Chapter XII (2)

The towns we took ne'er did us good:
What signified the French to beat?
We spent our money and our blood,
To make the Dutchmen proud and great:
But the Lord of Oxford swears,
Dunkirk never shall be theirs.
The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
But true Englishmen may fill
A good health to General Hill:
"For the Queen now enjoys her own again."

HORACE, EPIST. I, VII IMITATION OF HORACE TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]

Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall, Cheap'ning old authors on a stall. The priest was pretty well in case, And show'd some humour in his face; Look'd with an easy, careless mien, A perfect stranger to the spleen; Of size that might a pulpit fill, But more inclining to sit still. My lord, (who, if a man may say't, Loves mischief better than his meat), Was now disposed to crack a jest And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest. (This Lewis was a cunning shaver, And very much in Harley's favour)-- In quest who might this parson be, What was his name, of what degree; If possible, to learn his story, And whether he were Whig or Tory. Lewis his patron's humour knows; Away upon his errand goes, And quickly did the matter sift; Found out that it was Doctor Swift, A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat; Which made his brethren of the gown Take care betimes [3] to run him down: No libertine, nor over nice, Addicted to no sort of vice; Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought; Not rich, but owed no man a groat; In state opinions à la mode, He hated Wharton like a toad; Had given the faction many a wound, And libell'd all the junto round; Kept company with men of wit, Who often father'd what he writ: His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street, But seldom rose above a sheet: Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp Did very much his genius cramp; And, since he could not spend his fire, He now intended[4] to retire. Said Harley, "I desire to know From his own mouth, if this be so: Step to the doctor straight, and say, I'd have him dine with me to-day." Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant, Nor could believe my lord had sent; So never offer'd once to stir, But coldly said, "Your servant, sir!" "Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd: "He does; with insolence and pride." Some few days after, Harley spies The doctor fasten'd by the eyes At Charing-cross, among the rout, Where painted monsters are hung out: He pull'd the string, and stopt his[5] coach, Beck'ning the doctor to approach. Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide, Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side, And offer'd many a lame excuse: He never meant the least abuse-- "My lord--the honour you design'd-- Extremely proud--but I had dined-- I am sure I never should neglect-- No man alive has more respect"-- Well, I shall think of that no more, If you'll be sure to come at four." The doctor now obeys the summons, Likes both his company and commons; Displays his talent, sits till ten; Next day invited, comes again; Soon grows domestic, seldom fails, Either at morning or at meals; Came early, and departed late; In short, the gudgeon took the bait. My lord would carry on the jest, And down to Windsor takes his guest. Swift much admires the place and air, And longs to be a Canon there; In summer round the Park to ride, In winter--never to reside. A Canon!--that's a place too mean: No, doctor, you shall be a Dean; Two dozen canons round your stall, And you the tyrant o'er them all: You need but cross the Irish seas, To live in plenty, power, and ease. Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse, With borrow'd money in his purse, Travels at least a hundred leagues, And suffers numberless fatigues. Suppose him now a dean complete, Demurely[8] lolling in his seat, And silver verge, with decent pride, Stuck underneath his cushion side. Suppose him gone through all vexations, Patents, instalments, abjurations, First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats; Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats. (The wicked laity’s contriving To hinder clergymen from thriving.) Now all the doctor's money’s spent, His tenants wrong him in his rent, The farmers spitefully combine, Force him to take his tithes in kine, And Parvisol[9] discounts arrears By bills, for taxes and repairs. Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd, Not knowing where to turn him next, Above a thousand pounds in debt, Takes horse, and in a mighty fret Rides day and night at such a rate, He soon arrives at Harley's gate; But was so dirty, pale, and thin, Old Read[10] would hardly let him in. Said Harley, "Welcome, rev'rend dean! What makes your worship look so lean? Why, sure you won't appear in town In that old wig and rusty gown? I doubt your heart is set on pelf So much that you neglect yourself. What! I suppose, now stocks are high, You've some good purchase in your eye? Or is your money out at use?"-- "Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!" The doctor in a passion cry'd, "Your raillery is misapply'd; Experience I have[11] dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat: But you resolved to have your jest, And 'twas a folly to contest; Then, since you now have done your worst, Pray leave me where you found me first."

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer's secretary.]

[Footnote 3: By time.--_Stella_.]

[Footnote 4: Is now contented,--_Stella._]

[Footnote 5: The.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 6: Would.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 7: By.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 8: "Devoutly" is the word in Stella's transcript: but it must be admitted that "demurely" is more in keeping.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 9: The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.]

[Footnote 10: The lord treasurer's porter.]

[Footnote 11: I have experience.--_Stella_.]

THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF

1713

A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author's from London.--_Dublin Edition_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * By an old ---- pursued, A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2] By dull divines, who look with envious eyes On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise; And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod, Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God. So clowns on scholars as on wizards look, And take a folio for a conj'ring book. Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime: Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme; Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; He reconcil'd divinity and wit: He moved and bow'd, and talk'd with too much grace; Nor show'd the parson in his gait or face; Despised luxurious wines and costly meat; Yet still was at the tables of the great; Frequented lords; saw those that saw the queen; At Child's or Truby's,[3] never once had been; Where town and country vicars flock in tribes, Secured by numbers from the laymen's gibes; And deal in vices of the graver sort, Tobacco, censure, coffee, pride, and port. But, after sage monitions from his friends, His talents to employ for nobler ends; To better judgments willing to submit, He turns to politics his dang'rous wit. And now, the public Int'rest to support, By Harley Swift invited, comes to court; In favour grows with ministers of state; Admitted private, when superiors wait: And Harley, not ashamed his choice to own, Takes him to Windsor in his coach alone. At Windsor Swift no sooner can appear, But St. John comes, and whispers in his ear: The waiters stand in ranks: the yeomen cry, _Make room_, as if a duke were passing by. Now Finch[4] alarms the lords: he hears for certain This dang'rous priest is got behind the curtain. Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves That Swift oils many a spring which Harley moves. Walpole and Aislaby,[5] to clear the doubt, Inform the Commons, that the secret's out: "A certain doctor is observed of late To haunt a certain minister of state: From whence with half an eye we may discover The peace is made, and Perkin must come over." York is from Lambeth sent, to show the queen A dang'rous treatise[6] writ against the spleen; Which, by the style, the matter, and the drift, 'Tis thought could be the work of none but Swift. Poor York! the harmless tool of others' hate; He sues for pardon,[7] and repents too late. Now angry Somerset her vengeance vows On Swift's reproaches for her ******* spouse:[8] From her red locks her mouth with venom fills, And thence into the royal ear instils. The queen incensed, his services forgot, Leaves him a victim to the vengeful Scot.[9] Now through the realm a proclamation spread, To fix a price on his devoted head.[10] While innocent, he scorns ignoble flight; His watchful friends preserve him by a sleight. By Harley's favour once again he shines; Is now caress'd by candidate divines, Who change opinions with the changing scene: Lord! how were they mistaken in the dean! Now Delawar[11] again familiar grows; And in Swift's ear thrusts half his powder'd nose. The Scottish nation, whom he durst offend, Again apply that Swift would be their friend.[12] By faction tired, with grief he waits awhile, His great contending friends to reconcile; Performs what friendship, justice, truth require: What could he more, but decently retire?

[Footnote 1: Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the Deanery of Canterbury, to the Archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February 2, 1712-13. According to Dr. Swift's account, the archbishop had represented him to the queen as a person that was not a Christian; the great lady [the Duchess of Somerset] had supported the aspersion; and the queen, upon such assurances, had given away the bishopric contrary to her majesty's first intentions [which were in favour of Swift]. See Orrery's "Remarks on the Life of Swift," p. 48.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Queen Anne.]

[Footnote 3: Coffeehouses frequented by the clergy. In the preceding poem, Swift gives the same trait of his own character: "A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat." His feeling towards his order was exactly the reverse of his celebrated misanthropical expression of hating mankind, but loving individuals. On the contrary, he loved the church, but disliked associating with individual clergymen.--_Scott._ See his letter to Pope, Sept. 29, 1725, in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 53, and the unjust remarks of the commentators.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Daniel Finch, Earl of Nottingham, who made a speech in the House of Lords against the author.]

[Footnote 5: John Aislaby, then M.P. for Ripon. They both spoke against him in the House of Commons.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 6: The Tale of a Tub.]

[Footnote 7: He sent a message to the author to desire his pardon, and that he was very sorry for what he had said and done.]

[Footnote 8: Insert _murder'd_. The duchess's first husband, Thomas Thynne, Esq., was assassinated in Pall Mall by banditti, the emissaries of Count Königsmark. As the motive of this crime was the count's love to the lady, with whom Thynne had never cohabited, Swift seems to throw upon her the imputation of being privy to the crime. See the "Windsor Prophecy," _ante_, p. 150.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: The Duke of Argyle.]

[Footnote 10: For writing "The Public Spirit of the Whigs."]

[Footnote 11: Then lord-treasurer of the household, who cautiously avoided Swift while the proclamation was impending.]

[Footnote 12: He was visited by the Scots lords more than ever.]

THE FAGOT[1]

Written in the year 1713, when the Queen's ministers were quarrelling among themselves.

Observe the dying father speak: Try, lads, can you this bundle break? Then bids the youngest of the six Take up a well-bound heap of sticks. They thought it was an old man's maggot; And strove, by turns, to break the fagot: In vain: the complicated wands Were much too strong for all their hands. See, said the sire, how soon 'tis done: Then took and broke them one by one. So strong you'll be, in friendship ty'd; So quickly broke, if you divide. Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel: Here ends the fable, and the moral. This tale may be applied in few words, To treasurers, comptrollers, stewards; And others, who, in solemn sort, Appear with slender wands at court; Not firmly join'd to keep their ground, But lashing one another round: While wise men think they ought to fight With quarterstaffs instead of white; Or constable, with staff of peace, Should come and make the clatt'ring cease; Which now disturbs the queen and court, And gives the Whigs and rabble sport. In history we never found The consul's fasces[2] were unbound: Those Romans were too wise to think on't, Except to lash some grand delinquent, How would they blush to hear it said, The praetor broke the consul's head! Or consul in his purple gown, Came up and knock'd the praetor down! Come, courtiers: every man his stick! Lord treasurer,[3] for once be quick: And that they may the closer cling, Take your blue ribbon for a string. Come, trimming Harcourt,[4] bring your mace; And squeeze it in, or quit your place: Dispatch, or else that rascal Northey[5] Will undertake to do it for thee: And be assured, the court will find him Prepared to leap o'er sticks, or bind them. To make the bundle strong and safe, Great Ormond, lend thy general's staff: And, if the crosier could be cramm'd in A fig for Lechmere, King, and Hambden! You'll then defy the strongest Whig With both his hands to bend a twig; Though with united strength they all pull, From Somers,[6] down to Craggs[7] and Walpole.

[Footnote 1: This fable is one of the vain remonstrances by which Swift strove to close the breach between Oxford and Bolingbroke, in the last period of their administration, which, to use Swift's own words, was "nothing else but a scene of murmuring and discontent, quarrel and misunderstanding, animosity and hatred;" so that these two great men had scarcely a common friend left, except the author himself, who laboured with unavailing zeal to reconcile their dissensions.--_Scott._ With this exception, the notes are from the Dublin Edition.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The bundle of rods carried before the Consuls at Rome.]

[Footnote 3: The dilatory Earl of Oxford.]

[Footnote 4: Lord Chancellor.]

[Footnote 5: Sir Edward Northey, attorney-general, brought in by Lord Harcourt; yet very desirous of the Great Seal.]

[Footnote 6: Who had been at different times Lord Chancellor and President of the Council.]

[Footnote 7: Afterwards Secretary of State].

IMITATION OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] 1714

I often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace walk, and half a rood Of land, set out to plant a wood. Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;[2] But should be perfectly content, Could I but live on this side Trent;[3] Nor cross the channel twice a-year, To spend six months with statesmen here. I must by all means come to town, 'Tis for the service of the crown. "Lewis, the Dean will be of use; Send for him up, take no excuse." The toil, the danger of the seas, Great ministers ne'er think of these; Or let it cost a hundred pound, No matter where the money's found, It is but so much more in debt, And that they ne'er consider'd yet. "Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my lord know you're come to town." I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is levee-day; And find his honour in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green: How should I thrust myself between? Some wag observes me thus perplex'd, And, smiling, whispers to the next, "I thought the Dean had been too proud, To justle here among a crowd!" Another, in a surly fit, Tells me I have more zeal than wit. "So eager to express your love, You ne'er consider whom you shove, But rudely press before a duke." I own I'm pleased with this rebuke, And take it kindly meant, to show What I desire the world should know. I get a whisper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never saw Come with petitions fairly penn'd, Desiring I would stand their friend. This humbly offers me his case; That begs my interest for a place; A hundred other men's affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears. "To-morrow my appeal comes on; Without your help, the cause is gone--" "The duke expects my lord and you, About some great affair, at two--" "Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind, To get my warrant quickly sign'd: Consider, 'tis my first request."-- Be satisfied I'll do my best: Then presently he falls to tease, "You may for certain, if you please; I doubt not if his lordship knew--- And Mr. Dean, one word from you[4]----" 'Tis (let me see) three years and more, (October next it will be four,) Since Harley bid me first attend,[5] And chose me for an humble friend; Would take me in his coach to chat, And question me of this and that; As "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the wind?" "Whose chariot's that we left behind?" Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs;[6] And mark at Brentford how they spell Hear is good Eal and Bear to cell. Or, "Have you nothing new to-day To shew from Parnell, Pope and Gay?" Such tattle often entertains My lord and me as far as Staines, As once a-week we travel down To Windsor, and again to town; Where all that passes _inter nos_ Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross. Yet some I know with envy swell, Because they see me used so well: "How think you of our friend the Dean? I wonder what some people mean! My lord and he are grown so great, Always together, _tête-à-tête_; What! they admire him for his jokes?-- See but the fortune of some folks!" There flies about a strange report Of mighty news arrived at court: I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet, And catechised in every street. "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great: Inform us, will the emperor treat? Or do the prints and papers lie?" Faith, sir, you know as much as I. "Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! 'Tis now no secret"--I protest It's one to me--"Then tell us, pray, When are the troops to have their pay?" And, though I solemnly declare I know no more than my lord mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known. Thus in a sea of folly toss'd, My choicest[7] hours of life are lost: Yet always wishing to retreat, O, could I see my country-seat! There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; And there in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the court and town.[8]

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's volume.--_Forster._]

[Footnote 2: Here followed twenty lines inserted by Pope when he published the Miscellanies. The version is here printed as written by Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Swift was perpetually expressing his deep discontent at his Irish preferment, and forming schemes for exchanging it for a smaller in England, and courted Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole to effect such a change. A negotiation had nearly taken place between the Dean and Mr. Talbot for the living of Burfield, in Berkshire. Mr. Talbot himself informed me of this negotiation. Burfield is in the neighbourhood of Bucklebury, Lord Bolingbroke's seat.--_Warton._]

[Footnote 4: Very happily turned from "Si vis, potes----."--_Warton._]

[Footnote 5: The rise and progress of Swift's intimacy with Lord Oxford is minutely detailed in his Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man, that served the ministry so effectually, was so tardily, and so difficultly, and so poorly rewarded, are explained in Sheridan's Life of Swift. See also Coxe's "Memoirs of Walpole." Both Gay and Swift conceived every thing was to be gained by the interest of Mrs. Howard, to whom they paid incessant court.--_Bowles._]

[Footnote 6: Another of their amusements in these excursions consisted in Lord Oxford and Swift's counting the poultry on the road, and whichever reckoned thirty-one first, or saw a cat, or an old woman, won the game. Bolingbroke, overtaking them one day in their road to Windsor, got into Lord Oxford's coach, and began some political conversation; Lord Oxford said, "Swift, I am up; there is a cat." Bolingbroke was disgusted with this levity, and went again into his own carriage. This was "Nugari et discincti ludere," [HORAT., _Sat._, ii, I, 73] with a witness.--_Warton._]

[Footnote 7: Stella's transcript, "sweetest."--_Forster._]

[Footnote 8: Thus far was translated by Dr. Swift in 1714. The remaining part of the satire was afterwards added by Pope, in whose works the whole is printed. See Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope.--_W. E. B._]

HORACE, BOOK II, ODE I, PARAPHRASED ADDRESSED TO RICHARD STEELE, ESQ. 1714

Dick, thou'rt resolved, as I am told, Some strange arcana to unfold, And with the help of Buckley's[1] pen, To vamp the good old cause again: Which thou (such Burnet's shrewd advice is) Must furbish up, and nickname Crisis. Thou pompously wilt let us know What all the world knew long ago, (E'er since Sir William Gore was mayor, And Harley fill'd the commons' chair,) That we a German prince must own, When Anne for Heaven resigns her throne. But, more than that, thou'lt keep a rout, With--who is in--and who is out; Thou'lt rail devoutly at the peace, And all its secret causes trace, The bucket-play 'twixt Whigs and Tories, Their ups and downs, with fifty stories Of tricks the Lord of Oxford knows, And errors of our plenipoes. Thou'lt tell of leagues among the great, Portending ruin to our state: And of that dreadful _coup d'éclat_, Which has afforded thee much chat. The queen, forsooth! (despotic,) gave Twelve coronets without thy leave! A breach of liberty, 'tis own'd, For which no heads have yet atoned! Believe me, what thou'st undertaken May bring in jeopardy thy bacon; For madmen, children, wits, and fools, Should never meddle with edged tools. But, since thou'st got into the fire, And canst not easily retire, Thou must no longer deal in farce, Nor pump to cobble wicked verse; Until thou shall have eased thy conscience, Of spleen, of politics, and nonsense; And, when thou'st bid adieu to cares, And settled Europe's grand affairs, 'Twill then, perhaps, be worth thy while For Drury Lane to shape thy style: "To make a pair of jolly fellows, The son and father, join to tell us, How sons may safely disobey, And fathers never should say nay; By which wise conduct they grow friends At last--and so the story ends."[2] When first I knew thee, Dick, thou wert Renown'd for skill in Faustus' art;[3] Which made thy closet much frequented By buxom lasses--some repented Their luckless choice of husbands--others Impatient to be like their mothers, Received from thee profound directions How best to settle their affections. Thus thou, a friend to the distress'd, Didst in thy calling do thy best. But now the senate (if things hit, And thou at Stockbridge[4] wert not bit) Must feel thy eloquence and fire, Approve thy schemes, thy wit admire, Thee with immortal honours crown, While, patriot-like, thou'lt strut and frown. What though by enemies 'tis said, The laurel, which adorns thy head, Must one day come in competition, By virtue of some sly petition: Yet mum for that; hope still the best, Nor let such cares disturb thy rest. Methinks I hear thee loud as trumpet, As bagpipe shrill or oyster-strumpet; Methinks I see thee, spruce and fine, With coat embroider'd richly shine, And dazzle all the idol faces, As through the hall thy worship paces; (Though this I speak but at a venture, Supposing thou hast tick with Hunter,) Methinks I see a blackguard rout Attend thy coach, and hear them shout In approbation of thy tongue, Which (in their style) is purely hung. Now! now you carry all before you! Nor dares one Jacobite or Tory Pretend to answer one syl-lable, Except the matchless hero Abel.[5] What though her highness and her spouse, In Antwerp[6] keep a frugal house, Yet, not forgetful of a friend, They'll soon enable thee to spend, If to Macartney[7] thou wilt toast, And to his pious patron's ghost. Now, manfully thou'lt run a tilt "On popes, for all the blood they've spilt, For massacres, and racks, and flames, For lands enrich'd by crimson streams, For inquisitions taught by Spain, Of which the Christian world complain." Dick, we agree--all's true thou'st said, As that my Muse is yet a maid. But, if I may with freedom talk, All this is foreign to thy walk: Thy genius has perhaps a knack At trudging in a beaten track, But is for state affairs as fit As mine for politics and wit. Then let us both in time grow wise, Nor higher than our talents rise; To some snug cellar let's repair, From duns and debts, and drown our care; Now quaff of honest ale a quart, Now venture at a pint of port; With which inspired, we'll club each night Some tender sonnet to indite, And with Tom D'Urfey, Phillips, Dennis, Immortalize our Dolls and Jennys.

[Footnote 1: Samuel Buckley, publisher of "The Crisis."]

[Footnote 2: This is said to be a plot of a comedy with which Mr. Steele has long threatened the town.--_Swift._]

[Footnote 3: Alluding to Steele's advice in "The Tatler" to distressed females, in his character of Bickerstaff.]

[Footnote 4: The borough which, for a very short time, Steele represented in Parliament.]

[Footnote 5: Abel Roper, the printer and publisher of a Tory newspaper called "The Post Boy," often mentioned by Swift, who contributed news to it. See "Prose Works," ii, 420; v, 290; ix, 183.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: The Duke and Duchess of Marlborough then resided at Antwerp.]

[Footnote 7: General Macartney, second to Lord Mohun, in the fatal duel with the Duke of Hamilton. For an account of the duel, see Journal to Stella of Nov. 15, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, and x, xxii, and 178.--W. E. B._]

DENNIS’ INVITATION TO STEELE

HORACE, BOOK I, EP. V

JOHN DENNIS, THE SHELTERING POET'S INVITATION TO RICHARD STEELE, THE SECLUDED PARTY-WRITER AND MEMBER, TO COME AND LIVE WITH HIM, IN THE MINT 1714

Fit to be bound up with "The Crisis"

If thou canst lay aside a spendthrift's air, And condescend to feed on homely fare, Such as we minters, with ragouts unstored, Will, in defiance of the law, afford: Quit thy patrols with Toby's Christmas box,[1] And come to me at The Two Fighting Cocks; Since printing by subscription now is grown The stalest, idlest cheat about the town; And ev'n Charles Gildon, who, a Papist bred, Has an alarm against that worship spread, Is practising those beaten paths of cruising, And for new levies on proposals musing. 'Tis true, that Bloomsbury-square’s a noble place: But what are lofty buildings in thy case? What's a fine house embellish'd to profusion, Where shoulder dabbers are in execution? Or whence its timorous tenant seldom sallies, But apprehensive of insulting bailiffs? This once be mindful of a friend's advice, And cease to be improvidently nice; Exchange the prospects that delude thy sight, From Highgate's steep ascent and Hampstead's height, With verdant scenes, that, from St. George's Field, More durable and safe enjoyments yield. Here I, even I, that ne'er till now could find Ease to my troubled and suspicious mind, But ever was with jealousies possess'd, Am in a state of indolence and rest; Fearful no more of Frenchmen in disguise, Nor looking upon strangers as on spies,[2] But quite divested of my former spleen, Am unprovoked without, and calm within: And here I'll wait thy coming, till the sun Shall its diurnal course completely run. Think not that thou of sturdy bub shalt fail, My landlord's cellar stock'd with beer and ale, With every sort of malt that is in use, And every country's generous produce. The ready (for here Christian faith is sick, Which makes us seldom trespass upon tick) Instantly brings the choicest liquors out, Whether we ask for home-brew'd or for stout, For mead or cider, or, with dainties fed, Ring for a flask or two of white or red, Such as the drawer will not fail to swear Was drunk by Pilkington[3]when third time mayor. That name, methinks, so popularly known For opposition to the church and crown, Might make the Lusitanian grape to pass, And almost give a sanction to the glass; Especially with thee, whose hasty zeal Against the late rejected commerce bill Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf, To do the speaker honour, not thyself. But if thou soar'st above the common prices, By virtue of subscription to thy Crisis, And nothing can go down with thee but wines Press'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines, Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French, I love their liquors, as thou lovest a wench; Else thou must humble thy expensive taste, And, with us, hold contentment for a feast. The fire's already lighted; and the maid Has a clean cloth upon the table laid, Who never on a Saturday had struck, But for thy entertainment, up a buck. Think of this act of grace, which by your leave Susan would not have done on Easter Eve, Had she not been inform'd over and over, 'Twas for th'ingenious author of The Lover.[4] Cease, therefore, to beguile thyself with hopes, Which is no more than making sandy ropes, And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause, That must bewilder thee in faction's cause. Pr'ythee what is't to thee who guides the state? Why Dunkirk's demolition is so late? Or why her majesty thinks fit to cease The din of war, and hush the world to peace? The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell What texts to choose, and on what topics dwell; And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach Their flocks celestial happiness to reach. Rather let such poor souls as you and I, Say that the holidays are drawing nigh, And that to-morrow's sun begins the week, Which will abound with store of ale and cake, With hams of bacon, and with powder'd beef, Stuff d to give field-itinerants relief. Then I, who have within these precincts kept, And ne'er beyond the chimney-sweeper's stept, Will take a loose, and venture to be seen, Since 'twill be Sunday, upon Shanks's green; There, with erected looks and phrase sublime, To talk of unity of place and time, And with much malice, mix'd with little satire, Explode the wits on t'other side o' th' water. Why has my Lord Godolphin's special grace Invested me with a queen's waiter's place, If I, debarr'd of festival delights, Am not allow'd to spend the perquisites? He's but a short remove from being mad, Who at a time of jubilee is sad, And, like a griping usurer, does spare His money to be squander'd by his heir; Flutter'd away in liveries and in coaches, And washy sorts of feminine debauches. As for my part, whate'er the world may think, I'll bid adieu to gravity, and drink; And, though I can't put off a woful mien, Will be all mirth and cheerfulness within: As, in despight of a censorious race, I most incontinently suck my face. What mighty projects does not he design, Whose stomach flows, and brain turns round with wine? Wine, powerful wine, can thaw the frozen cit, And fashion him to humour and to wit; Makes even Somers to disclose his art By racking every secret from his heart, As he flings off the statesman's sly disguise, To name the cuckold's wife with whom he lies.[5] Ev'n Sarum, when he quaffs it’stead of tea, Fancies himself in Canterbury's see, And S****, when he carousing reels, Imagines that he has regain'd the seals: W****, by virtue of his juice, can fight, And Stanhope of commissioners make light. Wine gives Lord Wingham aptitude of parts, And swells him with his family's deserts: Whom can it not make eloquent of speech; Whom in extremest poverty not rich? Since, by the means of the prevailing grape, Th***n can Lechmere's warmth not only ape, But, half seas o'er, by its inspiring bounties, Can qualify himself in several counties. What I have promised, thou may'st rest assured Shall faithfully and gladly be procured. Nay, I'm already better than my word, New plates and knives adorn the jovial board: And, lest you at their sight shouldst make wry faces The girl has scour'd the pots, and wash'd the glasses Ta'en care so excellently well to clean 'em, That thou may'st see thine own dear picture in 'em. Moreover, due provision has been made, That conversation may not be betray'd; I have no company but what is proper To sit with the most flagrant Whig at supper. There's not a man among them but must please, Since they're as like each other as are pease. Toland and Hare have jointly sent me word They'll come; and Kennet thinks to make a third, Provided he's no other invitation From men of greater quality and station. Room will for Oldmixon and J--s be left: But their discourses smell so much of theft, There would be no abiding in the room, Should two such ignorant pretenders come. However, by this trusty bearer write, If I should any other scabs invite; Though, if I may my serious judgment give, I'm wholly for King Charles's number five: That was the stint in which that monarch fix'd, Who would not be with noisiness perplex'd: And that, if thou'lt agree to think it best, Shall be our tale of heads, without one other guest. I've nothing more, now this is said, to say, But to request thou'lt instantly away, And leave the duties of thy present post, To some well-skill'd retainer in a host: Doubtless he'll carefully thy place supply, And o'er his grace's horses have an eye. While thou, who slunk thro' postern more than once, Dost by that means avoid a crowd of duns, And, crossing o'er the Thames at Temple Stairs, Leav'st Phillips with good words to cheat their ears.

[Footnote 1: Allusion to a pamphlet written against Steele, under the name of Toby (Edward King), Abel Roper's kinsman and shopman.]

[Footnote 2: Dennis had a notion, that he was much dreaded by the French for his writings, and actually fled from the coast, on hearing that some unknown strangers had approached the town, where he was residing, never doubting that they were the messengers of Gallic vengeance. At the time of the peace of Utrecht, he was anxious for the introduction of a clause for his special protection, and was hardly consoled by the Duke of Marlborough's assurances, that he did not think such a precaution necessary in his own case, although he had been almost as obnoxious to France as Mr. Dennis.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Sir Thomas Pilkington, a leading member of the Skinners' Company, and a staunch Whig. He was elected Lord Mayor for the third time In 1690, and died in 1691.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: A comedy by Steele.]

[Footnote 5: See the Examiner, "Prose Works," ix, 171 _n._, for the grounds of this charge.--_W. E. B._]

IN SICKNESS

WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714

Soon after the author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's death.[1]--_Swift_.

'Tis true--then why should I repine To see my life so fast decline? But why obscurely here alone, Where I am neither loved nor known? My state of health none care to learn; My life is here no soul's concern: And those with whom I now converse Without a tear will tend my hearse. Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid, Who knows his art, but not his trade, Preferring his regard for me Before his credit, or his fee. Some formal visits, looks, and words, What mere humanity affords, I meet perhaps from three or four, From whom I once expected more; Which those who tend the sick for pay, Can act as decently as they: But no obliging, tender friend, To help at my approaching end. My life is now a burthen grown To others, ere it be my own. Ye formal weepers for the sick, In your last offices be quick; And spare my absent friends the grief To hear, yet give me no relief; Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow, When known, will save a double sorrow.

[Footnote 1: Queen Anne died 1st August, 1714.]

THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES[1]

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT

A bitch, that was full pregnant grown By all the dogs and curs in town, Finding her ripen'd time was come, Her litter teeming from her womb, Went here, and there, and everywhere, To find an easy place to lay her. At length to Music's house[2] she came, And begg'd like one both blind and lame; "My only friend, my dear," said she, "You see 'tis mere necessity Hath sent me to your house to whelp: I die if you refuse your help." With fawning whine, and rueful tone, With artful sigh, and feigned groan, With couchant cringe, and flattering tale, Smooth Bawty[3] did so far prevail, That Music gave her leave to litter; (But mark what follow'd--faith! she bit her;) Whole baskets full of bits and scraps, And broth enough to fill her paps; For well she knew, her numerous brood, For want of milk, would suck her blood. But when she thought her pains were done, And now 'twas high time to be gone, In civil terms, "My friend," said she, "My house you've had on courtesy; And now I earnestly desire, That you would with your cubs retire; For, should you stay but one week longer, I shall be starved with cold and hunger." The guest replied--"My friend, your leave I must a little longer crave; Stay till my tender cubs can find Their way--for now, you see, they're blind; But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear, We'll to our barn again repair." The time pass'd on; and Music came Her kennel once again to claim, But Bawty, lost to shame and honour, Set all her cubs at once upon her; Made her retire, and quit her right, And loudly cried--"A bite! bite!"

THE MORAL

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse Conceal a fatal armed force: No sooner brought within the walls, But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.

[Footnote 1: _See post_, "A Tale of a Nettle."]

[Footnote 2: The Church of England.]

[Footnote 3: A Scotch name for bitch, alluding to the kirk.]

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE II

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716

These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment.--_Scott._ See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.--_W. E. B._

How blest is he who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies! The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack; With trembling knees, and Terror at his back; Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind. Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine; But shall with unattainted honour shine; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; Where Jove a seat among the gods will give To those who die, for meriting to live. Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; Within our breast be every secret barr'd! He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me: For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And though the villain’scape a while, he feels Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amidst our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers, that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH

High Church is undone, As sure as a gun, For old Peter Patch is departed; And Eyres and Delaune, And the rest of that spawn, Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum, That _decoctum amarum_, Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail; Which will make them resign Their flasks of French wine, And spice up their Nottingham ale.

It purges the spleen Of dislike to the queen, And has one effect that is odder; When easement they use, They always will chuse The Conformity Bill for bumfodder.

A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED

Not asking or expecting aught,
One day I went to view the court,
Unbent and free from care or thought,
Though thither fears and hopes resort.

A piece of tapestry took my eye,
The faded colours spoke it old;
But wrought with curious imagery,
The figures lively seem'd and bold.

Here you might see the youth prevail,
(In vain are eloquence and wit,)
The boy persists, Apollo's frail;
Wisdom to nature does submit.

There mounts the eager charioteer;
Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd;
Here Jove in anger doth appear,
There all, beneath, the flaming world.

What does this idle fiction mean?
Is truth at court in such disgrace,
It may not on the walls be seen,
Nor e'en in picture show its face?

No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale,
By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;[1]
It does important truths conceal,
And here was placed by wise design.

A lesson deep with learning fraught,
Worthy the cabinet of kings;
Fit subject of their constant thought,
In matchless verse the poet sings.

Well should he weigh, who does aspire
To empire, whether truly great,
His head, his heart, his hand, conspire
To make him equal to that seat.

If only fond desire of sway,
By avarice or ambition fed,
Make him affect to guide the day,
Alas! what strange confusion's bred!

If, either void of princely care,
Remiss he holds the slacken'd rein;
If rising heats or mad career,
Unskill'd, he knows not to restrain:

Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose,
In wanton pride to show his skill,
How easily he can reduce
And curb the people's rage at will;

In wild uproar they hurry on;--
The great, the good, the just, the wise,
(Law and religion overthrown,)
Are first mark'd out for sacrifice.

When, to a height their fury grown,
Finding, too late, he can't retire,
He proves the real Phaethon,
And truly sets the world on fire.

[Footnote 1: "Metamorphoseon," lib. ii.]

A TALE OF A NETTLE[1]

A man with expense and infinite toil, By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil; There fruits of the best your taste did invite, And uniform order still courted the sight. No degenerate weeds the rich ground did produce, But all things afforded both beauty and use: Till from dunghill transplanted, while yet but a seed, A nettle rear'd up his inglorious head. The gard'ner would wisely have rooted him up, To stop the increase of a barbarous crop; But the master forbid him, and after the fashion Of foolish good nature, and blind moderation, Forbore him through pity, and chose as much rather, To ask him some questions first, how he came thither. Kind sir, quoth the nettle, a stranger I come, For conscience compell'd to relinquish my home, 'Cause I wouldn't subscribe to a mystery dark, That the prince of all trees is the Jesuit's bark,[2] An erroneous tenet I know, sir, that you, No more than myself, will allow to be true. To you, I for refuge and sanctuary sue, There's none so renown'd for compassion as you; And, though in some things I may differ from these, The rest of your fruitful and beautiful trees; Though your digging and dunging, my nature much harms, And I cannot comply with your garden in forms: Yet I and my family, after our fashion, Will peaceably stick to our own education. Be pleased to allow them a place for to rest 'em, For the rest of your trees we will never molest 'em; A kind shelter to us and protection afford, We'll do you no harm, sir, I'll give you my word. The good man was soon won by this plausible tale, So fraud on good-nature doth often prevail. He welcomes his guest, gives him free toleration In the midst of his garden to take up his station, And into his breast doth his enemy bring, He little suspected the nettle could sting. 'Till flush'd with success, and of strength to be fear'd, Around him a numerous offspring he rear'd. Then the master grew sensible what he had done, And fain he would have his new guest to be gone; But now 'twas too late to bid him turn out, A well rooted possession already was got. The old trees decay'd, and in their room grew A stubborn, pestilent, poisonous crew. The master, who first the young brood had admitted, They stung like ingrates, and left him unpitied. No help from manuring or planting was found, The ill weeds had eat out the heart of the ground. All weeds they let in, and none they refuse That would join to oppose the good man of the house. Thus one nettle uncropp'd, increased to such store, That 'twas nothing but weeds what was garden before.

[Footnote 1: These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test Act, and may be compared with the "Fable of the Bitches," _ante_, p.181.]

[Footnote 2: In allusion to the supremacy of Rome.--_Scott_.]

A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL[1]

His Grace! impossible! what, dead! Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall, And so inglorious, after all? Well, since he's gone, no matter how, The last loud trump must wake him now; And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger, He'd wish to sleep a little longer. And could he be indeed so old As by the newspapers we're told? Threescore, I think, is pretty high; 'Twas time in conscience he should die! This world he cumber'd long enough; He burnt his candle to the snuff; And that's the reason, some folks think, He left behind so great a stink. Behold his funeral appears, Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears, Wont at such times each heart to pierce, Attend the progress of his hearse. But what of that? his friends may say, He had those honours in his day. True to his profit and his pride, He made them weep before he died. Come hither, all ye empty things! Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings! Who float upon the tide of state; Come hither, and behold your fate! Let Pride be taught by this rebuke, How very mean a thing's a duke; From all his ill-got honours flung, Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.[2]

[Footnote 1: The Duke of Marlborough died on the 16th June, 1722.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: See the "Fable of Midas," _ante_, p. 150; and The Examiner, "Prose Works," ix, 95.--_W. E. B._]

POEMS CHIEFLY RELATING TO IRISH POLITICS

PARODY ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,[1] PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES

Illustrious prince, we're come before ye, Who, more than in our founders, glory To be by you protected; Deign to descend and give us laws, For we are converts to your cause, From this day well-affected.[2]

The noble view of your high merits Has charm'd our thoughts and fix'd our spirits, With zeal so warm and hearty; That we resolved to be devoted, At least until we be promoted, By your just power and party.

Urged by a passionate desire Of being raised a little higher, From lazy cloister'd life; We cannot flatter you nor fawn, But fain would honour'd be with lawn, And settled by a wife.[3]

For this we have before resorted, Paid levees[4] punctually, and courted, Our charge at home long quitting, But now we're come just in the nick, Upon a vacant[5] bishopric, This bait can't fail of hitting.

Thus, sir, you see how much affection, Not interest, sways in this election, But sense of loyal duty. For you surpass all princes far, As glow-worms do exceed a star, In goodness, wit, and beauty.

To you our Irish Commons owe That wisdom which their actions show, Their principles from ours springs, Taught, ere the deel himself could dream on't, That of their illustrious house a stem on't, Should rise the best of kings.

The glad presages with our eyes Behold a king, chaste, vigilant, and wise, In foreign fields victorious, Who in his youth the Turks attacks, And [made] them still to turn their backs; Was ever king so glorious?

Since Ormond’s like a traitor gone, We scorn to do what some have done, For learning much more famous;[6] Fools may pursue their adverse fate, And stick to the unfortunate; We laugh while they condemn us.

For, being of that gen'rous mind, To success we are still inclined, And quit the suffering side, If on our friends cross planets frown, We join the cry, and hunt them down, And sail with wind and tide.

Hence 'twas this choice we long delay'd, Till our rash foes the rebels fled, Whilst fortune held the scale; But [since] they're driven like mist before you, Our rising sun, we now adore you, Because you now prevail.

Descend then from your lofty seat, Behold th' attending Muses wait With us to sing your praises; Calliope now strings up her lyre, And Clio[7] Phoebus does inspire, The theme their fancy raises.

If then our nursery you will nourish, We and our Muses too will flourish, Encouraged by your favour; We'll doctrines teach the times to serve, And more five thousand pounds deserve, By future good behaviour.

Now take our harp into your hand, The joyful strings, at your command, In doleful sounds no more shall mourn. We, with sincerity of heart, To all your tunes shall bear a part, Unless we see the tables turn.

If so, great sir, you will excuse us, For we and our attending Muses May live to change our strain; And turn, with merry hearts, our tune, Upon some happy tenth of June, To "the king enjoys his own again."

[Footnote 1: Dr. Pratt's speech, which is here parodied, was made when the Duke of Ormond, Swift's valued friend, was attainted, and superseded in the office of chancellor of Trinity College, which he had held from 1688-9, by the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II.

There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift, whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent. Of this it may be worth while to mention a trifling instance. The duke had presented to the cathedral of St. Patrick's a superb organ, surmounted by his own armorial bearings. It was placed facing the nave of the church. But after Ormond's attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick's, received orders from government to remove the scutcheon from the church. He obeyed, but he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie buried, and where the arms still remain. The verses have suffered much by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler.

The original speech will be found in the London Gazette of Tuesday, April 17, 1716, and Scott's edition of Swift, vol. xii, p. 352. The Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr. Howard, and Mr. George Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them fellows of Trinity College, Dublin. The speech was praised by Addison, in the Freeholder, No. 33.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Rev. Dr. Pratt had been formerly of the Tory party; to which circumstance the phrase, "from this day well-affected," alludes.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 3: The statutes of the university enjoin celibacy.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 4: The provost was a most constant attendant at the levees at St. James's palace.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons, was nominated, by letters-patent.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the accession.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of the transcriber.--_Scott._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720-21

To the tune of "Packington's Pound."