Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

Be sure at Will’s the foll’wing 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 provoked 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 doggerel 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 marked your former fau’ts;
The trivial turns, the borrow’d wit,
The similies that nothing fit;
The cant which every fool repeats,
Town-jests and coffee-house 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 pr-l-te, who no God believes;
A p-m-t or den of thieves;
A pickpurse at the bar or bench,
A duchess or a suburb-wench;
“An House of P--rs, a gaming crew,
A griping ---- or a Jew.”
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 leg too short;
Or like a bridge that joins a marish
To moorlands of a different parish.
So have I seen ill-coupled hounds
Drag diff’rent 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.

* * * * *

Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,
Employ your muse on kings alive,
With prudence gath’ring up a cluster
Of all the virtues you can muster,
Which, formed 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 doth 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, ’twill do again.

* * * * *

Hobbes clearly proves that ev’ry creature
Lives in a state of war by nature;
The greater for the smaller watch,
But meddle seldom with their match.
A whale of mod’rate size will draw
A shoal of herrings in 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 criticize,
And strive to tear you limb from limb,
While others do as much for him.
The vermin only tease and pinch
Their foes superior by an inch,
So nat’ralists observe a flea
Have smaller fleas on him that prey,
And these have smaller still to bite ’em,
And so proceed _ad infinitum_.

_Jonathan Swift._

_LETTER FROM A LIAR._

I shall, without any manner of preface or apology, acquaint you that I am, and ever have been from my youth upward, one of the greatest liars this island has produced. I have read all the moralists upon the subject, but could never find any effect their discourses had upon me but to add to my misfortune by new thoughts and ideas, and making me more ready in my language, and capable of sometimes mixing seeming truths with my improbabilities. With this strong passion towards falsehood in this kind there does not live an honester man or a sincerer friend; but my imagination runs away with me, and whatever is started, I have such a scene of adventures appear in an instant before me, that I cannot help uttering them, though, to my immediate confusion, I cannot but know I am liable to be detected by the first man I meet.

Upon occasion of the mention of the battle of Pultowa I could not forbear giving an account of a kinsman of mine, a young merchant, who was bred at Moscow, that had too much mettle to attend books of entries and accounts when there was so active a scene in the country where he resided, and followed the Czar as a volunteer. This warm youth, born at the instant the thing was spoken of, was the man who unhorsed the Swedish general; he was the occasion that the Muscovites kept their fire in so soldier-like a manner, and brought up those troops which were covered from the enemy at the beginning of the day; besides this, he had at last the good fortune to be the man who took Count Piper. With all this fire I knew my cousin to be the civilest man in the world. He never made any impertinent show of his valour, and then he had an excellent genius for the world in every other kind. I had letters from him--here I felt in my pockets--that exactly spoke the Czar’s character, which I knew perfectly well, and I could not forbear concluding that I lay with his imperial majesty twice or thrice a week all the while he lodged at Deptford. What is worse than all this, it is impossible to speak to me but you give me some occasion of coming out with one lie or other that has neither wit, humour, prospect of interest, nor any other motive that I can think of in nature. The other day, when one was commending an eminent and learned divine, what occasion had I to say, “Methinks he would look more venerable if he were not so fair a man”? I remember the company smiled. I have seen the gentleman since, and he is coal black. I have intimations every day in my life that nobody believes me, yet I am never the better. I was saying something the other day to an old friend at Will’s coffee-house, and he made me no manner of answer, but told me that an acquaintance of Tully the orator, having two or three times together said to him, without receiving an answer, “That upon his honour he was but that very month forty years of age,” Tully answered, “Surely you think me the most incredulous man in the world, if I don’t believe what you have told me every day these ten years.” The mischief of it is, I find myself wonderfully inclined to have been present at every encounter that is spoken of before me; this has led me into many inconveniences, but indeed they have been the fewer because I am no ill-natured man, and never speak things to any man’s disadvantage. I never directly defame, but I do what is as bad in the consequence, for I have often made a man say such and such a lively expression, who was born a mere elder brother. When one has said in my hearing, “Such a one is no wiser than he should be,” I immediately have replied, “Now, faith, I can’t see that; he said a very good thing to my lord such-a-one, upon such an occasion,” and the like. Such an honest dolt as this has been watched in every expression he uttered, upon my recommendation of him, and consequently been subject to the more ridicule. I once endeavoured to cure myself of this impertinent quality, and resolved to hold my tongue for seven days together; I did so, but then I had so many winks and contortions of my face upon what anybody else said that I found I only forbore the expression, and that I still lied in my heart to every man I met with. You are to know one thing, which I believe you will say is a pity, considering the use I should have made of it. I never travelled in my life; but I do not know whether I could have spoken of any foreign country with more familiarity than I do at present, in company who are strangers too ... though I was never out of this town, and fifty miles about it.

It were endless to give you particulars of this kind, but I can assure you, Mr. Spectator, there are about twenty or thirty of us in this town (I mean by this town the cities of London and Westminster); I say there are in town a sufficient number to make a society among ourselves; and since we cannot be believed any longer, I beg of you to print this letter that we may meet together, and be under such regulation as there may be no occasion for belief or confidence among us. If you think fit, we might be called THE HISTORIANS, for liar is become a very harsh word.

* * * * *

But, alas! whither am I running! While I complain, while I remonstrate to you, even all this is a lie, for there is no such person of quality, lover, soldier, or merchant, as I have now described, in the whole world, that I know of. But I will catch myself once in my life, and in spite of nature speak one truth, to wit, that I am,--Your humble servant.

_Sir Richard Steele_ (1672–1729).

EPIGRAMS.

ON A FAT MAN.

When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,
“God bless you, sir!” and lay their rammers by.

ON A STINGY BEAU.

Curio’s rich sideboard seldom sees the light;
Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright;
His knives and spoons, all ranged in even rows,
No hands molest, or fingers discompose.
A curious jack, hung up to please the eye,
For ever still, whose flyers never fly;
His plates unsullied, shining on the shelf,
For Curio dresses nothing,--but himself.

ON MARRIAGE.

Cries Celia to a reverend dean,
“What reason can be given,
Since marriage is a holy thing,
That there are none in heaven?”

“There are no women,” he reply’d;
She quick returns the jest;
“Women there are, but I’m afraid
They cannot find a priest.”

_John Winstanley_ (1678–1750).

_A FINE LADY._

_A Lady’s Apartment. Two Chambermaids enter._

_First Chambermaid._ Are all things set in order? The toilette fixed, the bottles and combs put in form, and the chocolate ready?

_2nd Cham._ ’Tis no greater matter whether they be right or not; for right or wrong we shall be sure of our lecture. I wish for my part that my time were out.

_1st Cham._ Nay, ’tis a hundred to one but we may run away before our time be half expired, and she’s worse this morning than ever. Here she comes.

LADY LUREWELL _enters_.

_Lure._ Ay, there’s a couple of you indeed! But how, how in the name of negligence could you two contrive to make a bed as mine was last night; a wrinkle on one side, and a rumple on t’other; the pillows awry, and the quilt askew. I did nothing but tumble about and fence with the sheets all night along. Oh! my bones ache this morning as if I had lain all night on a pair of Dutch stairs.--Go, bring chocolate. And, d’ye hear? be sure to stay an hour or two at least.--Well! these English animals are so unpolished! I wish the persecution would rage a little harder, that we might have more of these French refugees among us.

_The Maids enter with chocolate._

These wenches are gone to Smyrna for this chocolate---- And what made you stay so long?

_Cham._ I thought we did not stay at all, madam.

_Lure._ Only an hour and a half by the slowest clock in Christendom--and such salvers and dishes too! The lard be merciful to me! what have I committed to be plagued with such animals? Where are my new japan salvers? Broke, o’ my conscience! all to pieces, I’ll lay my life on’t.

_Cham._ No, indeed, madam, but your husband----

_Lure._ How! husband, impudence! I’ll teach you manners. (_Gives her a box on the ear._) Husband! Is that your Welsh breeding? Ha’n’t the Colonel a name of his own?

_Cham._ Well, then, the Colonel. He used them this morning, and we ha’n’t got them since.

_Lure._ How! the Colonel use my things! How dare the Colonel use any thing of mine? But his campaign education must be pardoned. And I warrant they were fisted about among his dirty _levée_ of disbanded officers? Faugh! the very thoughts of them fellows, with their eager looks, iron swords, tied-up wigs, and tucked in cravats, make me sick as death. Come, let me see. (_Goes to take the chocolate, and starts back._) Heavens protect me from such a sight! Lord, girl! when did you wash your hands last? And have you been pawing me all this morning with them dirty fists of yours? (_Runs to the glass._) I must dress all over again. Go, take it away, I shall swoon else. Here, Mrs. Monster, call up my tailor; and d’ye hear? you, Mrs. Hobbyhorse, see if my company be come to cards yet.

_The Tailor enters._

Oh, Mr. Remnant! I don’t know what ails these stays you have made me; but something is the matter, I don’t like them.

_Rem._ I am very sorry for that, madam. But what fault does your ladyship find?

_Lure._ I don’t know where the fault lies; but, in short, I don’t like them; I can’t tell how; the things are well enough made, but I don’t like them.

_Rem._ Are they too wide, madam?

_Lure._ No.

_Rem._ Too straight, perhaps?

_Lure._ Not at all! they fit me very well; but--lard bless me; can’t you tell where the fault lies?

_Rem._ Why, truly, madam, I can’t tell. But your ladyship, I think, is a little too slender for the fashion.

_Lure._ How! too slender for the fashion, say you?

_Rem._ Yes, madam! there’s no such thing as a good shape worn among the quality; you fine waists are clear out, madam.

_Lure._ And why did not you plump up my stays to the fashionable size?

_Rem._ I made them to fit you, madam.

_Lure._ Fit me! fit my monkey. What, d’ye think I wear clothes to please myself! Fit me! fit the fashion, pray; no matter for me--I thought something was the matter, I wanted quality-air. Pray, Mr. Remnant, let me have a bulk of quality, a spreading counter. I do remember now, the ladies in the apartments, the birth-night, were most of them two yards about. Indeed, sir, if you contrive my things any more with your scanty chambermaid’s air, you shall work no more for me.

_Rem._ I shall take care to please your ladyship for the future. [_Exit._

_A Servant enters._

_Serv._ Madam, my master desires----

_Lure._ Hold, hold, fellow; for gad’s sake, hold; if thou touch my clothes with that tobacco breath of thine, I shall poison the whole drawing-room. Stand at the door pray, and speak. (_Servant goes to the door and speaks._)

_Serv._ My master, madam, desires----

_Lure._ Oh, hideous! Now the rascal bellows so loud that he tears my head to pieces. Here, awkwardness, go take the booby’s message, and bring it to me.

(_Maid goes to the door, whispers, and returns._)

_Cham._ My master desires to know how your ladyship rested last night, and if you are pleased to admit of a visit this morning.

_Lure._ Ay--why this is civil. ’Tis an insupportable toil though for women of quality to model their husbands to good breeding.

_George Farquhar_ (1678–1707).

_THE BORROWER_.

_Richmore._ You may keep the letter.

_Young Wou’d-be._ But why would you trust it with me? You know I can’t keep a secret that has any scandal in ’t.

_Rich._ For that reason I communicate it. I know thou art a perfect Gazette, and will spread the news all over the town; for you must understand that I am now besieging another, and I would have the fame of my conquest upon the wing, that the town may surrender the sooner.

_Y. W._ But if the report of your cruelty goes along with that of your valour, you’ll find no garrison of any strength will open their gates to you.

_Rich._ No, no; women are cowards, terror prevails upon them more than clemency; my best pretence to my success with the fair is my using them ill; ’tis turning their own guns upon them, and I have always found it the most successful battery to assail one reputation by sacrificing another.

_Y. W._ I could love thee for thy mischief, did I not envy thee for thy success in it.

_Rich._ You never attempt a woman of figure.

_Y. W._ How can I? This confounded hump of mine is such a burden to my back that it presses me down here in the dirt and diseases of Covent Garden, the low suburbs of pleasure. Curst fortune! I am a younger brother, and yet cruelly deprived of my birthright, a handsome person; seven thousand a year, in a direct line, would have straightened my back to some purpose. But I look, in my present circumstances, like a branch of another kind, grafted only upon the stock which makes me look so crooked.

_Rich._ Come, come, ’tis no misfortune, your father is so as well as you.

_Y. W._ Then why should not I be a lord as well as he? Had I the same title to the deformity I could bear it.

_Rich._ But how does my lord bear the absence of your twin-brother?

_Y. W._ My twin-brother? Ay, ’twas his crowding me that spoiled my shape, and his coming half-an-hour before me that ruined my fortune. My father expelled me from his house some two years ago, because I would have persuaded him that my twin-brother was a bastard. He gave me my portion, which was about fifteen hundred pounds, and I have spent two thousand of it already. As for my brother, he don’t care a farthing for me.

_Rich._ Why so, pray?

_Y. W._ A very odd reason--because I hate him.

_Rich._ How should he know that?

_Y. W._ Because he thinks it reasonable it should be so.

_Rich._ But did your actions ever express any malice to him?

_Y. W._ Yes; I would fain have kept him company; but being aware of my kindness, he went abroad. He has travelled these five years, and I am told is a grave, sober fellow, and in danger of living a great while; all my hope is, that when he gets into his honour and estate the nobility will soon kill him by drinking him up to his dignity. But come, Frank, I have but two eyesores in the world, a brother before me and a hump behind me, and thou art still laying them in my way; let us assume an argument of less severity. Can’st thou lend me a brace of hundred pounds?

_Rich._ What would you do with them?

_Y. W._ Do with them? There’s a question indeed. Do you think I would eat them?

_Rich._ Yes, o’ my troth would you, and drink them together. Look ’e, Mr. Wou’d-be, whilst you kept well with your father, I could have ventured to have lent you five guineas. But as the case stands, I can assure you I have lately paid off my sister’s fortune, and----

_Y. W._ Sir, this put-off looks like an affront, when you know I don’t use to take such things.

_Rich._ Sir, your demand is rather an affront, when you know I don’t use to give such things.

_Y. W._ Sir, I’ll pawn my honour.

_Rich._ That’s mortgaged already for more than it is worth; you had better pawn your sword there, ’twill bring you forty shillings.

_Y. W._ ’Sdeath, sir---- [_Takes his sword off the table._

_Rich._ Hold, Mr. Wou’dbe--suppose I put an end to your misfortunes all at once.

_Y. W._ How, sir?

_Rich._ Why, go to a magistrate and swear you would have robbed me of two hundred pounds. Look ’e, sir, you have been often told that your extravagance would some time or other be the ruin of you; and it will go a great way in your indictment to have turned the pad upon your friend.

_Y. W._ This usage is the height of ingratitude from you, in whose company I have spent my fortune.

_Rich._ I’m therefore a witness that it was very ill spent. Why would you keep company, be at equal expenses with me, that have fifty times your estate? What was gallantry in me was prodigality in you; mine was my health, because I could pay for it; yours a disease, because you could not.

_Y. W._ And is this all I must expect from our friendship?

_Rich._ Friendship! Sir, there can be no such thing without an equality.

_Y. W._ That is, there can be no such thing when there is occasion for ’t.

_Rich._ Right, sir--our friendship was over a bottle only; and whilst you can pay your club of friendship, I’m that way your humble servant; but when once you come borrowing, I’m this way--your humble servant. [_Exit._

_Y. W._ Rich, big, proud, arrogant villain! I have been twice his second, thrice sick of the same love, and thrice cured by the same physic, and now he drops me for a trifle--that an honest fellow in his cups should be such a rogue when he is sober! The narrow-hearted rascal has been drinking coffee this morning. Well, thou dear solitary half-crown, adieu! Here, Jack, take this, pay for a bottle of wine, and bid Balderdash bring it himself. [_Exit Servant._] How melancholy are my poor breeches; not one chink! Thou art a villainous hand, for thou hast picked my pocket. This vintner now has all the marks of an honest fellow, a broad face, a copious look, a strutting belly, and a jolly mien. I have brought him above three pounds a night for these two years successively. The rogue has money, I’m sure, if he would but lend it.

_Enter_ BALDERDASH, _with a bottle and glass_.

Oh, Mr. Balderdash, good-morrow.

_Bald._ Noble Mr. Wou’dbe, I’m your most humble servant. I have brought you a whetting-glass, the best Old Hock in Europe; I know ’tis your drink in a morning.

_Y. W._ I’ll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash.

_Bald._ Your health, sir. [_Drinks._

_Y. W._ Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one thing, but first sit down; now tell me plainly what you think of me?

_Bald._ Think of you, sir? I think that you are the honestest, noblest gentleman that ever drank a glass of wine, and the best customer that ever came into my house.

_Y. W._ And do you really think as you speak?

_Bald._ May this wine be my poison, sir, if I don’t speak from the bottom of my heart. [_Drinks._

_Y. W._ And how much money do you think I have spent in your house?

_Bald._ Why, truly, sir, by a moderate computation I do believe that I have handled of your money the best part of five hundred pounds within these two years.

_Y. W._ Very well! And do you think that you lie under any obligation for the trade I have promoted to your advantage?

_Bald._ Yes, sir; and if I can serve you in any respect, pray command me to the utmost of my ability.

_Y. W._ Well! thanks to my stars, there is still some honesty in wine. Mr. Balderdash, I embrace you and your kindness; I am at present a little low in cash, and must beg you to lend me a hundred pieces.

_Bald._ Why, truly, Mr. Wou’dbe, I was afraid it would come to this; I have had it in my head several times to caution you upon your expenses, but you were so very genteel in my house, and your liberality became you so very well, that I was unwilling to say anything that might check your disposition; but truly, sir, I can forbear no longer to tell you that you have been a little too extravagant.

_Y. W._ But since you reaped the benefit of my extravagance, you will, I hope, consider my necessity.

_Bald._ Consider your necessity! I do, with all my heart; and must tell you, moreover, that I will be no longer accessory to it: I desire you, sir, to frequent my house no more.

_Y. W._ How, sir?

_Bald._ I say, sir, that I have an honour for my good lord your father, and will not suffer his son to run into any inconvenience. Sir, I shall order my drawers not to serve you with a drop of wine. Would you have me connive at a gentleman’s destruction?

_Y. W._ But methinks, sir, that a person of your nice conscience should have cautioned me before.

_Bald._ Alas! sir, it was none of my business. Would you have me be saucy to a gentleman that was my best customer? Lack-a-day, sir, had you money to hold it out still, I had been hanged rather than be rude to you. But truly, sir, when a man is ruined, ’tis but the duty of a Christian to tell him of it.

_Y. W._ Will you lend me money, sir?

_Bald._ Will you pay me this bill, sir?

_Y. W._ Lend me the hundred pound, and I’ll pay the bill.

_Bald._ Pay me the bill, and I will--not lend you the hundred pound, sir. But pray consider with yourself, now, sir; would not you think me an errant coxcomb to trust a person with money that has always been so extravagant under my eye? whose profuseness I have seen, I have felt, I have handled? Have not I known you, sir, throw away ten pounds a-night upon a covey of pit-partridges and a setting-dog? Sir, you have made my house an ill house; my very chairs will bear you no longer. In short, sir, I desire you to frequent the “Crown” no more, sir.

_Y. W._ Thou sophisticated ton of iniquity, have I fattened your carcass and swelled your bags with my vital blood? Have I made you my companion to be thus saucy to me? But now I will keep you at your distance.

[_Kicks him._

_Ser._ Welcome, sir! [_Kicks him._

_Y. W._ Well said, Jack. [_Kicks him again._

_Ser._ Very welcome, sir! I hope we shall have your company another time. Welcome, sir! [_He is kicked off._

_Y. W._ Pray wait on him downstairs, and give him a welcome at the door too. (_Exit Servant._) This is the punishment of hell; the very devil that tempted me to sin, now upbraids me with the crime. I have villainously murdered my fortune, and now its ghost, in the lank shape of poverty, haunts me. Is there no charm to conjure down the fiend?

_George Farquhar._

WIDOW WADMAN’S EYE.

“I am half distracted, Captain Shandy,” said Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambric handkerchief to her left eye, as she approached the door of my uncle Toby’s sentry-box; “a mote--or sand--or something--I know not what, has got into this eye of mine;--do look into it--it is not in the white.”

In saying which Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle Toby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave him an opportunity of doing it without rising up. “Do look into it,” said she.

Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart as ever child looked into a raree show-box; and ’twere as much a sin to have hurt thee.

If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that nature, I’ve nothing to say to it.

My uncle Toby never did; and I will answer for him that he would have sat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, you know, takes in both the hot and cold months) with an eye as fine as the Thracian Rhodope’s beside him, without being able to tell whether it was a black or a blue one.

The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at one at all.

’Tis surmounted. And--

I see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it--looking-and looking--then rubbing his eyes--and looking again, with twice the good nature that ever Galileo looked for a spot in the sun.

In vain! for, by all the powers which animate the organ--Widow Wadman’s left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right;--there is neither mote, nor sand, nor dust, nor chaff, nor speck, nor particle of opaque matter floating in it. There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in all directions into thine.

If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one moment longer, thou art undone.

An eye is, for all the world, exactly like a cannon, in this respect, that it is not so much the eye or the cannon in themselves, as it is the carriage of the eye--and the carriage of the cannon; by which both the one and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don’t think the comparison a bad one; however, as ’tis made and placed at the head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in return is that whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman’s eyes (except once in the next period) that you keep it in your fancy.

“I protest, Madam,” said my uncle Toby, “I can see nothing whatever in your eye.”

“It is not in the white,” said Mrs. Wadman. My uncle Toby looked with might and main into the pupil.

Now, of all the eyes which ever were created, from your own, Madam, up to those of Venus herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of eyes as ever stood in a head, there never was an eye of them all so fitted to rob my uncle Toby of his repose as the very eye at which he was looking;--it was not, Madam, a rolling eye--a romping, or a wanton one,--nor was it an eye sparkling, petulant, or imperious--of high claims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that milk of human nature of which my uncle Toby was made up; but ’twas an eye full of gentle salutations--and soft responses--speaking--not like the trumpet-stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to holds coarse converse, but whispering soft--like the last low accents of an expiring saint-“How can you live comfortless, Captain Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on--or trust your cares to?”

It was an eye----

But I shall be in love with it myself if I say another word about it.

It did my uncle Toby’s business.

_Laurence Sterne_ (1713–1768).

_BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES._

Ye good fellows all,
Who love to be told where good claret’s in store,
Attend to the call
Of one who’s ne’er frighted,
But greatly delighted
With six bottles more.
Be sure you don’t pass
The good house, Moneyglass,
Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns,
’Twill well suit your humour--
For, pray, what would you more,
Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

Ye lovers who pine
For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,
Who whimper and whine
For lilies and roses,
With eyes, lips, and noses,
Or tip of an ear!
Come hither, I’ll show ye
How Phillis and Chloe
No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;
For what mortal’s so stupid
As not to quit Cupid,
When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

Ye poets who write,
And brag of your drinking famed Helicon’s brook,--
Though all you get by it
Is a dinner ofttimes,
In reward for your rhymes,
With Humphry the Duke,--
Learn Bacchus to follow,
And quit your Apollo,
Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones:
Our jingling of glasses
Your rhyming surpasses
When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye soldiers so stout,
With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,
Who make such a rout
Of all your commanders,
Who served us in Flanders,
And eke at the Boyne,--
Come leave off your rattling
Of sieging and battling,
And know you’d much better to sleep in whole bones;
Were you sent to Gibraltar,
Your notes you’d soon alter,
And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye clergy so wise,
Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear,
How worthy to rise!
You preach once a week,
But your tithes never seek
Above once in a year!
Come here without failing,
And leave off your railing
’Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;
Says the text so divine,
“What is life without wine?”
Then away with the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!

Ye lawyers so just,
Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,
How worthy of trust!
You know black from white,
You prefer wrong to right,
As you chance to be fee’d:--
Leave musty reports
And forsake the king’s courts,
Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones;
Burn Salkeld and Ventris,[4]
And all your damned entries,
And away with the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!

Ye physical tribe
Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,
Whene’er you prescribe,
Have at your devotion,
Pills, bolus, or potion,
Be what will the case;
Pray where is the need
To purge, blister, and bleed?
When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
That the forms of old Galen
Are not so prevailing
As mirth with good claret,--and bumpers, Squire Jones!

Ye fox-hunters eke,
That follow the call of the horn and the hound,
Who your ladies forsake
Before they’re awake,
To beat up the brake
Where the vermin is found:--
Leave Piper and Blueman,
Shrill Duchess and Trueman,--
No music is found in such dissonant tones!
Would you ravish your ears
With the songs of the spheres,
Hark away to the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!

_Arthur Dawson_ (1700?–1775).

_JACK LOFTY._

_Scene_--CROAKER’S HOUSE.
_Present_--MRS. CROAKER _and_ LOFTY.

_Enter_ LOFTY, _speaking to his servant_.

_Lofty._ And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature, the marquis, should call, I am not at home. D-- me, I’ll be a pack-horse to none of them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment--and if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they’re of importance. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons.

_Mrs. C._ Sir, this honour----

_Lofty._ And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercout’s stale request, it can keep cold; you understand me. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him--you must do him, I say. Madam, I ask you ten thousand pardons--and if the Russian ambassador calls--but he will scarce call to-day, I believe. And now, madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant.

_Mrs. C._ Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine; and yet, I am only robbing the public while I detain you.

_Lofty._ Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah! could all my hours be so charmingly devoted! Thus it is eternally: solicited for places here; teased for pensions there; and courted everywhere. I know you pity me.

_Mrs. C._ Excuse me, sir. “Toils of empires, pleasures are,” as Waller says----

_Lofty._ Waller, Waller! Is he of the house?

_Mrs. C._ The modern poet of that name, sir.

_Lofty._ Oh, a modern! We men of business despise the moderns; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters; but not for us. Why, now, here I stand, that know nothing of books; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them.

_Mrs. C._ The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty’s eminence in every capacity.

_Lofty._ I am nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees; yet, upon my soul, I don’t know what they see in me to treat me so! Measures, not men, have always been my mark; and I vow, by all that’s honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm; that is, as mere men.

_Mrs. C._ What importance! and yet, what modesty!

_Lofty._ Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I own, I am accessible to praise; modesty is my foible. It was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me, “I love Jack Lofty,” he used to say; “no man has a finer knowledge of things, quite a man of information, and when he speaks upon his legs, by the lord, he’s prodigious! He scouts them. And yet all men have their faults,--too much modesty is his,” says his Grace.

_Mrs. C._ And yet, I dare say, you don’t want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends.

_Lofty._ Oh, there, indeed, I’m in bronze! Apropos, I have just been mentioning Miss Richland’s case to a certain personage; we must name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam. No, no; I take my friend by the button: a fine girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, sir. That’s my way, madam.

_Mrs. C._ Bless me! You said all this to the Secretary of State, did you?

_Lofty._ I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it! since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary.

_Mrs. C._ This was going to the fountain-head at once; not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us.

_Lofty._ Honeywood! he, he! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him?

_Mrs. C._ Poor, dear man! no accident, I hope.

_Lofty._ Undone, madam, that’s all. His creditors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own house.

_Mrs. C._ A prisoner in his own house? How! I am quite unhappy for him.

_Lofty._ Why, so am I. This man, to be sure, was immensely good-natured; but, then, I could never find that he had anything in him.

_Mrs. C._ His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion.

_Lofty._ It can’t be concealed, madam, the man was dull; dull as the last new comedy. A poor, impracticable creature! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit for business; but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow.

_Mrs. C._ How differently does Miss Richland think of him; for, I believe, with all his faults, she loves him.

_Lofty._ Loves him! Does she? You should cure her of that, by all means. Let me see, what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation? My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the next room? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland; and rather than she should be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself.

[_Exeunt._

_Scene_--YOUNG HONEYWOOD’S HOUSE.

_Present_--SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD _and_ MISS RICHLAND.

_Sir W._ Do not make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had some demands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there.

_Miss R._ Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions; but my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures of success.

_Sir W._ Who? The important little man that visits here? Trust me, madam, he’s quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty’s promises are much better known to people of fashion than his person, I assure you.

_Miss R._ How have we been deceived! As sure as can be, here he comes.

_Sir W._ Does he? Remember, I am to continue unknown; my return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters!

_Enter_ LOFTY.

_Lofty._ Let the chariot--let my chariot drive off; I’ll visit his Grace’s in a chair. Miss Richland here before me! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. I am very sorry, madam, things of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance.

_Miss R._ I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of others your own.

_Lofty._ My dear madam, what can a private man like me do? One man can’t do everything--and, then, I do so much in this way every day. Let me see: something considerable might be done for him by subscription; it could not fail if I carried the list. I’ll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril.

_Sir W._ And, after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful patronage

_Lofty._ Then, madam, what can we do? You know, I never make promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him in the way of business; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable.

_Sir W._ His uncle! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular friend of yours?

_Lofty._ Meaning me, sir? Yes, madam; as I often said, “My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do anything, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family;” but what can be done? There’s no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities.

_Miss R._ I have heard of Sir William Honeywood; he’s abroad in employment; he confided in your judgment, I suppose.

_Lofty._ Why, yes, madam; I believe Sir William had some reason to confide in my judgment; one little reason, perhaps.

_Miss R._ Pray, sir, what was it?

_Lofty._ Why, madam--but let it go no further; it was I procured him his place.

_Sir W._ Did you, sir?

_Lofty._ Either you or I, sir.

_Miss R._ This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, indeed.

_Lofty._ I did love him; to be sure, he had some amusing qualities; no man was fitter to be toast-master to a club, or had a better head.

_Miss R._ A better head?

_Lofty._ Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as dull as a choice spirit; but hang it, he was grateful--very grateful; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults.

_Sir W._ He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty considerable, I am told.

_Lofty._ A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater.

_Sir W._ Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I am told he is much about my size and figure, sir.

_Lofty._ Ay; tall enough for a marching regiment, but then he wanted a something; a consequence of form; a kind of a--I believe the lady perceives my meaning.

_Miss R._ Oh, perfectly; you courtiers can do anything, I see.

_Lofty._ My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange; we do greater things for one another every day. Why as thus, now, let me suppose you the First Lord of the Treasury, you have an employment in you that I want; I have a place in me that you want; do me here, do you there; interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it’s over.

_Sir W._ A thought strikes me. (_Aside._) Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you’ll be glad to hear he’s arrived from Italy; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information.

_Lofty._ The devil he is. (_Aside._)

_Sir W._ He is certainly returned; and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, you can be of signal service to us, by introducing me to him; there are some papers relative to your affairs that require despatch and his inspection.

_Miss R._ This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my affairs; I know you will serve us.

_Lofty._ My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it.

_Sir W._ That would be quite unnecessary.

_Lofty._ Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me--let me see--ay, in two days.

_Sir W._ Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever.

_Lofty._ Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But, d--n it, that’s unfortunate; my Lord Grig’s cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I’m engaged to attend--another time----

_Sir W._ A short letter to Sir William will do.

_Lofty._ You shall have it; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work; face to face, that’s my way.

_Sir W._ The letter, sir, will do quite as well.

_Lofty._ Zounds, sir! do you pretend to direct me--direct me in the business of office? Do you know me, sir? Who am I?

_Miss R._ Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine; if my commands--but you despise my power.

_Lofty._ Sweet creature! your commands could even control a debate at midnight; to a power so constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter; where is my secretary, Dubardieu? And yet, I protest, I don’t like this way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William---- But you will have it so.

[_Exit with Miss R._

_Scene_--AN INN.

_Present_--SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, HIS NEPHEW,
CROAKER, LOFTY, _and_ MISS RICHLAND.

_Enter_ LOFTY.

_Lofty._ Is the coast clear? None but friends. I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no further, things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than--a thousand years. Mum!

_Miss R._ Sooner, sir, I should hope.

_Lofty._ Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push and where to parry; that know how the land lies.

_Miss R._ It is fallen into yours.

_Lofty._ Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say; that’s all I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout that the claim has been examined and found admissible. Quietus is the word, madam.

_Miss R._ But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days.

_Lofty._ Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most d--y mistaken. I had it of him.

_Miss R._ He? Why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month.

_Lofty._ This month? It must certainly be so. Sir Gilbert’s letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there; and so it came about. I have his letter about me; I’ll read it to you. (_Taking out a large bundle._) That’s from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon---- (_Searching._) Oh, sir, what, are you here too? I’ll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him.

_Sir W._ Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you, it was received with the most mortifying contempt.

_Croa._ Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean?

_Lofty._ Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You’ll find it come to something directly.

_Sir W._ Yes, sir, I believe you’ll be amazed; after waiting some time in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed upon.

_Lofty._ Good; let me die, very good. Ha, ha, ha!

_Croa._ Now, for my life, I can’t find out half the goodness of it.

_Lofty._ You can’t? Ha, ha!

_Croa._ No, for the soul of me; I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another.

_Lofty._ And so you can’t find out the force of the message? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha, ha! It was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha, ha!

_Croa._ Indeed! How?--why?

_Lofty._ In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery.

_Croa._ And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over.

_Lofty._ Your suspicions! What, then, you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends, we are friends no longer.

_Croa._ As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don’t be discomposed.

_Lofty._ Zounds, sir! but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To be treated thus! Who am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the _Gazetteer_ and praised in the _St. James’s_? Have I been chaired at Wildman’s, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors’ Hall? Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops, and talk to me of suspects!

_Croa._ My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking pardon?

_Lofty._ Sis, I will not be pacified! Suspects! Who am I? To be used thus, have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends, the Lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects! Who am I, I say--who am I?

_Sir W._ Since, sir, you’re so pressing for an answer, I’ll tell you who you are. A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as with men in power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty; with the Lords of the Treasury as with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood.

[_Discovers his ensigns of the Bath._

_Croa._ Sir William Honeywood!

_Hon._ Astonishment! my uncle! [_Aside._

_Lofty._ So, then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window.

_Croa._ What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works? Suspect you! You who have been dreaded by the ins and outs. You who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you were served right, you should have your head stuck up in the pillory.

_Lofty._ Ay, stick it where you will; for, by the lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present.

_Oliver Goldsmith_ (1728–1774).

_BEAU TIBBS._