[Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.]
[Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the
bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen,
then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her
commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his
friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very
graciously. He taxed her with a present worth ВЈ10, which she promised
before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals
were not ready.
A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out
this note.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but
she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent
Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing
took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as
would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of
it; he did the former, it cost ВЈ35, but he said he would have nothing
except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as
usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in
England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her
intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her
Majesty's displeasure.]
[Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a
footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland.
He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every
change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy
for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He
is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was
writ in.--_Dublin Edition,_ and see _ante_, p. 191.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the
Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea,
with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with
him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great
friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would
see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert,
on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited
him again.]
[Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate
friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined
with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the
Craftsman, which is still continued.]
[Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to
Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius
in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously
working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said
lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.]
[Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or
country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He
published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three
pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile
a manner.]
[Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the
shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was
made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore,
whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of
Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."]
[Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives,
letters, and last wills and testaments of the nobility and ministers of
state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath
been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the
letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their
journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published,
without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.]
[Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the
tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 17: See _post_, p. 267.]
[Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.]
[Footnote 19: See _ante_ "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet,"
p. 192.]
[Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but
write in his defence.]
[Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to
get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church,
formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set
times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his
associates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling
each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported
crazy.]
[Footnote 22: See _ante_, p. 188.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 23: See _ante_, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt
Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated,"
was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Bethell in
Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix,
p. 149.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley:
"To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own."]
[Footnote 25: See _ante_, pp. 192 and 252.]
[Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an
address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation,
promising ВЈ300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet
called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year
1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was
prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward
of ВЈ300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet,
called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive
project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the
Dean discovered.]
[Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year
after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord
Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford,
for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher
every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that
endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired
to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned
to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new
people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.]
[Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the
queen died.]
[Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to
power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached
and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all
their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was
never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments
in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men.
Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved,
only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and
are likely to remain so.]
[Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin
at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in
England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was
forced to be attended by his servants armed.]
[Footnote 31: Ireland.]
[Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for
coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of ВЈ108,000, which, in
the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The
Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before
prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the
people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury
down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to
bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer
of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or
swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part,
except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was
celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most
streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several
country towns. This note was written in 1734.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His
judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from
Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years
ago.]
[Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile;
to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death,
who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the Duchess of
Somerset.]
[Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single
lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of
the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.]
[Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single
act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the
least resentment or remonstrance.]
[Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once
in two years, and after having given five times more than they can
afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and
oppressions of which some few are mentioned.]
[Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there,
usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers
who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.]
[Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building
and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to
that unhappy kingdom.]
ON POETRY
A RHAPSODY. 1733
All human race would fain be wits,
And millions miss for one that hits.
Young's universal passion, pride,[1]
Was never known to spread so wide.
Say, Britain, could you ever boast
Three poets in an age at most?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A sprig of bays in fifty years;
While every fool his claim alleges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reason can there be assign'd
For this perverseness in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly;
A founder'd horse will oft debate,
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate;
A dog by instinct turns aside,
Who sees the ditch too deep and wide.
But man we find the only creature
Who, led by Folly, combats Nature;
Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear,
With obstinacy fixes there;
And, where his genius least inclines,
Absurdly bends his whole designs.
Not empire to the rising sun
By valour, conduct, fortune won;
Not highest wisdom in debates,
For framing laws to govern states;
Not skill in sciences profound
So large to grasp the circle round,
Such heavenly influence require,
As how to strike the Muse's lyre.
Not beggar's brat on bulk begot;
Not bastard of a pedler Scot;
Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes,
The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews;
Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges
Of gipsies litter'd under hedges;
Are so disqualified by fate
To rise in church, or law, or state,
As he whom Phoebus in his ire
Has blasted with poetic fire.
What hope of custom in the fair,
While not a soul demands your ware?
Where you have nothing to produce
For private life, or public use?
Court, city, country, want you not;
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For poets, law makes no provision;
The wealthy have you in derision:
Of state affairs you cannot smatter;
Are awkward when you try to flatter;
Your portion, taking Britain round,
Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now not so much as in remainder,
Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder;
For ever fix'd by right divine
(A monarch's right) on Grub Street line.
Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains!
How unproportion'd to thy pains!
And here a simile comes pat in:
Though chickens take a month to fatten,
The guests in less than half an hour
Will more than half a score devour.
So, after toiling twenty days
To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critic's prey,
Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea;
Gone to be never heard of more,
Gone where the chickens went before.
How shall a new attempter learn
Of different spirits to discern,
And how distinguish which is which,
The poet's vein, or scribbling itch?
Then hear an old experienced sinner,
Instructing thus a young beginner.
Consult yourself; and if you find
A powerful impulse urge your mind,
Impartial judge within your breast
What subject you can manage best;
Whether your genius most inclines
To satire, praise, or humorous lines,
To elegies in mournful tone,
Or prologue sent from hand unknown.
Then, rising with Aurora's light,
The Muse invoked, sit down to write;
Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline;
Be mindful, when invention fails,
To scratch your head, and bite your nails.
Your poem finish'd, next your care
Is needful to transcribe it fair.
In modern wit all printed trash is
Set off with numerous breaks and dashes.
To statesmen would you give a wipe,
You print it in _Italic_ type.
When letters are in vulgar shapes,
'Tis ten to one the wit escapes:
But, when in capitals express'd,
The dullest reader smokes the jest:
Or else perhaps he may invent
A better than the poet meant;
As learned commentators view
In Homer more than Homer knew.
Your poem in its modish dress,
Correctly fitted for the press,
Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4]
But let no friend alive look into't.
If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost,
You need not fear your labour lost:
And how agreeably surprised
Are you to see it advertised!
The hawker shows you one in print,
As fresh as farthings from the mint:
The product of your toil and sweating;
A bastard of your own begetting.
Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day,
Lie snug, and hear what critics say;
And, if you find the general vogue
Pronounces you a stupid rogue,
Damns all your thoughts as low and little,
Sit still, and swallow down your spittle;
Be silent as a politician,
For talking may beget suspicion;
Or praise the judgment of the town,
And help yourself to run it down.
Give up your fond paternal pride,
Nor argue on the weaker side:
For, poems read without a name
We justly praise, or justly blame;
And critics have no partial views,
Except they know whom they abuse:
And since you ne'er provoke their spite,
Depend upon't their judgment's right.
But if you blab, you are undone:
Consider what a risk you run:
You lose your credit all at once;
The town will mark you for a dunce;
The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends,
Will pass for yours with foes and friends;
And you must bear the whole disgrace,
Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.
Your secret kept, your poem sunk,
And sent in quires to line a trunk,
If still you be disposed to rhyme,
Go try your hand a second time.
Again you fail: yet Safe's the word;
Take courage and attempt a third.
But first with care employ your thoughts
Where critics mark'd your former faults;
The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit,
The similes that nothing fit;
The cant which every fool repeats,
Town jests and coffeehouse conceits,
Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry,
And introduced the Lord knows why:
Or where we find your fury set
Against the harmless alphabet;
On A's and B's your malice vent,
While readers wonder whom you meant:
A public or a private robber,
A statesman, or a South Sea jobber;
A prelate, who no God believes;
A parliament, or den of thieves;
A pickpurse at the bar or bench,
A duchess, or a suburb wench:
Or oft, when epithets you link,
In gaping lines to fill a chink;
Like stepping-stones, to save a stride,
In streets where kennels are too wide;
Or like a heel-piece, to support
A cripple with one foot too short;
Or like a bridge, that joins a marish
To moorlands of a different parish.
So have I seen ill-coupled hounds
Drag different ways in miry grounds.
So geographers, in Afric maps,
With savage pictures fill their gaps,
And o'er unhabitable downs
Place elephants for want of towns.
But, though you miss your third essay,
You need not throw your pen away.
Lay now aside all thoughts of fame,
To spring more profitable game.
From party merit seek support;
The vilest verse thrives best at court.
And may you ever have the luck
To rhyme almost as ill as Duck;[6]
And, though you never learn'd to scan verse
Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers.
A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence
Will never fail to bring in pence:
Nor be concern'd about the sale,
He pays his workmen on the nail.[7]
Display the blessings of the nation,
And praise the whole administration.
Extol the bench of bishops round,
Who at them rail, bid ---- confound;
To bishop-haters answer thus:
(The only logic used by us)
What though they don't believe in ----
Deny them Protestants--thou lyest.
A prince, the moment he is crown'd,
Inherits every virtue round,
As emblems of the sovereign power,
Like other baubles in the Tower;
Is generous, valiant, just, and wise,
And so continues till he dies:
His humble senate this professes,
In all their speeches, votes, addresses.
But once you fix him in a tomb,
His virtues fade, his vices bloom;
And each perfection, wrong imputed,
Is fully at his death confuted.
The loads of poems in his praise,
Ascending, make one funeral blaze:
His panegyrics then are ceased,
He grows a tyrant, dunce, or beast.
As soon as you can hear his knell,
This god on earth turns devil in hell:
And lo! his ministers of state,
Transform'd to imps, his levee wait;
Where in the scenes of endless woe,
They ply their former arts below;
And as they sail in Charon's boat,
Contrive to bribe the judge's vote;
To Cerberus they give a sop,
His triple barking mouth to stop;
Or, in the ivory gate of dreams,[8]
Project excise and South-Sea[9] schemes;
Or hire their party pamphleteers
To set Elysium by the ears.
Then, poet, if you mean to thrive,
Employ your muse on kings alive;
With prudence gathering up a cluster
Of all the virtues you can muster,
Which, form'd into a garland sweet,
Lay humbly at your monarch's feet:
Who, as the odours reach his throne,
Will smile, and think them all his own;
For law and gospel both determine
All virtues lodge in royal ermine:
I mean the oracles of both,
Who shall depose it upon oath.
Your garland, in the following reign,
Change but the names, will do again.
But, if you think this trade too base,
(Which seldom is the dunce's case)
Put on the critic's brow, and sit
At Will's, the puny judge of wit.
A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile,
With caution used, may serve a while.
Proceed no further in your part,
Before you learn the terms of art;
For you can never be too far gone
In all our modern critics' jargon:
Then talk with more authentic face
Of unities, in time and place:
Get scraps of Horace from your friends,
And have them at your fingers' ends;
Learn Aristotle's rules by rote,
And at all hazards boldly quote;
Judicious Rymer[10] oft review,
Wise Dennis,[11] and profound Bossu.[12]
Read all the prefaces of Dryden,
For these our critics much confide in;
Though merely writ at first for filling,
To raise the volume's price a shilling.
A forward critic often dupes us
With sham quotations _peri hupsous_:
And if we have not read Longinus,
Will magisterially outshine us.
Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye,
Procure the book for love or money,
Translated from Boileau's translation,[13]
And quote quotation on quotation.
At Will's you hear a poem read,
Where Battus[14] from the table head,
Reclining on his elbow-chair,
Gives judgment with decisive air;
To whom the tribe of circling wits
As to an oracle submits.
He gives directions to the town,
To cry it up, or run it down;
Like courtiers, when they send a note,
Instructing members how to vote.
He sets the stamp of bad and good,
Though not a word be understood.
Your lesson learn'd, you'll be secure
To get the name of connoisseur:
And, when your merits once are known,
Procure disciples of your own.
For poets (you can never want 'em)
Spread through Augusta Trinobantum,[15]
Computing by their pecks of coals,
Amount to just nine thousand souls:
These o'er their proper districts govern,
Of wit and humour judges sovereign.
In every street a city bard
Rules, like an alderman, his ward;
His undisputed rights extend
Through all the lane, from end to end;
The neighbours round admire his shrewdness
For songs of loyalty and lewdness;
Outdone by none in rhyming well,
Although he never learn'd to spell.
Two bordering wits contend for glory;
And one is Whig, and one is Tory:
And this, for epics claims the bays,
And that, for elegiac lays:
Some famed for numbers soft and smooth,
By lovers spoke in Punch's booth;
And some as justly fame extols
For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls.
Bavius[16] in Wapping gains renown,
And Mævius[16] reigns o'er Kentish town:
Tigellius[17] placed in Phooebus' car
From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar:
Harmonious Cibber entertains
The court with annual birth-day strains;
Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;[18]
Where Pope will never show his face;
Where Young must torture his invention
To flatter knaves or lose his pension.[19]
But these are not a thousandth part
Of jobbers in the poet's art,
Attending each his proper station,
And all in due subordination,
Through every alley to be found,
In garrets high, or under ground;
And when they join their pericranies,
Out skips a book of miscellanies.
Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature
Lives in a state of war by nature.[20]
The greater for the smaller watch,
But meddle seldom with their match.
A whale of moderate size will draw
A shoal of herrings down his maw;
A fox with geese his belly crams;
A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;
But search among the rhyming race,
The brave are worried by the base.
If on Parnassus' top you sit,
You rarely bite, are always bit:
Each poet of inferior size
On you shall rail and criticise,
And strive to tear you limb from limb;
While others do as much for him.
The vermin only teaze and pinch
Their foes superior by an inch.
So, naturalists observe, a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him prey;
And these have smaller still to bite 'em,
And so proceed _ad infinitum_.
Thus every poet, in his kind,
Is bit by him that comes behind:
Who, though too little to be seen,
Can teaze, and gall, and give the spleen;
Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores,
Lay Grub Street at each other's doors;
Extol the Greek and Roman masters,
And curse our modern poetasters;
Complain, as many an ancient bard did,
How genius is no more rewarded;
How wrong a taste prevails among us;
How much our ancestors outsung us:
Can personate an awkward scorn
For those who are not poets born;
And all their brother dunces lash,
Who crowd the press with hourly trash.
O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee,
Whose graceless children scorn to own thee!
Their filial piety forgot,
Deny their country, like a Scot;
Though by their idiom and grimace,
They soon betray their native place:
Yet thou hast greater cause to be
Ashamed of them, than they of thee,
Degenerate from their ancient brood
Since first the court allow'd them food.
Remains a difficulty still,
To purchase fame by writing ill.
From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard's[22] time,
How few have reach'd the low sublime!
For when our high-born Howard died,
Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied:
And lest a chasm should intervene,
When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign,
The leaden crown devolved to thee,
Great poet[24] of the "Hollow Tree."
But ah! how unsecure thy throne!
A thousand bards thy right disown:
They plot to turn, in factious zeal,
Duncenia to a common weal;
And with rebellious arms pretend
An equal privilege to descend.
In bulk there are not more degrees
From elephants to mites in cheese,
Than what a curious eye may trace
In creatures of the rhyming race.
From bad to worse, and worse they fall;
But who can reach the worst of all?
For though, in nature, depth and height
Are equally held infinite:
In poetry, the height we know;
'Tis only infinite below.
For instance: when you rashly think,
No rhymer can like Welsted sink,
His merits balanced, you shall find
The Laureate leaves him far behind.
Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard,
Soars downward deeper by a yard.
Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops;
The rest pursue as thick as hops:
With heads to point the gulf they enter,
Link'd perpendicular to the centre;
And as their heels elated rise,
Their heads attempt the nether skies.
O, what indignity and shame,
To prostitute the Muses' name!
By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd
The plagues and scourges of mankind;
Bred up in ignorance and sloth,
And every vice that nurses both.
Perhaps you say, Augustus shines,
Immortal made in Virgil's lines,
And Horace brought the tuneful quire,
To sing his virtues on the lyre;
Without reproach for flattery, true,
Because their praises were his due.
For in those ages kings, we find,
Were animals of human kind.
But now, go search all _Europe_ round
Among the _savage monsters_ ----
With vice polluting every _throne_,
(I mean all thrones except our own;)
In vain you make the strictest view
To find a ---- in all the crew,
With whom a footman out of place
Would not conceive a high disgrace,
A burning shame, a crying sin,
To take his morning's cup of gin.
Thus all are destined to obey
Some beast of burthen or of prey.
'Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man,
Through all the brutal species ran,
Each proper quality to find
Adapted to a human mind;
A mingled mass of good and bad,
The best and worst that could be had;
Then from a clay of mixture base
He shaped a ---- to rule the race,
Endow'd with gifts from every brute
That best the * * nature suit.
Thus think on ----s: the name denotes
Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats.
To represent in figure just,
Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust;
Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers,
What herds of ----s would turn to grazers!
Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest,
Whose virtues bear the strictest test;
Whom never faction could bespatter,
Nor minister nor poet flatter;
What justice in rewarding merit!
What magnanimity of spirit!
What lineaments divine we trace
Through all his figure, mien, and face!
Though peace with olive binds his hands,
Confess'd the conquering hero stands.
Hydaspes,[28] Indus, and the Ganges,
Dread from his hand impending changes.
From him the Tartar and Chinese,
Short by the knees,[29] entreat for peace.
The consort of his throne and bed,
A perfect goddess born and bred,
Appointed sovereign judge to sit
On learning, eloquence, and wit.
Our eldest hope, divine IГјlus,[30]
(Late, very late, O may he rule us!)
What early manhood has he shown,
Before his downy beard was grown,
Then think, what wonders will be done
By going on as he begun,
An heir for Britain to secure
As long as sun and moon endure.
The remnant of the royal blood
Comes pouring on me like a flood.
Bright goddesses, in number five;
Duke William, sweetest prince alive.
Now sing the minister of state,
Who shines alone without a mate.
Observe with what majestic port
This Atlas stands to prop the court:
Intent the public debts to pay,
Like prudent Fabius,[31] by delay.
Thou great vicegerent of the king,
Thy praises every Muse shall sing!
In all affairs thou sole director;
Of wit and learning chief protector,
Though small the time thou hast to spare,
The church is thy peculiar care.
Of pious prelates what a stock
You choose to rule the sable flock!
You raise the honour of the peerage,
Proud to attend you at the steerage.
You dignify the noble race,
Content yourself with humbler place.
Now learning, valour, virtue, sense,
To titles give the sole pretence.
St. George beheld thee with delight,
Vouchsafe to be an azure knight,
When on thy breast and sides Herculean,
He fix'd the star and string cerulean.
Say, poet, in what other nation
Shone ever such a constellation!
Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays,
And tune your harps, and strew your bays:
Your panegyrics here provide;
You cannot err on flattery's side.
Above the stars exalt your style,
You still are low ten thousand mile.
On Lewis all his bards bestow'd
Of incense many a thousand load;
But Europe mortified his pride,
And swore the fawning rascals lied.
Yet what the world refused to Lewis,
Applied to George, exactly true is.
Exactly true! invidious poet!
'Tis fifty thousand times below it.
Translate me now some lines, if you can,
From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.
They could all power in Heaven divide,
And do no wrong on either side;
They teach you how to split a hair,
Give George and Jove an equal share.[32]
Yet why should we be laced so strait?
I'll give my monarch butter-weight.
And reason good; for many a year
Jove never intermeddled here:
Nor, though his priests be duly paid,
Did ever we desire his aid:
We now can better do without him,
Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.
_Caetera desiderantur_.
[Footnote 1: See Young's "Satires," and "Life" by
Johnson.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: The prison or house of correction to which harlots were
often consigned. See Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress," and "A beautiful
young Nymph," _ante_, p. 201.--_W. R. B._]
[Footnote 3: Colley Cibber, born in 1671, died in 1757; famous as a
comedian and dramatist, and immortalized by Pope as the hero of the
"Dunciad"; appointed Laureate in December, 1730, in succession to Eusden,
who died in September that year. See Cibber's "Apology for his Life";
Disraeli's "Quarrels of Authors," edit. 1859.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: Barnaby Bernard Lintot, publisher and bookseller, noted for
adorning his shop with titles in red letters. In the Prologue to the
"Satires" Pope says: "What though my name stood rubric on the walls"; and
in the "Dunciad," book i, "Lintot's rubric post." He made a handsome
fortune, and died High Sheriff of Sussex in 1736, aged
sixty-one.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 5: The coffee-house most frequented by the wits and poets of
that time.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 6: See _ante_, p. 192, "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher
Poet."--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 7: Allusion to the large sums paid by Walpole to scribblers in
support of his party.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 8:
"Sunt geminae Somni portae: quarum altera fertur
Cornea; qua veris facilis datur exitus Vmbris:
Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto;
Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia Manes."
VIRG., _Aen._, vi.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 9: See the "South Sea Project," _ante_, p. 120.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 10: Thomas Rymer, archaeologist and critic. The allusion is to
his "Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age," on which see Johnson's
"Life of Dryden" and Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 173. Rymer is best known by
his work entitled "Foedera," consisting of leagues, treaties, etc., made
between England and other kingdoms.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 11: John Dennis, born 1657, died 1734. He is best remembered as
"The Critic." See Swift's "Thoughts on various subjects," "Prose Works,"
i, 284; Disraeli, "Calamities of Authors: Influence of a bad Temper in
Criticism"; Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope,
_passim._--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 12: Highly esteemed as a French critic by Dryden and
Pope.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 13: By Leonard Welsted, who, in 1712, published the work of
"Longinus on the Sublime," stated to be "translated from the Greek." He
is better known through his quarrel with Pope. See the "Prologue to the
Satires."--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 14: Dryden, whose armed chair at Will's was in the winter
placed by the fire, and in the summer in the balcony. Malone's "Life of
Dryden," p. 485. Why Battus? Battus was a herdsman who, because he
Betrayed Mercury's theft of some cattle, was changed by the god into a
Stone Index. Ovid, "Metam.," ii, 685.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 15: The ancient name of London, also called Troynovant. See
Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 249; and Cunningham's "Handbook of
London," introduction.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 16: The two bad Roman poets, hateful and inimical to Virgil and
Horace: Virg., "Ecl." iii, 90; Horat., "Epod." x. The names have been
well applied in our time by Gifford in his satire entitled "The Baviad
and Maeviad."--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 17: A musician, also a censurer of Horace. See "Satirae," lib.
1. iii, 4.--_--W. E. B._]
[Footnote 18: In consequence of "Polly," the supplement to the "Beggar's
Opera," but which obtained him the friendship of the Duke and Duchess of
Queensberry.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 19: The grant of two hundred a year, which he obtained from the
Crown, and retained till his death in 1765.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 20: See "Leviathan," Part I, chap, xiii.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 21: Richard Flecknoe, poet and dramatist, died 1678, of whom it
has been written that "whatever may become of his own pieces, his name
will continue, whilst Dryden's satire, called 'Mac Flecknoe,' shall
remain in vogue." Dryden's Poetical Works, edit. Warton, ii,
169.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 22: Hon. Edward Howard, author of some indifferent plays and
poems. See "Dict. Nat. Biog."--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 23: Richard Blackmore, physician and very voluminous writer in
prose and verse. In 1697 he was appointed physician to William III, when
he was knighted. See Pope, "Imitations of Horace," book ii, epist. 1,
387.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 24: Lord Grimston, born 1683, died 1756. He is best known by
his play, written in 1705, "The Lawyer's Fortune, or Love in a Hollow
Tree," which the author withdrew from circulation; but, by some person's
malice, it was reprinted in 1736. See "Dict. Nat. Biog.," Pope's Works,
edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, p. 314.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 25: Matthew Concanen, born in Ireland, 1701, a writer of
miscellaneous works, dramatic and poetical. See the "Dunciad," ii, 299,
304, _ut supra.--W. E. B._]
[Footnote 26: James Moore Smythe, chiefly remarkable for his consummate
assurance as a plagiarist. See the "Dunciad," ii, 50, and notes thereto,
Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, iv, 132.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 27:
"Fertur Prometheus, addere principi
Limo coactus particulam undique
Desectam, et insani leonis
Vim stomacho apposuisse nostro."
HORAT., _Carm._ I, xvi.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 28:
"---- super et Garamantas et Indos,
Proferet imperium; ----
---- jam nunc et Caspia regna
Responsis horrent divom."
Virg., _Aen._, vi.]
[Footnote 29:
"---- genibus minor."]
[Footnote 30: Son of Aeneas, here representing Frederick, Prince of
Wales, father of George III.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 31:
"Unus qui nobis cunctando restituis rem."
Virg., _Aen._, vi, 847.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 32: "Divisum imperium cum Jove Caesar habet."]
VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH PINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND.
BY DR. J. SICAN[1]
(Horace speaking.)
You've read, sir, in poetic strain,
How Varus and the Mantuan swain
Have on my birth-day been invited,
(But I was forced in verse to write it,)
Upon a plain repast to dine,
And taste my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilios hate,
Though long familiar with the great,
Nor glory in my reputation,
Am come without an invitation;
And, though I'm used to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste IГ«rnian;
But fearing that you might dispute
(Had I put on my common suit)
My breeding and my politesse,
I visit in my birth-day dress:
My coat of purest Turkey red,
With gold embroidery richly spread;
To which I've sure as good pretensions,
As Irish lords who starve on pensions.
What though proud ministers of state
Did at your antichamber wait;
What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns,
Have at your levee paid attendance,
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid aside the general's staff,
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I some friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling sons of fame;
For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Though they made Lewis beg a parley;
And as for Mordaunt,[2] your loved hero,
I'll match him with my Drusus Nero.
You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope;
But Virgil is as good, I hope.
I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helsham and Delany;
Since Athens brought forth Socrates,
A Grecian isle, Hippocrates;
Since Tully lived before my time,
And Galen bless'd another clime.
You'll plead, perhaps, at my request,
To be admitted as a guest,
"Your hearing's bad!"--But why such fears?
I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason wisely took
The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd by slow devouring moths,
By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths;
By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes,
By Creech's[3] rhymes, and Dunster's[4] prose;
I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet still they but in vain assail'd;
For, had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my frame,
They would have partly miss'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page
Defies the Vandals of this age.
'Tis yours to save these small remains
From future pedant's muddy brains,
And fix my long uncertain fate,
You best know how--"which way?"--TRANSLATE.
[Footnote 1: This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in
Italy.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 2: See verses to the Earl of Peterborough, _ante_,
p. 48.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 3: The translator and editor of Lucretius and
Horace.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 4: Who put forth, in 1710, the "Satyrs and Epistles of Horace,
done into English," of which a second edition was published in 1717, with
the addition of the "Art of Poetry." His versions were well satirized by
the wits of the time, one of whom, Dr. T. Francklin, wrote:
"O'er Tibur's swan the Muses wept in vain,
And mourned their bard by cruel Dunster slain."
_Dict. Nat. Biog.--W. E. B._]
EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER
INTENDED TO BE PLACED UNDER THE HEAD OF GULLIVER. 1733
"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined,
How vice and folly have debased mankind;
Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause;
Thus her great votary vindicates her laws:
While bold and free the glowing colours strike;
Blame not the picture, if the picture's like."
ON PSYCHE[1]
At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,
Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire:
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;
Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle?
Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,
Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place.
She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main.
To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit;
For her taste is almost as refined as her wit.
To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market,
It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it.
Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears,
She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears.
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of
the "Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with Swift and
Stella.--_W. E. B._]
THE DEAN AND DUKE
1734
James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends;
James is beduked; of course their friendship ends:
But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke.
Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2]
His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The duke and dean seem near upon a level.
O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry,
From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free.
A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown:
Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown.
Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king:
O! would his majesty but add a string!
[Footnote 1: James Brydges, who was created Duke of Chandos in 1719, and
built the magnificent house at Canons near Edgware, celebrated by Pope in
his "Moral Essays," Epistles iii and iv. For a description of the
building, see De Foe's "Tour through Great Britain," cited in Carruthers'
edition of Pope, vol. i, p. 482. At the sale of the house by the second
Duke in 1747, Lord Chesterfield purchased the hall pillars for the house
he was then building in May Fair, where they still adorn the entrance
hall of Chesterfield House. He used to call them his _Canonical_
pillars.--_W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 2: In allusion to the Duke's difficulties caused by the failure
of his speculative investments.--_W. E. B_.]
[Footnote 3: The Hon. Henry Brydges, Archdeacon of Rochester.--_N_.]
WRITTEN BY DR. SWIFT ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS, IN SEPTEMBER, 1734
Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis;
Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum,
Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est,
Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures.
THE DEAN'S COMPLAINT, TRANSLATED AND ANSWERED
DOCTOR. Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone.
ANSWER. Except the first, the fault's your own.
DOCTOR. To all my friends a burden grown.
ANSWER. Because to few you will be shewn.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.
DOCTOR. No more I hear my church's bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell.
ANSWER. Then write and read, 'twill do as well.
DOCTOR. At thunder now no more I start,
Than at the rumbling of a cart.
ANSWER. Think then of thunder when you f--t.
DOCTOR. Nay, what's incredible, alack!
No more I hear a woman's clack.
ANSWER. A woman's clack, if I have skill,
Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill;
But louder than a bell, or thunder:
That does, I own, increase my wonder.
THE DEAN'S MANNER OF LIVING
On rainy days alone I dine
Upon a chick and pint of wine.
On rainy days I dine alone,
And pick my chicken to the bone;
But this my servants much enrages,
No scraps remain to save board-wages.
In weather fine I nothing spend,
But often spunge upon a friend;
Yet, where he's not so rich as I,
I pay my club, and so good b'ye.
EPIGRAM BY MR. BOWYER
"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM"
Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus,
Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet.
Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam:
Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput.
Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta;
Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem.
VERSES MADE FOR FRUIT-WOMEN
APPLES
Come buy my fine wares,
Plums, apples, and pears.
A hundred a penny,
In conscience too many:
Come, will you have any?
My children are seven,
I wish them in Heaven;
My husband a sot,
With his pipe and his pot,
Not a farthing will gain them,
And I must maintain them.
ASPARAGUS
Ripe 'sparagrass
Fit for lad or lass,
To make their water pass:
O, 'tis pretty picking
With a tender chicken!
ONIONS
Come, follow me by the smell,
Here are delicate onions to sell;
I promise to use you well.
They make the blood warmer,
You'll feed like a farmer;
For this is every cook's opinion,
No savoury dish without an onion;
But, lest your kissing should be spoil'd,
Your onions must be thoroughly boil'd:
Or else you may spare
Your mistress a share,
The secret will never be known:
She cannot discover
The breath of her lover,
But think it as sweet as her own.
OYSTERS
Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter and moister:
Your stomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lass or a lad;
And madam your wife
They'll please to the life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she slut, or be she scold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.
HERRINGS
Be not sparing,
Leave off swearing.
Buy my herring
Fresh from Malahide,[1]
Better never was tried.
Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard,
Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard.
Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread,
Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.
[Footnote 1: Malahide, a village five miles from Dublin, famous for
oysters.--_F_.]
ORANGES
Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal,
And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale;
Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup,
They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup.
ON ROVER, A LADY'S SPANIEL
INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER[1]
Happiest of the spaniel race,
Painter, with thy colours grace:
Draw his forehead large and high,
Draw his blue and humid eye;
Draw his neck so smooth and round,
Little neck with ribbons bound!
And the muscly swelling breast,
Where the Loves and Graces rest;
And the spreading even back,
Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;
And the tail that gently twines,
Like the tendrils of the vines;
And the silky twisted hair,
Shadowing thick the velvet ear;
Velvet ears, which, hanging low,
O'er the veiny temples flow.
With a proper light and shade,
Let the winding hoop be laid;
And within that arching bower,
(Secret circle, mystic power,)
In a downy slumber place
Happiest of the spaniel race;
While the soft respiring dame,
Glowing with the softest flame,
On the ravish'd favourite pours
Balmy dews, ambrosial showers.
With thy utmost skill express
Nature in her richest dress,
Limpid rivers smoothly flowing,
Orchards by those rivers blowing;
Curling woodbine, myrtle shade,
And the gay enamell'd mead;
Where the linnets sit and sing,
Little sportlings of the spring;
Where the breathing field and grove
Soothe the heart and kindle love.
Here for me, and for the Muse,
Colours of resemblance choose,
Make of lineaments divine,
Daply female spaniels shine,
Pretty fondlings of the fair,
Gentle damsels' gentle care;
But to one alone impart
All the flattery of thy art.
Crowd each feature, crowd each grace,
Which complete the desperate face;
Let the spotted wanton dame
Feel a new resistless flame!
Let the happiest of his race
Win the fair to his embrace.
But in shade the rest conceal,
Nor to sight their joys reveal,
Lest the pencil and the Muse
Loose desires and thoughts infuse.
[Footnote 1: A parody of Ambrose Phillips's poem on Miss Carteret,
daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. Phillips stood high in Archbishop
Boulter's regard. Hence the parody. "Does not," says Pope, "still to one
Bishop Phillips seem a wit?" It is to the infantine style of some of
Phillips' verse that we owe the term, Namby Pamby.--_W. E. B_.]
EPIGRAMS ON WINDOWS
SEVERAL OF THEM WRITTEN IN 1726
I. ON A WINDOW AT AN INN
We fly from luxury and wealth,
To hardships, in pursuit of health;
From generous wines, and costly fare,
And dozing in an easy-chair;
Pursue the goddess Health in vain,
To find her in a country scene,
And every where her footsteps trace,
And see her marks in every face;
And still her favourites we meet,
Crowding the roads with naked feet.
But, oh! so faintly we pursue,
We ne'er can have her full in view.
II. AT AN INN IN ENGLAND
The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd,
Dims and obscures our sight;
So, when our passions Love has stirr'd,
It darkens Reason's light.
III. ON A WINDOW AT THE FOUR CROSSES
IN THE WATLING-STREET ROAD, WARWICKSHIRE
Fool, to put up four crosses at your door,
Put up your wife, she's CROSSER than all four.
IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER
The church and clergy here, no doubt,
Are very near a-kin;
Both weather-beaten are without,
And empty both within.
V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER
My landlord is civil,
But dear as the d--l:
Your pockets grow empty
With nothing to tempt ye;
The wine is so sour,
'Twill give you a scour,
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with stale.
The veal is such carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,
For I live on a smelt.
VI. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER
The walls of this town
Are full of renown,
And strangers delight to walk round 'em:
But as for the dwellers,
Both buyers and sellers,
For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.
VII. ANOTHER
WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE
Thanks to my stars, I once can see
A window here from scribbling free!
Here no conceited coxcombs pass,
To scratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party fool is calling names,
Or dealing crowns to George and James.
VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS
The sage, who said he should be proud
Of windows in his breast,[1]
Because he ne'er a thought allow'd
That might not be confest;
His window scrawl'd by every rake,
His breast again would cover,
And fairly bid the devil take
The diamond and the lover.
[Footnote 1: See on this "Notes and Queries," 10th S., xii,
497.--_W. E. B._]
IX. ANOTHER
By Satan taught, all conjurors know
Your mistress in a glass to show,
And you can do as much:
In this the devil and you agree;
None e'er made verses worse than he,
And thine, I swear, are such.
X. ANOTHER
That love is the devil, I'll prove when required;
Those rhymers abundantly show it:
They swear that they all by love are inspired,
And the devil's a damnable poet.
XI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD [1]
O Neptune! Neptune! must I still
Be here detain'd against my will?
Is this your justice, when I'm come
Above two hundred miles from home;
O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains,
Half choked with dust, half drown'd with rains,
Only your godship to implore,
To let me kiss your other shore?
A boon so small! but I may weep,
While you're like Baal, fast asleep.
[Footnote 1: These verses were no doubt written during the Dean's
enforced stay at Holyhead while waiting for fair weather. See Swift's
Journal of 1727, in Craik's "Life of Swift," vol. ii, and "Prose Works,"
vol. xi.--_W. E. B_.]
