[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.]
THE ANSWER, BY DR. SHERIDAN
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.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER
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._]
DR. SHERIDAN'S REPLY TO THE DEAN
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._]
TO THE SAME. BY DR. SHERIDAN
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.
THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S
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 perperГ m argumentaris.--_Scott._]
TO THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S
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.
THE DEAN TO 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.
To my goddess Melpomene, pride of her sex,
I gave, as you beg, your most humble respects:
The rest of your compliment I dare not tell her,
For she never descends so low as the cellar;
But before you can put yourself under her banners,
She declares from her throne you must learn better manners.
If once in your cellar my Phoebus should shine,
I tell you I'd not give a fig for your wine;
So I'll leave him behind, for I certainly know it,
What he ripens above ground, he sours below it.
But why should we fight thus, my partner so dear
With three hundred and sixty-five poems a-year?
Let's quarrel no longer, since Dan and George Rochfort
Will laugh in their sleeves: I can tell you they watch for't.
Then George will rejoice, and Dan will sing highday:
Hoc Ithacus velit, et magni mercentur Atridae.
JON. SWIFT.
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.
TO DR. SHERIDAN[1]
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._]
DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER
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._]
DR. SWIFT'S REPLY
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.]
GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER
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.
POSTSCRIPT
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; and privately
instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time
exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him
repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan. When the play
was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and
Master Putland began Helsham's prologue, and went through it to the
amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was
one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put
off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was
indeed highly complimented in Helsham's performance. When the play was
over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan's prologue; but
all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child's father, and Sheridan,
could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said,
promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and
therefore insisted that he would keep his word.--_F._]
[Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.--_F._]
[Footnote 5: The seat of ---- Hussay, Esq., in the county of
Kildare.--_F._]
TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.
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;
And scarcely can one page sustain
The length of such a flowing train:
Her train of variegated dye
Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky;
Alike they glow, alike they please,
Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays.
Thy verse--(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it)
To what, to what shall I compare it?
'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on,
The famous statue of Laocoon.
'Tis like,--O yes, 'tis very like it,
The long, long string, with which you fly kite.
'Tis like what you, and one or two more,
Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour;
And every couplet thou hast writ
Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8]
[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 CalprenГЁde, 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.
But we took our dividers, and found your d--n'd metre,
In each single verse, took up a diameter.
But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture
George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre?[1]
'Twill appear to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd,
For the chord of your circle is now in their hand.
The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether,
By which your jade Pegasus, fix'd in a tether,
As his betters are used, shall be lash'd round the ring,
Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string.
Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass,
To encroach on his art by writing of bombast;
And has taken just now a firm resolution
To answer your style without circumlocution.
Lady Betty[2] presents you her service most humble,
And is not afraid your worship will grumble,
That she make of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam.[3]
Which is all at present; and so I remain--
[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."
ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND PAPER[1]
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._]
ON THE SAME PICTURE
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._
ON THE SAME
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._
ON THE SAME PICTURE
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._
ON THE SAME PICTURE
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.
DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE
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.
MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY
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._]
DR. DELANY'S REPLY
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.
SHERIDAN'S REPLY
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.
A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME
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.
ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME
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 PARDON
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.
