least is more than Alexandrine.
Against thy verse Time sees with pain,
He whets his envious scythe in vain;
For though from thee he much may pare,
Yet much thou still wilt have to spare.
Thou hast alone the skill to feast
With Roman elegance of taste,
Who hast of rhymes as vast resources
As Pompey’s caterer of courses.
O thou, of all the Nine inspired!
My languid soul, with teaching tired,
How is it raptured, when it thinks
Of thy harmonious set of chinks;
Each answering each in various rhymes,
Like echo to St. Patrick’s chimes!
Thy Muse, majestic in her rage,
Moves like Statira[5] on the stage;
[Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.—F.]
[Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, “centumgeminus Briareus,” Virg., “Aen.,” vi, 287; also called Aegaeon, “centum cui brachia dicunt,” Virg., “Aen.,” x, 565; see Heyne’s notes.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: A mythic king, having three bodies, whose arms were carried off by Hercules.—Lucr., v, 28, and Munro’s note; Virg. “Aen.,” vii, 662, and viii, 202:
“maxumus
ultor
Tergemini nece Geryonae spoliisque superbus
Alcides aderat taurosque hac victor agebat
Ingentis, vallemque boves amnemque tenebant.”—W.
E. B.]
[Footnote 4: Cambyses, the warrior king of Persia, whose name is the emblem of bravado.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 5: Represented as the perfection of female beauty in “Cassandra,” a romance by La Calprenede, romancier et auteur dramatique, 1610-1663,—Larousse.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 6: Iris, daughter of Thaumas, and the messenger of Juno, descending and returning on the rainbow.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 7: At Gaulstown there is so famous an echo, that if you repeat two lines of Virgil out of a speaking-trumpet, you may hear the nymph return them to your ear with great propriety and clearness.—F.]
[Footnote 8: These words allude to their amusements with the echo, having no other signification but to express the sound of stones when beaten one against the other, returned by the echo.—F.]
TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN IN CIRCLES BY DR. SWIFT
It never was known that circular letters,
By humble companions were sent to their betters,
And, as to the subject, our judgment, meherc’le,
Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle.
But now for your verses; we tell you, imprimis,
The segment so large ’twixt your reason and
rhyme is,
That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound,
And, before we find either, our noddles turn round.
Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant,
To give us your measures of line by a quadrant.
[Footnote 1: There were four human figures in the centre of the circular verses.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.—F.]
[Footnote 3: Miss Thomason, Lady Betty’s daughter, then, perhaps, about a year old; afterwards married to Gustavus Lambert, Esq., of Paynstown, in the county of Meath.—Scott.]
ON DR. SHERIDAN’S CIRCULAR VERSES BY MR. GEORGE ROCHFORT
With music and poetry equally blest,
A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest:
“Great author of harmony, verses, and light!
Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write.
Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day,
My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away.
Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains
To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains;
Thy manual signet refuses to put
To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut.
Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant
Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want.
Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine,
O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine!
With them I’m content thou shouldst make thy
abode;
But visit thy servant in jig or in ode;
Make one work immortal: ’tis all I request.”
Apollo look’d pleased; and, resolving
to jest,
Replied, “Honest friend, I’ve consider’d
thy case;
Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face.
Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great;
Thy works shall continue; and here’s the receipt.
On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend:
Write verses in circles: they never shall end.”
To fair Lady Betty Dan sat for his picture,
And defied her to draw him so oft as he piqued her,
He knew she’d no pencil or colouring by her,
And therefore he thought he might safely defy her.
Come sit, says my lady; then whips up her scissar,
And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, sir.
Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprise
How she lengthen’d his chin, how she hollow’d
his eyes;
But flatter’d himself with a secret conceit,
That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat.
Lady Betty observed it, then pulls out a pin,
And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin:
And, to make roasted silk to resemble his raw-bone,
She raised up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone;
Till at length in exactest proportion he rose,
From the crown of his head to the arch of his nose;
And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all,
’Tis certain the copy had outdone the original.
Well, that’s but my outside, says
Dan, with a vapour;
Say you so? says my lady; I’ve lined it with
paper.
PATR. DELANY sculpsit.
[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 96. Dan Jackson’s nose seems to have been a favourite subject for raillery, as in this and some following pieces.—W. E. B.]
Clarissa draws her scissars from the case
To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson’s face;
One sloping cut made forehead, nose, and chin,
A nick produced a mouth, and made him grin,
Such as in tailor’s measure you have seen.
But still were wanting his grimalkin eyes,
For which gray worsted stocking paint supplies.
Th’ unravell’d thread through needle’s
eye convey’d,
Transferr’d itself into his pasteboard head.
How came the scissars to be thus outdone?
The needle had an eye, and they had none.
O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan—
You’ll swear the pasteboard was the better man.
“The devil!” says he, “the head
is not so full!”
Indeed it is—behold the paper skull.
THO. SHERIDAN sculp.
If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie
it,
I’ll swear he’s so like it that he was
made by it.
THO. SHERIDAN sculp.
Dan’s evil genius in a trice
Had stripp’d him of his coin at dice.
Chloe, observing this disgrace,
On Pam cut out his rueful face.
By G—, says Dan, ’tis very hard,
Cut out at dice, cut out at card!
G. ROCHFORT sculp.
Whilst you three merry poets traffic
To give us a description graphic
Of Dan’s large nose in modern sapphic;
I spend my time in making sermons,
Or writing libels on the Germans,
Or murmuring at Whigs’ preferments.
But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort,
And look in English, French, and Scotch for’t,
At last I’m fairly forced to botch for’t.
Bid Lady Betty recollect her,
And tell, who was it could direct her
To draw the face of such a spectre?
I must confess, that as to me, sirs,
Though I ne’er saw her hold the scissars,
I now could safely swear it is hers.
’Tis true, no nose could come in better;
’Tis a vast subject stuff’d with matter,
Which all may handle, none can flatter.
Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows,
That not the wisest mortal knows
What fortune may befall his nose.
Show me the brightest Irish toast,
Who from her lover e’er could boast
Above a song or two at most:
For thee three poets now are drudging all,
To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all,
Both of the picture and original.
Thy nose’s length and fame extend
So far, dear Dan, that every friend
Tries who shall have it by the end.
And future poets, as they rise,
Shall read with envy and surprise
Thy nose outshining Celia’s eyes.
JON. SWIFT.
My verse little better you’ll find
than my face is;
A word to the wise—ut pictura
poesis.
Three merry lads, with envy stung,
Because Dan’s face is better hung,
Combined in verse to rhyme it down,
And in its place set up their own;
As if they’d run it down much better
By number of their feet in metre.
Or that its red did cause their spite,
Which made them draw in black and white.
Be that as ’twill, this is most true,
They were inspired by what they drew.
Let then such critics know, my face
Gives them their comeliness and grace:
While every line of face does bring
A line of grace to what they sing.
But yet, methinks, though with disgrace
Both to the picture and the face,
I should name them who do rehearse
The story of the picture farce;
The squire, in French as hard as stone,
Or strong as rock, that’s all as one,
On face on cards is very brisk, sirs,
Because on them you play at whisk, sirs.
But much I wonder, why my crany
Should envied be by De-el-any:
And yet much more, that half-namesake
Should join a party in the freak.
For sure I am it was not safe
Thus to abuse his better half,
As I shall prove you, Dan, to be,
Divisim and conjunctively.
For if Dan love not Sherry, can
Sherry be anything to Dan?
This is the case whene’er you see
Dan makes nothing of Sherry;
Or should Dan be by Sherry o’erta’en
Then Dan would be poor Sherridane
’Tis hard then he should be decried
By Dan, with Sherry by his side.
But, if the case must be so hard,
That faces suffer by a card,
Let critics censure, what care I?
Backbiters only we defy,
Faces are free from injury.
You say your face is better hung
Than ours—by what? by nose or tongue?
In not explaining you are wrong
to us, sir.
Because we thus must state the case,
That you have got a hanging face,
Th’ untimely end’s a damn’d disgrace
of noose, sir.
But yet be not cast down: I see
A weaver will your hangman be:
You’ll only hang in tapestry
with many;
And then the ladies, I suppose,
Will praise your longitude of nose,
For latent charms within your clothes,
dear Danny.
Thus will the fair of every age
From all parts make their pilgrimage,
Worship thy nose with pious rage
of love, sir:
All their religion will be spent
About thy woven monument,
And not one orison be sent
to Jove, sir.
You the famed idol will become,
As gardens graced in ancient Rome,
By matrons worshipp’d in the gloom
of night.[1]
O happy Dan! thrice happy sure!
Thy fame for ever shall endure,
Who after death can love secure
at sight.
So far I thought it was my duty
To dwell upon thy boasted beauty;
Now I’ll proceed: a word or two t’
ye
in answer
To that part where you carry on
This paradox, that rock and stone
In your opinion, are all one:
How can, sir,
A man of reasoning so profound
So stupidly be run a-ground,
As things so different to confound
t’our senses?
Except you judged them by the knock
Of near an equal hardy block;
Such an experimental stroke
convinces.
Then might you be, by dint of reason,
A proper judge on this occasion;
’Gainst feeling there’s no disputation,
is granted:
Therefore to thy superior wit,
Who made the trial, we submit;
Thy head to prove the truth of it
we wanted.
In one assertion you’re to blame,
Where Dan and Sherry’s made the same,
Endeavouring to have your name
refined, sir:
You’ll see most grossly you mistook,
If you consult your spelling-book,
(The better half you say you took,)
you’ll find,
sir,
S, H, E, she—and R, I, ri,
Both put together make Sherry;
D, A, N, Dan—makes up the three
syllables;
Dan is but one, and Sherry two,
Then, sir, your choice will never do;
Therefore I’ve turn’d, my friend, on you
the tables.
[Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens. Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., “Georg.”, iv, 110-11. In India, the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is described by Horace—“ruber porrectus ab inguine palus”—and where he is worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.—W. E. B.]
Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him. Credite,
Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem. You look and
you write with so different a grace, That I envy your
verse, though I did not your face. And to him
that thinks rightly, there’s reason enough,
’Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough.
But much I’m amazed you should think
my design
Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin,
Which you yourself wonder the de’el should malign.
And if ’tis so strange, that your monstership’s
crany Should be envied by him, much less by Delany;
Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter,
I envy the painter, although not the picture.
And justly she’s envied, since a fiend of Hell
Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael.
Next, as to the charge, which you tell
us is true,
That we were inspired by the subject we drew.
Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it;
Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it;
Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne’er been
inspired,
Though perhaps it might justly ’ve been said
we were fired,
As to the division of words in your staves,
Like my countryman’s horn-comb, into three halves,
I meddle not with ’t, but presume to make merry,
You call’d Dan one half, and t’other half
Sherry:
Now if Dan’s a half, as you call’t o’er
and o’er,
Then it can’t be denied that Sherry’s
two more.
For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you,
That Sherry’s at least of double the value.
But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse;
So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce)
Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce.
But be that as ’twill, you’ll know more
anon, sir, When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer.
Three merry lads you own we are;
’Tis very true, and free from care:
But envious we cannot bear,
believe, sir:
For, were all forms of beauty thine,
Were you like Nereus soft and fine,
We should not in the least repine,
or grieve, sir.
Then know from us, most beauteous Dan,
That roughness best becomes a man;
’Tis women should be pale, and wan,
and taper;
And all your trifling beaux and fops,
Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops,
Are but the offspring of toy-shops,
mere vapour.
We know your morning hours you pass
To cull and gather out a face;
Is this the way you take your glass?
Forbear it:
Those loads of paint upon your toilet
Will never mend your face, but spoil it,
It looks as if you did parboil it:
Drink claret.
Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean,
That they’re like Cynthia in the wane,
Or breast of goose when ’tis pick’d clean,
or pullet:
See what by drinking you have done:
You’ve made your phiz a skeleton,
From the long distance of your crown,
t’ your
gullet.
Wearied with saying grace and prayer,
I hasten’d down to country air,
To read your answer, and prepare
reply to’t:
But your fair lines so grossly flatter,
Pray do they praise me or bespatter?
I must suspect you mean the latter—
Ah! slyboot!
It must be so! what else, alas!
Can mean by culling of a face,
And all that stuff of toilet, glass,
and box-comb?
But be’t as ’twill, this you must grant,
That you’re a daub, whilst I but paint;
Then which of us two is the quaint-
er coxcomb?
I value not your jokes of noose,
Your gibes and all your foul abuse,
More than the dirt beneath my shoes,
nor fear it.
Yet one thing vexes me, I own,
Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone;
To be called lean by a skeleton,
who’d bear
it?
’Tis true, indeed, to curry friends,
You seem to praise, to make amends,
And yet, before your stanza ends,
you flout me,
’Bout latent charms beneath my clothes,
For every one that knows me, knows
That I have nothing like my nose
about me:
I pass now where you fleer and laugh,
’Cause I call Dan my better half!
O there you think you have me safe!
But hold, sir;
Is not a penny often found
To be much greater than a pound!
By your good leave, my most profound
and bold sir,
Dan’s noble metal, Sherry base;
So Dan’s the better, though the less,
An ounce of gold’s worth ten of brass,
dull pedant!
As to your spelling, let me see,
If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry,
Good spelling-master: your crany
has lead in’t.
Three days for answer I have waited,
I thought an ace you’d ne’er have bated
And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
poetaster?
Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose
Of thy dimension’s fit for prose;
But every one that knows Dan, knows
thy master.
Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1]
Thy fame, thy genius, now declines,
proud boaster.
I hear with some concern your roar
And flying think to quit the score,
By clapping billets on your door
and posts, sir.
Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant,
I’m grieved to hear your banishment,
But pleased to find you do relent
and cry on.
I maul’d you, when you look’d so bluff,
But now I’ll secret keep your stuff;
For know, prostration is enough
to th’ lion.
[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.—F.]
SHERIDAN’S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN
Miserae
cognosce prooemia rixae,
Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo
tantum.[1]
Poor Sherry, inglorious,
To Dan the victorious,
Presents, as ’tis fitting,
Petition and greeting.
To you, victorious and brave,
Your now subdued and suppliant slave
Most humbly sues for pardon;
Who when I fought still cut me down,
And when I vanquish’d, fled the town
Pursued and laid me hard on.
Now lowly crouch’d, I cry peccavi,
And prostrate, supplicate pour ma vie;
Your mercy I rely on;
For you my conqueror and my king,
In pardoning, as in punishing,
Will show yourself a lion.
Alas! sir, I had no design,
But was unwarily drawn in;
For spite I ne’er had any;
’Twas the damn’d squire with the hard
name;
The de’il too that owed me a shame,
The devil and Delany;
They tempted me t’ attack your highness,
And then, with wonted wile and slyness,
They left me in the lurch:
Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween,
I’ve nothing left to vent my spleen
But ferula and birch:
And they, alas! yield small relief,
Seem rather to renew my grief,
My wounds bleed all anew:
For every stroke goes to my heart
And at each lash I feel the smart
Of lash laid on by you.
[Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.—W. E. B.]
The suit which humbly you have made
Is fully and maturely weigh’d;
And as ’tis your petition,
I do forgive, for well I know,
Since you’re so bruised, another blow
Would break the head of Priscian.[1]
’Tis not my purpose or intent
That you should suffer banishment;
I pardon, now you’ve courted;
And yet I fear this clemency
Will come too late to profit thee,
For you’re with grief transported.
However, this I do command,
That you your birch do take in hand,
Read concord and syntax on;
The bays, your own, are only mine,
Do you then still your nouns decline,
Since you’ve declined Dan Jackson.
[Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has left a work entitled “Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri xviii.”—W. E. B.]
THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON
MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,
—mediocribus esse poetis
Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1]
To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace’s Art of Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense:
For poets who can’t tell [high]
rocks from stones,
The rope, the hangman, and the gallows
groans.
I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was made:
You’ll have a gosling, call it Dan,
And do not make your goose a swan.
’Tis true, because the God of Wit
To get him in that shape thought fit,
He’ll have some glowworm sparks of it.
Venture you may to turn him loose,
But let it be to another goose.
The time will come, the fatal time,
When he shall dare a swan to rhyme;
The tow’ring swan comes sousing down,
And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown.
From that sad time, and sad disaster,
He’ll be a lame, crack’d poetaster.
At length for stealing rhymes and triplets,
He’ll be content to hang in giblets.
You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pass; for it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings, though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my Gradus ad Parnassum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works.
Then lo, I mount as slowly as I
sung,
And then I’ll make a line
for every rung;[2]
There’s nine, I see,—the
Muses, too, are nine.
Who would refuse to die a death
like mine!
1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name;
2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same. 3.
This rung, I see, Terpsichore’s thy flute; 4.
Erato, sing me to the Gods; ah, do’t: 5.
Thalia, don’t make me a comedy;
6. Urania, raise me tow’rds the starry
sky: 7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend,
8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend;
9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end.
POOR
DAN JACKSON.
[Footnote 1: A variation from:
“mediocribus
esse poetis
Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae.”
Epist. ad Pisones.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder; still used in every part of Ireland.—Scott.]
TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON
TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON,
WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED.
TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN
Here I return my trust, nor ask
One penny for remittance;
If I have well perform’d my task,
Pray send me an acquittance.
Too long I bore this weighty pack,
As Hercules the sky;
Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back,
Let me be stander-by.
Not all the witty things you speak
In compass of a day,
Not half the puns you make a-week,
Should bribe his longer stay.
With me you left him out at nurse,
Yet are you not my debtor;
For, as he hardly can be worse,
I ne’er could make him better.
He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes,
Just as he did before;
And, when he’s lash’d a hundred times,
He rhymes and puns the more.
When rods are laid on school-boys’ bums,
The more they frisk and skip:
The school-boys’ top but louder hums
The more they use the whip.
Thus, a lean beast beneath a load
(A beast of Irish breed)
Will, in a tedious dirty road,
Outgo the prancing steed.
You knock him down and down in vain,
And lay him flat before ye,
For soon as he gets up again,
He’ll strut, and cry, Victoria!
At every stroke of mine, he fell,
’Tis true he roar’d and cried;
But his impenetrable shell
Could feel no harm beside.
The tortoise thus, with motion slow,
Will clamber up a wall;
Yet, senseless to the hardest blow,
Gets nothing but a fall.
Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I,
Attack his pericrany?
And, since it is in vain to try,
We’ll send him to Delany.
Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry,
Threaten’d loudly to turn me to stone with his
sorcery,
But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our
foe says,
He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses,
For omitting the first (where I make a comparison,
With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison)
Yet, by my description, you’ll find he in short
is
A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.
So I hope from henceforward you ne’er will ask,
can I maul
This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal?
And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.
A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate,
The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target;
Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could,
But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood;
While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick
him,
While t’other, enraged that he could not once
prick him,
Cried, “Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore,
Me’ll fight you, begar, if you’ll come
from your door!”
Our case is the same; if you’ll
fight like a man,
Don’t fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan;
For he’s not to be pierced; his leather’s
so tough,
The devil himself can’t get through his buff.
Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard,
You made me in your last a goose;
I lay my life on’t you are wrong,
To raise me by such foul abuse;
My quill you’ll find’s a woman’s
tongue;
And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
And like a bird do something more;
When I let fly, ’twill so bespatter,
I’ll change you to a black-a-moor.
I’ll write while I have half an eye in my head;
I’ll write while I live, and I’ll write
when you’re dead.
Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave,
I’ll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]
[Footnote 1; See post, p. 351.—W. E. B.]
I can’t but wonder, Mr. Dean,
To see you live, so often slain.
My arrows fly and fly in vain,
But still I try and try again.
I’m now, Sir, in a writing vein;
Don’t think, like you, I squeeze and strain,
Perhaps you’ll ask me what I mean;
I will not tell, because it’s plain.
Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane;
If so, from pen and ink refrain.
Indeed, believe me, I’m in pain
For her and you; your life’s a scene
Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane,
Enough to crack the strongest brain.
Now to conclude, I do remain,
Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.
Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance,
Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance.
You’re so retrograde, sure you were born under
Cancer;
Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer?
If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye,
And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each
Fury,
I’ll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk;
I’ll tear all your rules, and demolish your
pun-talk:
Nay, further, the moment you’re free from your
scalding,
I’ll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.
Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head! You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred. I’m sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. Yes, you call’d my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! ’tis a shame For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! ’tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: He
[Footnote 1: See ante, p. 349.—W.E.B.]
Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw:
In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw;
A temper the devil himself could not bridle;
Impertinent mixture of busy and idle;
As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed;
She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit;
A housewife in bed, at table a slattern;
For all an example, for no one a pattern.
Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3]
and Merry Dan,[4]
Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?
[Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]
[Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]
[Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]
[Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]
Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise
Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes,
Like ghost I glide along your floor,
And softly shut the parlour door:
For, should I break your sweet repose,
Who knows what money you might lose:
Since oftentimes it has been found,
A dream has given ten thousand pound?
Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on,
And all you get shall be your own;
Provided you to this agree,
That all you lose belongs to me.
So, about twelve at night, the punk
Steals from the cully when he’s drunk:
Nor is contented with a treat,
Without her privilege to cheat:
Nor can I the least difference find,
But that you left no clap behind.
But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye,
My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha’penny
To eat my meat and drink my medlicot,
And then to give me such a deadly cut—
But ’tis observed, that men in gowns
Are most inclined to plunder crowns.
Could you but change a crown as easy
As you can steal one, how ’twould please ye!
I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine’s
Knew how to set you better patterns;
For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3]
And for his victuals, let a ragman dish ’em.
Saturday night.
[Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.—F.]
[Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem.—Scott.]
A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN’S SCHOOL. SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS
AS in a silent night a lonely swain,
’Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain,
To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes,
And every look finds out a new surprise;
So great’s our wonder, ladies, when we view
Our lower sphere made more serene by you.
O! could such light in my dark bosom shine,
What life, what vigour, should adorn each line!
Beauty and virtue should be all my theme,
And Venus brighten my poetic flame.
The advent’rous painter’s fate and mine
are one
Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun;
Majestic light his feeble art defies,
And for presuming, robs him of his eyes.
Then blame your power, that my inferior lays
Sink far below your too exalted praise:
Don’t think we flatter, your applause to gain;
No, we’re sincere,—to flatter you
were vain.
You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied,
And all perfections but your beauties hide.
Then as you’re fair, we hope you will be kind,
Nor frown on those you see so well inclined
To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and
then
Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.
Now all is done, ye learn’d spectators, tell
Have we not play’d our parts extremely well?
We think we did, but if you do complain,
We’re all content to act the play again:
’Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most,
And time well spent in school cannot be lost.
But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above?
We guess’d long since you all desired to move:
But that’s in vain, for we’ll not let
a man stir,
Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1]
Him we’ll dismiss, that understands the play;
He who does not, i’faith, he’s like to
stay.
Though this new method may provoke your laughter,
To act plays first, and understand them after;
We do not care, for we will have our humour,
And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or
two more.
Why don’t you stir? there’s not a man
will budge;
How much they’ve read, I leave you all to judge.
[Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here intended.—W. E. B.]
A parody on the popular song beginning,
“My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent.”
My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent,
When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went;
For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest;
Was ever a toper so merrily blest?
But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
Because I must go to my wife back to town;
To the fondling and toying of “honey,”
and “dear,”
And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer.
My daughter I ever was pleased to see
Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee:
My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said,
Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head:
But now out of humour, I with a sour look,
Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book;
And I’ll give her another; for why should she
play,
Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away?
Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become,
That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum?
Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile,
While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done,
Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone.
Then since it is so, bring me here a supply;
Begone, froward wife, for I’ll drink till I
die.
A NEW YEAR’S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY SHERIDAN 1723
How few can be of grandeur sure!
The high may fall, the rich be poor.
The only favourite at court,
To-morrow may be Fortune’s sport;
For all her pleasure and her aim
Is to destroy both power and fame.
Of this the Dean is an example,
No instance is more plain and ample.
The world did never yet produce,
For courts a man of greater use.
TO QUILCA A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725
Let me thy properties explain:
A rotten cabin, dropping rain:
Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke;
Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
Here elements have lost their uses,
Air ripens not, nor earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil,
Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want, in triumph reigns;
And her chief officers of state,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE 1725
Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Not seen by our betters.
A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.
A FAITHFUL INVENTORY
OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO ——
ROOM IN T. C. D.
IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT’S MANNER.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725
——quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1]
This description of a scholar’s room in Trinity College, Dublin, was found among Mr. Smith’s papers. It is not in the Dean’s hand, but seems to have been the production of Sheridan.
Imprimis, there’s a table blotted,
A tatter’d hanging all bespotted.
A bed of flocks, as I may rank it,
Reduced to rug and half a blanket.
A tinder box without a flint,
An oaken desk with nothing in’t;
A pair of tongs bought from a broker,
A fender and a rusty poker;
A penny pot and basin, this
Design’d for water, that for piss;
A broken-winded pair of bellows,
Two knives and forks, but neither fellows.
Item, a surplice, not unmeeting,
Either for table-cloth, or sheeting;
There is likewise a pair of breeches,
But patch’d, and fallen in the stitches,
Hung up in study very little,
Plaster’d with cobweb and spittle,
An airy prospect all so pleasing,
From my light window without glazing,
A trencher and a College bottle,
Piled up on Locke and Aristotle.
A prayer-book, which he seldom handles
A save-all and two farthing candles.
A smutty ballad, musty libel,
A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible.
The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses
By Overton, to save expenses.
Item, (if I am not much mistaken,)
A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon.
A candlestick without a snuffer,
Whereby his fingers often suffer.
Two odd old shoes I should not skip here,
Each strapless serves instead of slippers,
And chairs a couple, I forgot ’em,
But each of them without a bottom.
Thus I in rhyme have comprehended
His goods, and so my schedule’s ended.
[Footnote 1: Virg., “Aen.,” ii, 5.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of “An Argument to prove that the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author’s reply.” London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so disliked.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in mezzotints.—W. E. B.]
HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI
Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays outshine,
Look down upon your quondam foe;
O! let me never write again,
If e’er I disoblige you, Dean,
Should you compassion show.
Take those iambics which I wrote,
When anger made me piping hot,
And give them to your cook,
To singe your fowl, or save your paste
The next time when you have a feast;
They’ll save you many a book.
To burn them, you are not content;
I give you then my free consent,
To sink them in the harbour;
If not, they’ll serve to set off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks;
So give them to your barber.
Or, when you next your physic take,
I must entreat you then to make
A proper application;
’Tis what I’ve done myself before,
With Dan’s fine thoughts and many more,
Who gave me provocation.
What cannot mighty anger do?
It makes the weak the strong pursue,
A goose attack a swan;
It makes a woman, tooth and nail,
Her husband’s hands and face assail,
While he’s no longer man.
Though some, we find, are more discreet,
Before the world are wondrous sweet,
And let their husbands hector:
But when the world’s asleep, they wake,
That is the time they choose to speak:
Witness the curtain lecture.
Such was the case with you, I find:
All day you could conceal your mind;
But when St. Patrick’s chimes
Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse,
When I engaged for better for worse,)
You scolded with your rhymes.
Have done! have done! I quit the field,
To you as to my wife, I yield:
As she must wear the breeches:
So shall you wear the laurel crown,
Win it and wear it, ’tis your own;
The poet’s only riches.
[Footnote 1: Recantation.—W. E. B.]
A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN
You will excuse me, I suppose,
For sending rhyme instead of prose.
Because hot weather makes me lazy,
To write in metre is more easy.
While you are trudging London town,
I’m strolling Dublin up and down;
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix’d in an elbow-chair at ease,
I choose companions as I please.
I’d rather have one single shelf
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be said,
Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you’re in raptures with Faustina;[1]
I’m charm’d at home with our Sheelina.
While you are starving there in state,
I’m cramming here with butchers’ meat.
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why, so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you mayn’t in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can spare,
I’d lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
[Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 2: They is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, “They have stolen it.” Dublin Edition.—W. E. B.]
AN INVITATION TO DINNER
FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT
1727
I’ve sent to the ladies this morning to warn
’em,
To order their chaise, and repair to Rathfarnam;[1]
Where you shall be welcome to dine, if your deanship
Can take up with me, and my friend Stella’s
leanship.[2]
I’ve got you some soles, and a fresh bleeding
bret,
That’s just disengaged from the toils of a net:
An excellent loin of fat veal to be roasted,
With lemons, and butter, and sippets well toasted:
Some larks that descended, mistaking the skies,
Which Stella brought down by the light of her eyes;
And there, like Narcissus,[3] they gazed till they
died,
And now they’re to lie in some crumbs that are
fried.
My wine will inspire you with joy and delight,
’Tis mellow, and old, and sparkling, and bright;
An emblem of one that you love, I suppose,
Who gathers more lovers the older she grows.[4]
Let me be your Gay, and let Stella be Pope,
We’ll wean you from sighing for England I hope;
When we are together there’s nothing that is
dull,
There’s nothing like Durfey, or Smedley, or
Tisdall.
We’ve sworn to make out an agreeable feast,
Our dinner, our wine, and our wit to your taste.
Your answer in half-an-hour, though you are at prayers; you have a pencil in your pocket.
[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin, where Dr. Sheridan had a country house.]
[Footnote 2: Stella was at this time in a very declining state of health. She died the January following.—F.]
[Footnote 3: The youth who died for love of his own image reflected in a fountain, and was changed into a flower of the same name. Ovid, “Metam.,” iii, 407.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 4: He means Stella, who was certainly one of the most amiable women in the world.—F.]
ON THE FIVE LADIES AT SOT’S HOLE[1] WITH THE DOCTOR[2] AT THEIR HEAD
N.B. THE LADIES TREATED THE DOCTOR.
SENT AS FROM AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY. 1728
Fair ladies, number five,
Who in your merry freaks,
With little Tom contrive
To feast on ale and steaks;
While he sits by a-grinning,
To see you safe in Sot’s Hole,
Set up with greasy linen,
And neither mugs nor pots whole;
Alas! I never thought
A priest would please your palate;
Besides, I’ll hold a groat
He’ll put you in a ballad;
Where I shall see your faces,
On paper daub’d so foul,
They’ll be no more like graces,
Than Venus like an owl.
And we shall take you rather
To be a midnight pack
Of witches met together,
With Beelzebub in black.
It fills my heart with woe,
To think such ladies fine
Should be reduced so low,
To treat a dull divine.
Be by a parson cheated!
Had you been cunning stagers,
You might yourselves be treated
By captains and by majors.
See how corruption grows,
While mothers, daughters, aunts,
Instead of powder’d beaux,
From pulpits choose gallants.
If we, who wear our wigs
With fantail and with snake,
Are bubbled thus by prigs;
Z——ds! who would be
a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,
I’d knock the Doctor down;
Or could I read or write,
Egad! I’d wear a gown.
Then leave him to his birch;[3]
And at the Rose on Sunday,
The parson safe at church,
I’ll treat you with burgundy.
[Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for beef-steaks.—F.]
[Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.—F.]
[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.—F.]
WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD
BY DR. SHERIDAN
You little scribbling beau,
What demon made you write?
Because to write you know
As much as you can fight.
For compliment so scurvy,
I wish we had you here;
We’d turn you topsy-turvy
Into a mug of beer.
You thought to make a farce on
The man and place we chose;
We’re sure a single parson
Is worth a hundred beaux.
And you would make us vassals,
Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
To silver clocks and tassels;
You would, you Thing of Things!
Because around your cane
A ring of diamonds is set;
And you, in some by-lane,
Have gain’d a paltry grisette;
Shall we, of sense refined,
Your trifling nonsense bear,
As noisy as the wind,
As empty as the air?
We hate your empty prattle;
And vow and swear ’tis true,
There’s more in one child’s rattle,
Than twenty fops like you.
Why, how now, dapper black!
I smell your gown and cassock,
As strong upon your back,
As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock.
To write such scurvy stuff!
Fine ladies never do’t;
I know you well enough,
And eke your cloven foot.
Fine ladies, when they write,
Nor scold, nor keep a splutter:
Their verses give delight,
As soft and sweet as butter.
But Satan never saw
Such haggard lines as these:
They stick athwart my maw,
As bad as Suffolk cheese.
[Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland, who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the Journal.—W. E. B.]
DR. SHERIDAN’S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728
All you that would refine your blood,
As pure as famed Llewellyn,
By waters clear, come every year
To drink at Ballyspellin.
Though pox or itch your skins enrich
With rubies past the telling,
’Twill clear your skin before you’ve been
A month at Ballyspellin.
If lady’s cheek be green as leek
When she comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rose within it glows
When she’s at Ballyspellin.
The sooty brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;
Then back she goes, to kill the beaux,
By dint of Ballyspellin.
Our ladies are as fresh and fair
As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling:
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyspellin.
We men submit as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling:
The reason’s plain; the ladies reign,
They’re queens at Ballyspellin.
By matchless charms, unconquer’d arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
Their power at Ballyspellin.
Cold water turns to fire, and burns
I know, because I fell in
A stream, which came from one bright dame
Who drank at Ballyspellin.
Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
To bring their Anne or Nell in,
With so much grace, I’m sure no place
Can vie with Ballyspellin.
No politics, no subtle tricks,
No man his country selling:
We eat, we drink; we never think
Of these at Ballyspellin.
The troubled mind, the puff’d with wind,
Do all come here pell-mell in;
And they are sure to work their cure
By drinking Ballyspellin.
Though dropsy fills you to the gills,
From chin to toe though swelling,
Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Ballyspellin.
Death throws no darts through all these parts,
No sextons here are knelling;
Come, judge and try, you’ll never die,
But live at Ballyspellin.
Except you feel darts tipp’d with steel,
Which here are every belle in:
When from their eyes sweet ruin flies,
We die at Ballyspellin.
Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care,
Your sight, your taste, your smelling,
Your ears, your touch, transported much
Each day at Ballyspellin.
Within this ground we all sleep sound,
No noisy dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Celia’s sake,
All night at Ballyspellin.
There all you see, both he and she,
No lady keeps her cell in;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyspellin.
My rhymes are gone; I think I’ve none,
Unless I should bring Hell in;
But, since I’m here to Heaven so near,
I can’t at Ballyspellin!
[Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, “whither Sheridan had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady.” See note to the “Answer,” post, p. 371.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Ross.—Dublin Edition.]
Dare you dispute, you saucy brute,
And think there’s no refelling
Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise
You give to Ballyspellin?
Howe’er you flounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;
Your water’s mud, and sours the blood
When drunk at Ballyspellin.
Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,
You thither are compelling,
Will back be sent worse than they went,
From nasty Ballyspellin.
Llewellyn why? As well may I
Name honest Doctor Pellin;
So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes,
To bring in Ballyspellin.
No subject fit to try your wit,
When you went colonelling:
But dull intrigues ’twixt jades and teagues,
You met at Ballyspellin.
Our lasses fair, say what you dare,
Who sowins[2] make with shelling,
At Market-hill more beaux can kill,
Than yours at Ballyspellin.
Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript,
To wash herself our well in,
A bum so white ne’er came in sight
At paltry Ballyspellin.
Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear;
Of Holland not an ell in,
No, not a rag, whate’er your brag,
Is found at Ballyspellin.
But Tom will prate at any rate,
All other nymphs expelling:
Because he gets a few grisettes
At lousy Ballyspellin.
There’s bonny Jane, in yonder lane,
Just o’er against the Bell inn;
Where can you meet a lass so sweet,
Round all your Ballyspellin?
We have a girl deserves an earl;
She came from Enniskellin;
So fair, so young, no such among
The belles of Ballyspellin.
How would you stare, to see her there,
The foggy mists dispelling,
That cloud the brows of every blowse
Who lives at Ballyspellin!
Now, as I live, I would not give
A stiver or a skellin,
To towse and kiss the fairest miss
That leaks at Ballyspellin.
Whoe’er will raise such lies as these
Deserves a good cudgelling:
Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts
At dirty Ballyspellin.
My rhymes are gone to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as those you write,
To force in Ballyspellin.
[Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift was on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson’s, “in a mere jest and innocent merriment,” was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady and himself, “against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment, gratitude, or common manners.” See “The History of the Second Solomon,” “Prose Works,” xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon passed, and the Dean and Sheridan resumed their intimate friendship.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, and other parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the shellings of oats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.—F.]
TO DR. HELSHAM [2]
Nov. 23, at night, 1731.
SIR,
When I left you, I found myself of the grape’s
juice sick;
I’m so full of pity I never abuse sick;
And the patientest patient ever you knew sick;
Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick.
I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick:
She mended at first, but now she’s anew sick.
Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue
sick.
Dean Cross, had he preach’d, would have made
us all pew-sick.
Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew,
sick?
Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew
sick,
And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick.
Miss Morice was (I can assure you ’tis true)
sick:
For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?
Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick,
Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.
Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene’er she does
[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a specimen of those bagatelles for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.—H.]
[Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath, Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as “the most eminent physician in this city and kingdom.” He was one of the brilliant literary coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.—W. E. B..]
[Footnote 3: St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia’s day was usually performed.—F.]
[Footnote 4: Vide Grattan, inter Belchamp and Clonshogh.—Dublin Edition.]
Nov. 23, at night.
If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.
This night I came home with a very cold dew sick,
And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick;
But I hope I shall ne’er be like you, of a shrew
sick,
Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.
The Doctor’s first rhyme would make any Jew
sick:
I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,
For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,
Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick:
Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick’s did spew
sick:
And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick,
The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick,
And stopp’d the distemper, as being but new
sick.
The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew
sick;
Had we two been there, it would have made me and you
sick:
A lady that long’d, is by eating of glue sick;
Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick?
I’m told that my wife is by winding a clew sick;
The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick.
There’s a gamester in town, for
a throw that he threw sick,
And yet the whole trade of his dice he’ll pursue
sick;
I’ve known an old miser for paying his due sick;
At present I’m grown by a pinch of my shoe sick,
And what would you have me with verses to do sick?
Send rhymes, and I’ll send you some others in
lieu sick.
Of
rhymes I have plenty,
And
therefore send twenty.
Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23.
I desire you will carry both these to the Doctor together with his own; and let him know we are not persons to be insulted.
I was at Howth to-day, and staid abroad a-visiting till just now.
Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731.
“Can you match with me,
Who send thirty-three?
You must get fourteen more,
To make up thirty-four:
But, if me you can conquer,
I’ll own you a strong cur."[2]
This morning I’m growing, by smelling
of yew, sick;
My brother’s come over with gold from Peru sick;
Last night I came home in a storm that then blew sick;
This moment my dog at a cat I halloo sick;
I hear from good hands, that my poor cousin Hugh’s
sick;
By quaffing a bottle, and pulling a screw sick:
And now there’s no more I can write (you’ll
excuse) sick;
You see that I scorn to mention word music.
I’ll
do my best,
To
send the rest;
Without
a jest,
I’ll
stand the test.
These lines that I send you, I hope you’ll
peruse sick;
I’ll make you with writing a little more news
sick; Last night I came home with drinking of booze
sick; My carpenter swears that he’ll hack and
he’ll hew sick. An officer’s lady,
I’m told, is tattoo sick; I’m afraid that
the line thirty-four you will view sick.
Lord! I could
write a dozen more;
You see I’ve
mounted thirty-four.
[Footnote 1: Time.—Dublin Edition.]
[Footnote 2: The lines “thus marked” were written by Dr. Swift, at the bottom of Dr. Helsham’s twenty lines; and the following fourteen were afterwards added on the same paper.—N.]
A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY
OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR.
UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH,
UNTIL HIS OWN WAS BUILT[1]
An oaken broken elbow-chair;
A caudle cup without an ear;
A batter’d, shatter’d ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that’s crack’d across, around,
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;
A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;
A pair of bellows, without pipe;
A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter
One is for meal, and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all,
And thus his household goods you have all.
These, to your lordship, as a friend,
’Till you have built, I freely lend:
They’ll serve your lordship for a shift;
Why not as well as Doctor Swift?
[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift’s great surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the time.—Scott.]
A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES
WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1]
1733
To make a writer miss his end,
You’ve nothing else to do but mend.
I often tried in vain to find
A simile[2] for womankind,
A simile, I mean, to fit ’em,
In every circumstance to hit ’em.[3]
Through every beast and bird I went,
I ransack’d every element;
And, after peeping through all nature,
To find so whimsical a creature,
A cloud[4] presented to my view,
And straight this parallel I drew:
Clouds turn with every wind about,
They keep us in suspense and doubt,
Yet, oft perverse, like womankind,
Are seen to scud against the wind:
And are not women just the same?
For who can tell at what they aim?[5]
Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under,
When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder:
So, when the alarum-bell is rung,
Of Xanti’s[7] everlasting tongue,
The husband dreads its loudness more
Than lightning’s flash, or thunder’s roar.
Clouds weep, as they do, without pain;
And what are tears but women’s rain?
The clouds about the welkin roam:[8]
And ladies never stay at home.
The clouds build castles in the air,
A thing peculiar to the fair:
For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9]
Are not more solid nor more lasting.
A cloud is light by turns, and dark,
Such is a lady with her spark;
Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she’s pleased, his fear’s beguiled,[11]
And all is clear when she has smiled.
In this they’re wondrously alike,
(I hope the simile will strike,)[12]
Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them,
Stay but a moment, you’ll see through them.
The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14]
And frequently produce infection;
So Celia, with small provocation,
Blasts every neighbour’s reputation.
The clouds delight in gaudy show,
(For they, like ladies, have their bow;)
The gravest matron[15] will confess,
That she herself is fond of dress.
Observe the clouds in pomp array’d,
What various colours are display’d;
The pink, the rose, the violet’s dye,
In that great drawing-room the sky;
How do these differ from our Graces,[16]
In garden-silks, brocades, and laces?
Are they not such another sight,
When met upon a birth-day night?
The clouds delight to change their fashion:
(Dear ladies, be not in a passion!)
Nor let this whim to you seem strange,
Who every hour delight in change.
In them and you alike are seen
The sullen symptoms of the spleen;
The moment that your vapours rise,
We see them dropping from your eyes.
In evening fair you may behold
The clouds are fringed with borrow’d gold;
And this is many a lady’s case,
Who flaunts about in borrow’d lace.[17]
Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
[Footnote 1: The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan’s, are replaced from the Irish edition:]
[Footnote 2: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, si-mi-le. In English, a likeness.]
[Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.]
[Footnote 4: Not like a gun or pistol.]
[Footnote 5: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]
[Footnote 6: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.]
[Footnote 7: Xanti, a nick-name for Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment’s peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience, he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies’ pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her; and at the same time I assure them, it is not to lessen those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.
When a friend asked Socrates, how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe? he retorted, and asked him, how he could bear the gaggling of his geese? Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replied his friend; so doth my wife bear children, said Socrates.—Diog. Laert.
Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue? he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad.—Plat. De Capiend. ex host. utilit.
Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went in to them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?—Plat. de ira cohibenda.
I could give many more instances of her termagancy, and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honourable station of matrimony.]
[Footnote 8: Ramble.]
[Footnote 9: Not vomiting.]
[Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.]
[Footnote 11: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or harm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.]
[Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.]
[Footnote 13: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig, called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.]
[Footnote 14: Reflection of the sun.]
[Footnote 15: Motherly woman.] [Footnote 16: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.]
[Footnote 17: Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen’s debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day.—Vid. the shopkeepers’ books.]
[Footnote 18: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.]
[Footnote 19: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.]
[Footnote 20: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.]
Wherein the Author most audaciously presumes to cast an indignity upon their highnesses the Clouds, by comparing them to a woman. Written by DERMOT O’NEPHELY, Chief Cape of Howth.[1]
N.B. The following answer to that scurrilous libel against us, should have been published long ago in our own justification: But it was advised, that, considering the high importance of the subject, it should be deferred until the meeting of the General Assembly of the Nation.
[Two passages within crotchets are added to this poem, from a copy found amongst Swift’s papers. It is indorsed, “Quaere, should it go.” And a little lower, “More, but of no use.”]
Presumptuous bard! how could you dare
A woman with a cloud compare?
Strange pride and insolence you show
Inferior mortals there below.
And is our thunder in your ears
So frequent or so loud as theirs?
Alas! our thunder soon goes out;
And only makes you more devout.
Then is not female clatter worse,
That drives you not to pray, but curse?
We hardly thunder thrice a-year;
The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear;
But every sublunary dowdy,
The more she scolds, the more she’s cloudy.
[How useful were a woman’s thunder,
If she, like us, would burst asunder!
Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her,
And, whisp’ring, wish’d the devil burst
her:
For hourly thund’ring in his face,
She ne’er was known to burst a lace.]
[Footnote 1: The highest point of Howth is called the Cape of Howth.— F.]
[Footnote 2: The Dogstar.—Hyginus, “Astronomica.”]
[Footnote 3: Who murdered his father-in-law,
and was taken into heaven and purified by Jove, but
when, after he had begot the Centaurs from the cloud,
he boasted of his imaginary success with Juno, Jupiter
hurled him into Tartarus, where he was bound to a
perpetually revolving wheel. “Volvitur
Ixion: et se sequiturque fugitque.”
Ovid, “Metam.,” iv, 460. Tibullus
tells the tale in one distich, lib. I, iii:
“Illic Junonem tentare Ixionis ausi
Versantur celeri noxia membra rota.”—W.
E. B.]
To the Reverend Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D. written with a design to be spoken by her on his arrival at Glassnevin, Dr. Delany having complimented him with a house there. From the London and Dublin Magazine for June, 1735. The lines are probably by Delany or Sheridan.
Though the name of this place may make you to frown,
Your Deanship is welcome to Glassnevin town;
[1]A glass and no wine, to a man of your taste, Alas!
is enough, sir, to break it in haste; Be that as it
will, your presence can’t fail To yield great
delight in drinking our ale; Would you but vouchsafe
a mug to partake, And as we can brew, believe we can
bake. The life and the pleasure we now from you
hope, The famed Violante can’t show on the rope;
Your genius and talents outdo even Pope. Then
while, sir, you live at Glassnevin, and find The benefit
wish’d you, by friends who are kind;
One night in the week, sir, your favour bestow,
To drink with Delany and others your know: They
constantly meet at Peg Radcliffe’s together,
Talk over the news of the town and the weather; Reflect
on mishaps in church and in state, Digest many things
as well as good meat; And club each alike that no
one may treat. This if you will grant without
coach or chair, You may, in a trice, cross the way
and be there; For Peg is your neighbour, as well as
Delany, A housewifely woman full pleasing to any.
[Footnote 1: A pun on Glassnevin—Glass—ne, no, and vin, wine.—Scott.]
When to my house you come, dear Dean,
Your humble friend to entertain,
Through dirt and mire along the street,
You find no scraper for your feet;
At which you stamp and storm and swell,
Which serves to clean your feet as well.
By steps ascending to the hall,
All torn to rags by boys and ball,
With scatter’d fragments on the floor;
A sad, uneasy parlour door,
Besmear’d with chalk, and carved with knives,
(A plague upon all careless wives,)
Are the next sights you must expect,
But do not think they are my neglect.
Ah that these evils were the worst!
The parlour still is farther curst.
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by chance.
How oft by turns have you and I
Said thus—“Let me—no—let
me try—
This turn will open it, I’ll engage”—
You push me from it in a rage.
Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling,
Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling,
At length it opens—in we go—
How glad are we to find it so!
Conquests through pains and dangers please,
Much more than those attain’d with ease.
Are you disposed to take a seat;
The instant that it feels your weight,
Out goes its legs, and down you come
Upon your reverend deanship’s bum.
Betwixt two stools, ’tis often said,
The sitter on the ground is laid;
What praise then to my chairs is due,
Where one performs the feat of two!
Now to the fire, if such there be,
At present nought but smoke we see.
“Come, stir it up!”—“Ho,
Mr. Joker,
How can I stir it without a poker?”
“The bellows take, their batter’d nose
Will serve for poker, I suppose.”
Now you begin to rake—alack
The grate has tumbled from its back—
The coals all on the hearth are laid—
“Stay, sir—I’ll run and call
the maid;
She’ll make the fire again complete—
She knows the humour of the grate.”
“Pox take your maid and you together—
This is cold comfort in cold weather.”
Now all is right again—the blaze
Suddenly raised as soon decays.
Once more apply the bellows—“So—
These bellows were not made to blow—
Their leathern lungs are in decay,
They can’t even puff the smoke away.”
“And is your reverence vext at that,
Get up, in God’s name, take your hat;
Hang them, say I, that have no shift;
Come blow the fire, good Doctor Swift.
If trifles such as these can tease you,
Plague take those fools that strive to please you.
Therefore no longer be a quarrel’r
Either with me, sir, or my parlour.
If you can relish ought of mine,
A bit of meat, a glass of wine,
You’re welcome to it, and you shall fare
As well as dining with the mayor.”
“You saucy scab—you tell me so!
Why, booby-face, I’d have you know
I’d rather see your things in order,
Than dine in state with the recorder.
TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY[1]
While I the godlike men of old,
In admiration wrapt, behold;
Revered antiquity explore,
And turn the long-lived volumes o’er;
Where Cato, Plutarch, Flaccus, shine
In every excellence divine;
I grieve that our degenerate days
Produce no mighty soul like these:
Patriot, philosopher, and bard,
Are names unknown, and seldom heard.
“Spare your reflection,” Phoebus
cries;
“’Tis as ungrateful as unwise:
Can you complain, this sacred day,
That virtues or that arts decay?
Behold, in Swift revived appears:
The virtues of unnumber’d years;
Behold in him, with new delight,
The patriot, bard, and sage unite;
And know, Ierne in that name
Shall rival Greece and Rome in fame.”
[Footnote 1: Written by Mrs. Pilkington, at the time when she wished to be introduced to the Dean. The verses being presented to him by Dr. Delany, he kindly accepted the compliment.—Scott.]
No pedant Bentley proud, uncouth,
Nor sweetening dedicator smooth,
In one attempt has ever dared
To sap, or storm, this mighty bard,
Nor Envy does, nor ignorance,
Make on his works the least advance.
For this, behold! still flies afar
Where’er his genius does appear;
Nor has that aught to do above,
So meddles not with Swift and Jove.
A faithful, universal fame
In glory spreads abroad his name;
Pronounces Swift, with loudest breath,
Immortal grown before his death.
TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S A BIRTH-DAY POEM. NOV. 30, 1736
To you, my true and faithful friend,
These tributary lines I send,
Which every year, thou best of deans,
I’ll pay as long as life remains;
But did you know one half the pain
What work, what racking of the brain,
It costs me for a single clause,
How long I’m forced to think and pause;
How long I dwell upon a proem,
To introduce your birth-day poem,
EPIGRAMS
OCCASIONED BY DR. SWIFT’S INTENDED HOSPITAL
FOR IDIOTS AND LUNATICS
The Dean must die—our idiots to maintain!
Perish, ye idiots! and long live the Dean!
O Genius of Hibernia’s state,
Sublimely good, severely great,
How doth this latest act excel
All you have done or wrote so well!
Satire may be the child of spite,
And fame might bid the Drapier write:
But to relieve, and to endow,
Creatures that know not whence or how
Argues a soul both good and wise,
Resembling Him who rules the skies,
He to the thoughtful mind displays
Immortal skill ten thousand ways;
And, to complete his glorious task,
Gives what we have not sense to ask!
Lo! Swift to idiots bequeaths his store:
Be wise, ye rich!—consider thus the poor!
Great wits to madness nearly are allied,
This makes the Dean for kindred thus provide.
ON THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK’S BIRTH-DAY BEING NOV. 30, ST. ANDREW’S DAY
Between the hours of twelve and one,
When half the world to rest were gone,
Entranced in softest sleep I lay,
Forgetful of an anxious day;
From every care and labour free,
My soul as calm as it could be.
The queen of dreams, well pleased to find
An undisturb’d and vacant mind,
With magic pencil traced my brain,
And there she drew St. Patrick’s Dean:
I straight beheld on either hand
Two saints, like guardian angels, stand,
And either claim’d him for their son,
And thus the high dispute begun:
St. Andrew, first, with reason strong,
Maintain’d to him he did belong.
“Swift is my own, by right divine,
All born upon this day are mine.”
St. Patrick said, “I own this true
So far he does belong to you:
But in my church he’s born again,
My son adopted, and my Dean.
When first the Christian truth I spread,
The poor within this isle I fed,
And darkest errors banish’d hence,
Made knowledge in their place commence:
Nay more, at my divine command,
All noxious creatures fled the land.
I made both peace and plenty smile,
Hibernia was my favourite isle;
Now his—for he succeeds to me,
Two angels cannot more agree.
His joy is, to relieve the poor;
Behold them weekly at his door!
His knowledge too, in brightest rays,
He like the sun to all conveys,
Shows wisdom in a single page,
And in one hour instructs an age
When ruin lately stood around
Th’enclosures of my sacred ground,
He gloriously did interpose,
And saved it from invading foes;
For this I claim immortal Swift
As my own son, and Heaven’s best gift.
The Caledonian saint, enraged,
Now closer in dispute engaged.
Essays to prove, by transmigration,
The Dean is of the Scottish nation;
And, to confirm the truth, he chose
The loyal soul of great Montrose;
“Montrose and he are both the same,
They only differ in the name:
WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT. BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D.
To gratify thy long desire,
(So love and piety require,)
From Bindon’s colours you may trace
The patriot’s venerable face.
The last, O Nugent! which his art
Shall ever to the world impart;
For know, the prime of mortal men,
That matchless monarch of the pen,
(Whose labours, like the genial sun,
Shall through revolving ages run,
Yet never, like the sun, decline,
But in their full meridian shine,)
That ever honour’d, envied sage,
So long the wonder of the age,
Who charm’d us with his golden strain,
Is not the shadow of the Dean:
He only breathes Boeotian air—
“O! what a falling off was there!”
Hibernia’s Helicon is dry,
Invention, Wit, and Humour die;
And what remains against the storm
Of Malice but an empty form?
The nodding ruins of a pile,
That stood the bulwark of this isle?
In which the sisterhood was fix’d
Of candid Honour, Truth unmix’d,
Imperial Reason, Thought profound,
And Charity, diffusing round
In cheerful rivulets to flow
Of Fortune to the sons of woe?
Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift,
Endued with each exalted gift,
But lo! the pure ethereal flame
Is darken’d by a misty steam:
The balm exhausted breathes no smell,
The rose is wither’d ere it fell.
That godlike supplement of law,
Which held the wicked world in awe
And could the tide of faction stem,
Is but a shell without the gem.
Ye sons of genius, who would aim
To build an everlasting fame,
And in the field of letter’d arts,
Display the trophies of your parts,
To yonder mansion turn aside,
And mortify your growing pride.
Behold the brightest of the race,
And Nature’s honour, in disgrace:
With humble resignation own,
That all your talents are a loan;
By Providence advanced for use,
Which you should study to produce
Reflect, the mental stock, alas!
However current now it pass,
May haply be recall’d from you
Before the grave demands his due,
Then, while your morning star proceeds,
[Footnote 1: Created Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, Dec. 20, 1766.—Scott.]
Undone by fools at home, abroad by knaves,
The isle of saints became the land of slaves,
Trembling beneath her proud oppressor’s hand;
But, when thy reason thunder’d through the land,
Then all the public spirit breathed in thee,
And all, except the sons of guilt, were free.
Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife!
You gave her freedom, as she gave you life!
Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well,
And with those rights for which you stand, he fell.
[Footnote 1: See the translation of Carberiae Rupes in vol. i, p. 143. In the select Poetical Works of Dr. Dunkin, published at Dublin in 1770, are four well-chosen compliments to the Dean on his birth-day, and a very humorous poetical advertisement for a copy of Virgil Travestie, which, at the Dean’s request, Dr. Dunkin had much corrected, and afterwards lost. After offering a small reward to whoever will restore it, he adds,
“Or if, when this book shall be offer’d
to sale,
Any printer will stop it, the bard will not fail
To make over the issues and profits accruing
From thence to the printer, for his care in so doing;
Provided he first to the poet will send it,
That where it is wrong, he may alter and mend it.”—N.]
HIC JACET
DEMOCRITVS ILLE NEOTERICVS, RABELAESIVS NOSTER,
IONATHAN SWIFT, S.T.P. HVIVS CATHEDRALIS NVPER
DECANVS;
MOMI, MVSARVM, MINERVAE, ALVMNVS PERQVAM DILECTVS;
INSVLSIS, HYPOCRITIS, THEOMACHIS, IVXTA EXOSVS;
QVOS TRIBVTIM SVMMO CVM LEPORE
DERISIT, DENVDAVIT, DEBELLAVIT.
PATRIAE INFELICIS PATRONVS IMPIGER, ET PROPVGNATOR
PRIMORES ARRIPVIT, POPVLVMQVE INTERRITVS,
VNI SCILICET AEQVVS VIRTVTI.
HANC FAVILLAM
SI QVIS ADES, NEC PENITVS EXCORS VIDETVR,
DEBITA SPARGES LACRYMA.
EPIGRAM ON TWO GREAT MEN. 1754
Two geniuses one age and nation grace!
Pride of our isles, and boast of human race!
Great sage! great bard! supreme in knowledge born!
The world to mend, enlighten, and adorn.
Truth on Cimmerian darkness pours the day!
Wit drives in smiles the gloom of minds away!
Ye kindred suns on high, ye glorious spheres,
Whom have ye seen, in twice three thousand years,
Whom have ye seen, like these, of mortal birth;
Though Archimede and Horace blest the earth?
Barbarians, from th’ Equator to the Poles,
Hark! reason calls! wisdom awakes your souls!
Ye regions, ignorant of Walpole’s name;
Ye climes, where kings shall ne’er extend their
fame;
Where men, miscall’d, God’s image have
defaced,
Their form belied, and human shape disgraced!
Ye two-legg’d wolves! slaves! superstition’s
sons!
Lords! soldiers! holy Vandals! modern Huns!
Boors, mufties, monks; in Russia, Turkey, Spain!
Who does not know SIR ISAAC, and THE DEAN?
When wasteful death has closed the Poet’s eyes,
And low in earth his mortal essence lies;
When the bright flame, that once his breast inspired,
Has to its first, its noblest seat retired;
All worthy minds, whom love of merit sways,
Should shade from slander his respected bays;
And bid that fame, his useful labours won,
Pure and untainted through all ages run.
Envy’s a fiend all excellence pursues,
R——T B——N.
Dublin, Nov. 4, 1755.
[Footnote 1: Compare the Earl of Orrery’s “Verses to Swift on his birthday” (vol. i, 228) with his “Remarks on the Life and writings of Swift.” And see post, p. 406. The next line refers to Faulkner.—W. E. B.]
The following lines were enclosed in a letter from Mr. Pulteney, (afterwards Earl of Bath,) to Swift, in which he says—“You must give me leave to add to my letter a copy of verses at the end of a declamation made by a boy at Westminster school on this theme,—Ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?”
Dulce, Decane, decus, flos optime gentis Hibernae
Nomine quique audis, ingenioque celer:
Dum lepido indulges risu, et mutaris in horas,
Quo nova vis animi, materiesque rapit?
Nunc gravis astrologus, coelo dominaris et astris,
Filaque pro libitu Partrigiana secas.
Nunc populo speciosa hospes miracula promis,
Gentesque aequoreas, aeriasque creas.
Seu plausum captat queruli persona Draperi,
Seu levis a vacuo tabula sumpta cado.
Mores egregius mira exprimis arte magister,
Et vitam atque homines pagina quaeque
sapit;
Socraticae minor est vis et sapientia chartae,
Nec tantum potuit grande Platonis opus.
BY MR. JAMES STERLING, OF THE COUNTY OF MEATH
While the Dean with more wit than man ever wanted,
Or than Heaven to any man else ever granted,
Endeavours to prove, how the ancients in knowledge
Have excell’d our adepts of each modern college;
How by heroes of old our chiefs are surpass’d
In each useful science, true learning, and taste.
While thus he behaves, with more courage than manners,
And fights for the foe, deserting our banners;
While Bentley and Wotton, our champions, he foils,
And wants neither Temple’s assistance, nor Boyle’s;
In spite of his learning, fine reasons, and style,
—Would you think it?—he favours
our cause all the while:
We raise by his conquest our glory the higher,
And from our defeat to a triumph aspire;
Our great brother-modern, the boast of our days,
Unconscious, has gain’d for our party the bays:
St. James’s old authors, so famed on each shelf,
Are vanquish’d by what he has written himself.
Swift, wondrous genius, bright intelligence,
Pities the orphan’s, idiot’s want of sense;
And rich in supernumerary pelf,
Adopts posterity unlike himself.
To one great individual wit’s confined!
Such eunuchs never propagate their kind.
Thus nature’s prodigies bestow the gifts
Of fortune, their descendants are no Swifts.
When did prime statesman, for a sceptre fit
His ministerial successor beget?
No age, no state, no world, can hope to see
Two SWIFTS or WALPOLES in one family.
LATELY PUBLISHED AGAINST DEAN SWIFT, NOW DEAF AND INFIRM
Thy mortal part, ingenious Swift! must die,
Thy fame shall reach beyond mortality!
How puny whirlings joy at thy decline,
Thou darling offspring of the tuneful nine!
The noble lion thus, as vigour passes,
The fable tells us, is abused by asses.
Ornamented with an Engraving of the Dean, by Vertue.
In a little dark room at the back of his shop,
Where poets and scribes have dined on a chop,
Poor Faulkner sate musing alone thus of late,
“Two volumes are done—it is time
for the plate;
Yes, time to be sure;—but on whom shall
I call
To express the great Swift in a compass so small?
Faith, Vertue shall do it, I’m pleased
at the thought,
Be the cost what it will—the copper is
bought.”
Apollo o’erheard, (who as some people guess,
Had a hand in the work, and corrected the press;)
And pleased, he replied, “Honest George, you
are right,
The thought was my own, howsoe’er you came by’t.
For though both the wit and the style is my gift,
’Tis VERTUE alone can design us a SWIFT.”
EPIGRAM ON LORD ORRERY’S REMARKS ON SWIFT’S LIFE AND WRITINGS
A sore disease this scribbling itch is!
His Lordship, in his Pliny seen,[1]
Turns Madam Pilkington in breeches,
And now attacks our Patriot Dean.
What! libel his friend when laid in ground:
Nay, good sir, you may spare your hints,
His parallel at last is found,
For what he writes George Faulkner prints.
Had Swift provoked to this behaviour,
Yet after death resentment cools,
Sure his last act bespoke his favour,
He built an hospital—for fools.
[Footnote 1: Lord Orrery translated the letters of the younger Pliny.—Scott.]
ON HIS BOOK ENTITLED “OBSERVATIONS ON
LORD ORRERY’S REMARKS”
Delany, to escape your friend the Dean,
And prove all false that Orrery had writ,
You kindly own his Gulliver profane,
Yet make his puns and riddles sterling
wit.
But if for wrongs to Swift you would atone,
And please the world, one way you may
succeed,
Collect Boyle’s writings and your own,
And serve them as you served THE DEED.
On Faulkner’s displaying in his shop the Dean’s bust in marble, (now placed in the great aisle of St. Patrick’s church), while he was publishing Lord Orrery’s Remarks.
Faulkner! for once you have some judgment shown,
By representing Swift transform’d to stone;
For could he thy ingratitude have known,
Astonishment itself the work had done!
Intended for a compartment in Dr. Swift’s monument,
designed by
Cunningham, on College Green, Dublin.
Say, to the Drapier’s vast unbounded fame,
What added honours can the sculptor give?
None.—’Tis a sanction from the Drapier’s
name
Must bid the sculptor and his marble live.
June 4, 1765.
Which gave the Drapier birth two realms contend;
And each asserts her poet, patriot, friend:
Her mitre jealous Britain may deny;
That loss Ierne’s laurel shall supply;
Through life’s low vale, she, grateful, gave
him bread;
Her vocal stones shall vindicate him dead.
W. B. J. N.
1766.
ACHESON, SIR ARTHUR, ii, 89;
verses by, to Swift, 92;
verses to, by Swift, 93.
Acheson, Lady, Lamentation by, ii, 95, 115;
twelve articles addressed to, 125.
Addison, i, 322.
Address to the Citizens, ii, 292.
Agistment, ii, 264, 271.
Aislaby, John, ii, 164.
Alcides, Hercules, ii, 71.
Alexander, Earl of Stirling, ii, 89.
Allen, John, ii, 269.
Allen, Lord, Traulus, i, 344; ii, 239, 242, 243.
Baldwin, Richard, ii, 263.
Ballyspellin, ii, 368, 371.
Bangor, Bishop of, ii, 299.
Barber, Mrs., her poems, i, 231.
Barracks, i, 263.
Bath referred to, i, 117.
Bath, Order of the, revived, ii, 203.
Battus, i, 272.
Baviad and Maeviad, i, 273.
Bavius and Maevius, i, 273.
Beaumont (Poet Joe), i. 81.
Bec, Mrs. Dingley, ii, 43.
Bec’s birthday, ii, 49.
Bedel, Bishop, ii, 285.
Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, i, 166, 243.
Berkeley, Lord and Lady, i, 36, 39, 40, 41, 42.
Betterton, actor, i. 129.
Bettesworth, lines on, ii, 252;
account of, 256;
his visit to Swift, 257.
Bingham, ii, 269.
Blackall, Dr., ii, 138.
Blackmore, i, 275.
Blenheim, ii, 287.
Blount, Patty, i, 157.
Blue-Boys Hospital, i, 327.
Blueskins, who stabbed Jon. Wild, i, 225.
Bolingbroke, i, 253;
his disgust at Oxford’s and Swift’s
levity, ii, 170.
Bolton, Archbishop, i, 243.
Bossu, i, 271.
Boulter, Primate, ii, 277.
Boyle, Lord Orrery, ii, 129.
Boyle, Viscount Blessington, ii, 129.
Brass, nickname for Walpole, i, 226; ii, 204, 224.
“Break no squares,” i, 51;
note on, ii, 126.
Brent, Mrs., ii, 39.
Briareus, ii, 167, 328.
Bridewell described, i, 201, 265; ii, 29.
Broderick, Lord Middleton, ii, 200.
Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester, i, 284.
Brydges, Duke of Chandos, i, 283.
Buckley, Samuel, ii, 171.
Burgersdicius, ii, 360.
Burnet, referred to, i, 188.
Bush, Secretary to Lord Berkeley, i, 42.
Cambyses, ii, 328.
Carey, Walter, ii, 267.
Caroline, Queen, the busts in Richmond Hermitage,
i, 227;
and Dr. Clarke, 337.
Carruthers’ Pope, i, 283.
Carteret, Lord, i, 258;
character of, 308, 309;
Epistle to, by Delany, 314.
Carteret, Lady, Apology to, i, 304.
Carthy, Charles, his translations of Horace, ii, 278,
283.
Cassandra, ii, 329.
Censure, ii, 17.
Charles XII of Sweden, i, 140.
Chartres, mentioned, i, 191;
described, 252.
Chesterfield, i, 283.
Chesterfield, Lord, letter to Voltaire enclosing Day
of Judgment, i, 213.
“Chesterfield, Life of,” referred to,
ii, 203.
Chetwode MS., referred to, i, 98.
Chevy Chase, cited in Baucis and Philemon, i, 65.
Church, Swift’s love for, ii, 164.
Cibber, Colley, i, 129, 255, 266.
Clarendon, referred to, i, 188.
Clarke, Dr., i, 337.
Classics, Greek and Roman authors cited, imitated,
and paraphrased:
Catullus, i, 295.
Cicero, i, 20; ii, 61.
Horace, cited, i, 34, 225, 245, 273, 277,
293, 317, 320;
ii, 40, 61, 124,
136, 170, 185, 291, 337, 345, 361;
imitated, i, 92; ii, 159,
167, 175, 182, 219, 248, 260, 279.
Hyginus, ii, 153, 206, 382.
Juvenal, i, 75; ii, 343.
Lucian, i, 76.
Lucretius, i, 137; ii, 60.
Martial, i, 75; ii, 287, 296.
Ovid, i, 17, 21, 88, 89, 117, 122, 124,
134, 183, 205, 334;
ii, 47, 60, 68, 71, 153, 185,
272, 296, 383.
Petronius, imitation, i, 148
Pliny, “Hist. Nat.,”
i, 46, 47, 212.
Plutarch, cited, ii, 71.
Priscian, ii, 344.
Seneca, ii, 194.
Suetonius, ii, 194.
Tacitus, ii, 221.
Tibullus, ii, 383.
Virgil, i, 77, So, 120, 270, 278; ii,
51, 55, 123, 124,
206, 266, 267, 294, 328, 359.
Vitruvius Pollio, i, 74.
Clements, ii, 270.
“Clem,” Barry, at Gaulstown, i, 140.
Coffee-houses frequented by the clergy, ii, 163.
Coke, Sir E., his precepts, i, 181.
Colberteen lace, i, 67; ii, 11.
Colloguing, ii, 321.
Compter, described, i, 201.
Compton, Sir Spencer, ridiculed in Williams’
works, i, 219.
Compton, Sir Spencer, i, 219; ii, 224. See
Wilmington.
Concanen, i, 276.
Congreve, Ode to, i, 24, 30, 321, 322.
Corbet, Dean of St. Patrick’s, i, 147.
Country Life, description of, at Gaulstown House,
i, 137.
Cracherode, i, 305.
“Craftsman, The,” i, 224.
Craggs, ii, 167.
Creech, i, 281.
“Crisis, The,” ii, 175, 176.
Croke, Sir A., editor of the “Regimen Sanitatis,”
i, 207.
Cross-bath described, i, 118.
Crosse, ii, 263.
Crowe, William, Parody on his address to Queen Anne,
ii, 127.
Cunningham’s “Handbook of London”
cited, i, 201.
Curll, bookseller, i, 154, 253.
Daphne, fable of, i, 88.
Daphne, ii, 57.
Deafness of Swift, i, 149, 150.
Deanery House, Verses on a window at the, i, 98.
Delany, Patrick, account of, i, 93;
to Swift when deaf, 149;
and Lord Carteret, Libel on, 320;
Fable by, 338;
Verses by, ii, 37, 38;
mentioned, 298.
Delany’s villa described, i, 141.
Delawar, ii, 165.
Delos, i, 17.
Demar, Usurer, Elegy on, i, 96;
Epitaph on, 97.
Democritus, i, 224.
Demoniac, ii, 264. See Legion Club.
Denham, i, 106, 203, 257.
Dennis, i, 271;
his fear of the French, ii, 176.
Deucalion, ii, 68.
Dictionary of National Biography referred to, i, 232,
282.
Disraeli, “Curiosities of Literature,”
cited, i, 79.
Dolly, Lady Meath, i, 299.
Domitian, ii, 272.
Domvile, ii, 273.
“Don Quixote,” cited, ii, 154.
Dorinda, poetical name for Dorothy, i, 32.
Dorothy, Sir W. Temple’s wife, i, 32.
Dorset, Duke of, ii, 277, 297.
Dramatis Personae at Gaulstown House, i, 137.
Edgar, King, i, 318.
Elrington, English actor, i, 128, 129.
English Mall, i, 70.
Epigram, French, i, 297.
Epilogue to play for distressed weavers, i, 133.
Europa, ii, 47.
Excise on wines and tobacco defeated, i, 237.
Fagot, Fable of the, ii, 166.
Farnham School, i, 27.
Faulkner, George, imprisoned at the instance of Bettesworth,
ii, 261,
272.
Fielding’s “Life of Jon. Wild,”
i, 225.
Finch, Mrs., Verses to, as Ardelia, i, 52.
Finch, Lord Nottingham, ii, 148, 164.
Fitzpatrick, Brigadier, i, 243.
Flammeum, i, 204.
Flamsteed, i, 113.
Flecknoe, i, 275.
Fleet Ditch, i, 78, 201;
illustration of, referred to, 80.
Floyd, Dame, i, 40, 50.
Forbes, Lady Catherine, i, 107.
Ford, Charles, Verses on, i, 145; ii, 40.
Ford, Matthew, i, 145.
Forster, “Life of Swift,” i, 43, 55;
his notes on Baucis and Philemon, 62.
“Freeholder, The,” ii, 189.
French, Humphrey, ode from Horace addressed to, ii,
248.
Gadbury, i, 113.
Garraway’s auction room, i, 125.
Gaulstown House, described by Delany, i, 136.
Gay, “Shepherd’s week,” i, 83;
Epistle to, satirizing Sir R. Walpole,
214;
post of gentleman usher offered to, 215;
referred to, 104, 273, 322.
George I, death of, i, 155;
disputes with his son, 331.
George II, i, 331; ii, 130.
Godolphin, lampoon on, ii, 133;
satirized by Pope, 136.
Gorgon, ii, 270.
Grafton, Lord Lieutenant, ii, 295.
Greek play, account of, at Sheridan’s school,
ii, 326.
Grierson, Mrs. Constantia, i, 232.
Grimston, i, 275.
Guiscard, his attack on Harley, ii, 148.
Gulliveriana, cited, Scott’s note from, corrected,
i, 130.
Gulliver’s Travels referred to, i, 239.
Gyges, story of, i, 20.
Hakluyt, ii, 60.
Halifax, good, ii, 183.
Hamet, Cid, Ben Eng’li, ii, 133.
Hamilton’s Bawn, described, ii, 101.
Harcourt, Lord Chancellor, i, 259; ii, 167.
Harding, the printer, i, 163; ii, 288, 292.
Harley, Lord Oxford, ii, 159.
Harley, Lord, son of Lord Oxford, i, 87.
Harris, Mrs. Frances, her Petition, i, 36, 40.
Helsham, Dr. Richard, ii, 85, 307, 309, 373.
Henley, i, 256.
Herostratus, ii, 275.
Hill, Birkbeck, “Letters of Swift,” i,
43.
Hobbes’ “Leviathan” referred to,
i, 274.
Hogarth, i, 265.
Holles, Henrietta Cavendish, i, 87.
Holyhead, Verses written at, i, 292.
Hoppy, Epilogue to benefit of, i, 130.
Horace. See Classics.
“Intelligencer,” Paddy’s character
of, i, 312.
“Intelligencer,” cited, ii, 227.
Ireland, verses to, from Horace, ii, 219.
Iris, ii, 329.
Ixion, ii, 382.
Jackson, Dan, i, 96, 137; ii, 325, 332, 333, 335.
Jamaica, referred to, i, 152;
a place of exile, 201.
Janus, addressed, i, 293; ii, 43.
Jason, i, 294.
Joan of France, i, 70.
Johnson, “Life of Dryden,” i, 16;
his “Life of Montague,” 321;
his “Vanity of Human Wishes,”
49.
Johnson (Mrs.), Stella, i, 82.
Jonson, Ben, “Bartholomew Fair,” i, 41.
Journal to Stella, cited, i, 81, 92; ii, 133.
Kendal, Duchess of, ii, 202.
Ker, Colonel, ii, 274.
King, Dr., Archbishop of Dublin, i, 92, 133;
Songs upon, ii, 289;
Poem to, 291.
King’s anecdotes of his own times, ii, 113.
Kingsbury, Dr., ii, 297.
Kite, Serjeant, Epigram to, ii, 255;
Verses to, 256.
Knoggin, ii, 321.
Koenigsmark, i, 331; ii, 150, 151.
Leigh, Tom, ii, 2.99.
Lewis, Lord Oxford’s Secretary, ii, 159, 168.
Limbo, as a pawn shop, i, 168.
Lindsay, i, 182, 187.
Lintot, i, 255, 267.
“Lousiad, The,” ii, 70.
Macartney, General, ii, 174.
Macbeth, cited, i, 199.
Macmorrogh, Dermot, mentioned, ii, 222.
Maevius, ii, 30.
Malahide, famous for oysters, i, 287.
Malone, “Life of Dryden,” i, 16.
Mambrino and Almonte, ii, 153.
Manley, Mrs. de la Riviere, ii, 152.
Marble Hill, built by Mrs. Howard, i, 155.
Market Hill, ii, 89, no, 116.
Marlborough, Duke of, ii, 135;
satirized as Midas, 153;
Elegy on death of, 187.
Masham, Mrs., ii, 150.
Mather, Charles, ii, 135.
Matrimonial advice, i, 210.
May Fair, Answer to lines from, i, 54.
Maypole, The, ii, 311.
Meath, Countess of, i, 85, 299. See Stopford.
Medea, ii, 47.
Megaera, i, 224.
Merlin’s Cave, i, 192.
Middleton, Lord Chancellor, ii, 294.
Milton, cited, i, 195.
“Mingere cum bombis,” i, 207.
Mirmont, Marquis de, i, 157.
“Mob,” Swift’s dislike to the word,
ii, 141.
Montague, i, 321.
Montaigne, cited, ii, 194.
Montezuma or Mutezuma, ii, 112.
Montrose, Marquis of, his epitaph on Charles I, ii,
291, 395.
Moor Park, i, 8, 27.
Moore, Jemmy, i, 253, 254.
Morgan, Marcus Antonius, ii, 270.
Mounthermer, daughter of Duke of Marlborough, i, 147.
“Naboth’s Vineyard,” Swift’s
garden, ii, 132.
Namby Pamby, i, 288; ii, 254.
Narcissus, ii, 364.
Nero, his wish cited, ii, 194.
New style, ii, 151.
Nicknames of Lady Acheson, 94, 95, 106.
Nightingale, the, i, 341.
Northey, Sir Edward, ii, 167.
Notes and Queries, cited, i, 153, 291.
Nottingham, Earl of, ii, 148;
invitation to, from Toland, 156.
“Orlando Furioso,” cited, ii, 154.
Ormond, Duke of, ii, 143.
Ormond Quay, ii, 42.
O’Rourke’s Irish Feast, i, 107.
Orrery, Earl of, his account of “Death and Daphne,”
ii, 54;
his remarks on the “Life of Swift,”
402, 406.
Oudenarde, Dutch account of, ii, 130.
Overton, ii, 360.
Ovid. See Classics.
Oxford, Lord Treasurer, as Atlas, ii, 147, 167;
verses sent to him in the Tower, 182.
Pallas and Arachne, referred to, i, 134.
Pam, Archbishop of Tuam, ii, 297. See Hort.
“Pantheon, The,” account of, ii, 97.
Parliament in Ireland, i, 263.
Parthenope, ii, 60.
Partridge, i, 74, 113.
Pearce, architect, i, 338.
Peleus, referred to, i, 205.
Pella, i, 334.
Percy, “Reliques of English poetry,” i,
71.
Peterborough, Pope’s verses on, i, 48.
Phaethon, story of, ii, 184.
Phalanx, ii, 325.
Phillips, Ambrose, i, 83, 288.
Physicians, College of, ii, 55.
Piddle with, to, sense of, ii, 41.
Pilkington, Sir Thomas, ii, 176.
Pilkingtons, the, i, 232, 247.
Planche, costume, i, 67.
Pluck a rose, i, 203; ii, 121.
Pope, cited or referred to, i, 34, 104, 191, 192,
216, 217, 247, 322.
Prendergast, Sir Thomas, ii, 235, 260, 266.
Priapus, ii, 337.
Prior, his “Journey to France,” i, 103.
Prometheus, i, 277.
Pulteney, Earl of Bath, i, 253; ii, 250.
Pythagoras, precept of, i, 206.
Queensberry, Duke and Duchess of, i, 215, 273.
Rapparees, i, 185, 263.
Rathfarnam, ii, 364.
Raymond, Dr., Minister of Trim, i, 82.
“Rehearsal, The,” i, 28, 43, 44.
Richmond Hermitage, i, 227. 228.
Richmond Lodge, i, 155.
Riding, description of a, i, 153.
Rochfort, George, ii, 298. See Trifles.
Roper, Abel, ii, 173.
Rymer, i, 271.
St. Patrick’s Well, i, 319; ii. 221.
Salerno, School of Medicine, i, 207.
Salmoneus, ii, 206.
Savage, Philip, ii, 119.
Sawbridge, Dean, i, 189.
“Schola Salernitana,” i, 207.
Scroggs, i, 261.
Sharpe, Dr. John, Archbishop of York, ii, 163.
Sheridan, “Life of Swift,” ii, 169.
Sherlock, i, 165.
Sican, Dr. J., i, 280.
Sican, Mrs., i, 282.
Singleton, ii, 253.
Smedley, Dean, i, 317, 345, 348, 350.
Smollett, ii, 130.
Smythe, i, 276.
Somers, ii, 167, 178.
Somerset, Duchess of, satire on, ii, 150, 165.
Sot’s Hole, ii, 365.
“Spectator, The,” ii, 287.
State Trials, ii, 196.
Steele, i, 322; ii, 171, 175.
Sterne, Bishop of Clogher, i, 98.
Stopford, Dorothy, i, 85.
Strand, the, ii, 311.
Suckling, Sir John, ii, 129.
Suffolk, Countess of, i, 155.
Swift, his ill-feeling to Dryden, i, 16, 43, 272;
his love for Congreve, 24;
his regard for Temple, 29, 32;
terms his own calling a trade,
39;
his quarrel with Lord Berkeley, 42;
his regard for Delany, 93, 304, 314, 339;
Tar water, Fielding’s use of, i, 166.
“Tatler, The,” i, 28, 78, 103, 129.
Telling noses, horse dealer’s term, i, 216.
Tennison, Bishop of Ossory, ii, 246.
Thatched House Tavern, i, 146.
Tholsel, the, ii, 276.
Throp, Roger, ii, 268.
Tiger, the lap dog, ii, 50, 51.
Tighe, Richard, i, 186; ii, 226;
(Pistorides, Dick Fitzbaker), 235, 236,
237, 238, 268.
Tisdall, ii, 368.
“Toast, The,” ii, 297.
Toupees, wigs then in fashion, i, 233.
Trapp, Dr., i, 103.
Trisilian, i, 261.
Troynovant, i, 272.
Umbo, ii, 325.
Urbs intacta manet, ii, 286, 287.
Vanbrugh, his indebtedness to Moliere, i, 59;
“architect at Blenheim,” 74;
ii, 287.
Vanessa, Hester Vanhomrigh, ii, 1, 23, 24, 25.
Van Lewen, Mrs., i, 232.
Vespasian, ii, 273.
Vespuccio, ii, 60.
Virgil. See Classics.
Voiture, poet and letter writer, i, 94, 95, 96.
Vole, the, i, 254.
Voltaire, Charles XII, i, 49.
Wall, Archdeacon, i. 81.
Waller, John, ii, 268.
Walpole, Horace, his fable of “Funeral of the
Lioness,” cited, , 227;
his Reminiscences cited, ii, 278.
Walpole, Sir Robert, i, 253, 337.
Walter Peter, character of, i, 217.
Waters, properly Walter, i, 217.
Welsted, i, 272.
Wharton, Earl of, character of, ii, 128, 132, 146,
183.
Wheatley’s “London past and present,”
cited, i, 201.
Wheeler, Sir George, great traveller, i, 167.
Whig faction, i, 259.
Whitshed, Chief Justice, i, 261; ii, 192, 200, 217,
218.
Wild, Jonathan, i, 164.
Wilks, actor, i, 129.
Williams, Sir Chas. Hanbury, cited, i, 217, 219.
Will’s coffee-house, i, 28, 267, 272.
Wilmington, Earl of, i, 219; ii, 224. See Compton.
Winchelsea, Countess of, i, 52.
Wollaston, i, 256.
Wood, i, 260;
and his halfpence, ii, 201, 203, 205,
206, 207, 209, 211, 215, 218.
Woolston, account of, i, 188, 256.
Wynne, Owen, ii, 269; John, ii, 269.
Xanti (Xantippe), ii, 378.
Young, his satires, i, 264;
his pension, 273.