Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 20

Her lawful throne great Dulness rears, Still more herself, as more in years; Where she, (and who shall dare deny Her right, when Reeves[248] and Chauncy's[249] by?) Calling to mind, in ancient time, One Garth,[250] who err'd in wit and rhyme, 70 Ordains, from henceforth, to admit None of the rebel sons of Wit, And makes it her peculiar care That Schomberg[251] never shall be there.

Not such as those, whom Polly trains To letters, though unbless'd with brains, Who, dest.i.tute of power and will To learn, are kept to learning still; Whose heads, when other methods fail, Receive instruction from the tail, 80 Because their sires,--a common case Which brings the children to disgrace,-- Imagine it a certain rule They never could beget a fool, Must pa.s.s, or must compound for, ere The chaplain, full of beef and prayer, Will give his reverend permit, Announcing them for orders fit; So that the prelate (what's a name?

All prelates now are much the same) 90 May, with a conscience safe and quiet, With holy hands lay on that fiat Which doth all faculties dispense, All sanct.i.ty, all faith, all sense; Makes Madan[252] quite a saint appear, And makes an oracle of Cheere.

Not such as in that solemn seat, Where the Nine Ladies hold retreat,-- The Ladies Nine, who, as we're told, Scorning those haunts they loved of old, 100 The banks of Isis now prefer, Nor will one hour from Oxford stir,-- Are held for form, which Balaam's a.s.s As well as Balaam's self might pa.s.s, And with his master take degrees, Could he contrive to pay the fees.

Men of sound parts, who, deeply read, O'erload the storehouse of the head With furniture they ne'er can use, Cannot forgive our rambling Muse 110 This wild excursion; cannot see Why Physic and Divinity, To the surprise of all beholders, Are lugg'd in by the head and shoulders; Or how, in any point of view, Oxford hath any thing to do.

But men of nice and subtle learning, Remarkable for quick discerning, Through spectacles of critic mould, Without instruction, will behold 120 That we a method here have got To show what is, by what is not; And that our drift (parenthesis For once apart) is briefly this: Within the brain's most secret cells A certain Lord Chief-Justice dwells, Of sovereign power, whom, one and all, With common voice, we Reason call; Though, for the purposes of satire, A name, in truth, is no great matter; 130 Jefferies or Mansfield, which you will-- It means a Lord Chief-Justice still.

Here, so our great projectors say, The Senses all must homage pay; Hither they all must tribute bring, And prostrate fall before their king; Whatever unto them is brought, Is carried on the wings of Thought Before his throne, where, in full state, He on their merits holds debate, 140 Examines, cross-examines, weighs Their right to censure or to praise: Nor doth his equal voice depend On narrow views of foe and friend, Nor can, or flattery, or force Divert him from his steady course; The channel of Inquiry's clear, No sham examination's here.

He, upright justicer, no doubt, _Ad libitum_ puts in and out, 150 Adjusts and settles in a trice What virtue is, and what is vice; What is perfection, what defect; What we must choose, and what reject; He takes upon him to explain What pleasure is, and what is pain; Whilst we, obedient to the whim, And resting all our faith on him, True members of the Stoic Weal, Must learn to think, and cease to feel. 160 This glorious system, form'd for man To practise when and how he can, If the five Senses, in alliance, To Reason hurl a proud defiance, And, though oft conquer'd, yet unbroke, Endeavour to throw off that yoke, Which they a greater slavery hold Than Jewish bondage was of old; Or if they, something touch'd with shame, Allow him to retain the name 170 Of Royalty, and, as in sport, To hold a mimic formal court; Permitted--no uncommon thing-- To be a kind of puppet king, And suffer'd, by the way of toy, To hold a globe, but not employ; Our system-mongers, struck with fear, Prognosticate destruction near; All things to anarchy must run; The little world of man's undone. 180 Nay, should the Eye, that nicest sense, Neglect to send intelligence Unto the Brain, distinct and clear, Of all that pa.s.ses in her sphere; Should she, presumptuous, joy receive Without the Understanding's leave, They deem it rank and daring treason Against the monarchy of Reason, Not thinking, though they're wondrous wise, That few have reason, most have eyes; 190 So that the pleasures of the mind To a small circle are confined, Whilst those which to the senses fall Become the property of all.

Besides, (and this is sure a case Not much at present out of place) Where Nature reason doth deny, No art can that defect supply; But if (for it is our intent Fairly to state the argument) 200 A man should want an eye or two, The remedy is sure, though new: The cure's at hand--no need of fear-- For proof--behold the Chevalier![253]-- As well prepared, beyond all doubt, To put eyes in, as put them out.

But, argument apart, which tends To embitter foes and separate friends, (Nor, turn'd apostate from the Nine, Would I, though bred up a divine, 210 And foe, of course, to Reason's Weal, Widen that breach I cannot heal) By his own sense and feelings taught, In speech as liberal as in thought, Let every man enjoy his whim; What's he to me, or I to him?

Might I, though never robed in ermine, A matter of this weight determine, No penalties should settled be To force men to hypocrisy, 220 To make them ape an awkward zeal, And, feeling not, pretend to feel.

I would not have, might sentence rest Finally fix'd within my breast, E'en Annet[254] censured and confined, Because we're of a different mind.

Nature, who, in her act most free, Herself delights in liberty, Profuse in love, and without bound, Pours joy on every creature round; 230 Whom yet, was every bounty shed In double portions on our head, We could not truly bounteous call, If Freedom did not crown them all.

By Providence forbid to stray, Brutes never can mistake their way; Determined still, they plod along By instinct, neither right nor wrong; But man, had he the heart to use His freedom, hath a right to choose; 240 Whether he acts, or well, or ill, Depends entirely on his will.

To her last work, her favourite Man, Is given, on Nature's better plan, A privilege in power to err.

Nor let this phrase resentment stir Amongst the grave ones, since indeed The little merit man can plead In doing well, dependeth still Upon his power of doing ill. 250 Opinions should be free as air; No man, whate'er his rank, whate'er His qualities, a claim can found That my opinion must be bound, And square with his; such slavish chains From foes the liberal soul disdains; Nor can, though true to friendship, bend To wear them even from a friend.

Let those, who rigid judgment own, Submissive bow at Judgment's throne, 260 And if they of no value hold Pleasure, till pleasure is grown cold, Pall'd and insipid, forced to wait For Judgment's regular debate To give it warrant, let them find Dull subjects suited to their mind.

Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan, To live as merry as I can, Regardless, as the fashions go, Whether there's reason for't or no: 270 Be my employment here on earth To give a liberal scope to mirth, Life's barren vale with flowers to adorn, And pluck a rose from every thorn.

But if, by Error led astray, I chance to wander from my way, Let no blind guide observe, in spite, I'm wrong, who cannot set me right.

That doctor could I ne'er endure Who found disease, and not a cure; 280 Nor can I hold that man a friend Whose zeal a helping hand shall lend To open happy Folly's eyes, And, making wretched, make me wise: For next (a truth which can't admit Reproof from Wisdom or from Wit) To being happy here below, Is to believe that we are so.

Some few in knowledge find relief; I place my comfort in belief. 290 Some for reality may call; Fancy to me is all in all.

Imagination, through the trick Of doctors, often makes us sick; And why, let any sophist tell, May it not likewise make us well?

This I am sure, whate'er our view, Whatever shadows we pursue, For our pursuits, be what they will, Are little more than shadows still; 300 Too swift they fly, too swift and strong, For man to catch or hold them long; But joys which in the fancy live, Each moment to each man may give: True to himself, and true to ease, He softens Fate's severe decrees, And (can a mortal wish for more?) Creates, and makes himself new o'er, Mocks boasted vain reality, And is, whate'er he wants to be. 310 Hail, Fancy!--to thy power I owe Deliverance from the gripe of Woe; To thee I owe a mighty debt, Which Grat.i.tude shall ne'er forget, Whilst Memory can her force employ, A large increase of every joy.

When at my doors, too strongly barr'd, Authority had placed a guard,[255]

A knavish guard, ordain'd by law To keep poor Honesty in awe; 320 Authority, severe and stern, To intercept my wish'd return; When foes grew proud, and friends grew cool, And laughter seized each sober fool; When Candour started in amaze, And, meaning censure, hinted praise; When Prudence, lifting up her eyes And hands, thank'd Heaven that she was wise; When all around me, with an air Of hopeless sorrow, look'd despair; 330 When they, or said, or seem'd to say, There is but one, one only way Better, and be advised by us, Not be at all, than to be thus; When Virtue shunn'd the shock, and Pride, Disabled, lay by Virtue's side, Too weak my ruffled soul to cheer, Which could not hope, yet would not fear; Health in her motion, the wild grace Of pleasure speaking in her face, 340 Dull regularity thrown by, And comfort beaming from her eye, Fancy, in richest robes array'd, Came smiling forth, and brought me aid; Came smiling o'er that dreadful time, And, more to bless me, came in rhyme.

Nor is her power to me confined; It spreads, it comprehends mankind.

When (to the spirit-stirring sound Of trumpets breathing courage round, 350 And fifes well-mingled, to restrain And bring that courage down again; Or to the melancholy knell Of the dull, deep, and doleful bell, Such as of late the good Saint Bride[256]

m.u.f.fled, to mortify the pride Of those who, England quite forgot, Paid their vile homage to the Scot; Where Asgill held the foremost place, Whilst my lord figured at a race) 360 Processions ('tis not worth debate Whether they are of stage or state) Move on, so very, very slow, Tis doubtful if they move, or no; When the performers all the while Mechanically frown or smile, Or, with a dull and stupid stare, A vacancy of sense declare, Or, with down-bending eye, seem wrought Into a labyrinth of thought, 370 Where Reason wanders still in doubt, And, once got in, cannot get out; What cause sufficient can we find, To satisfy a thinking mind, Why, duped by such vain farces, man Descends to act on such a plan?

Why they, who hold themselves divine, Can in such wretched follies join, Strutting like peac.o.c.ks, or like crows, Themselves and Nature to expose? 380 What cause, but that (you'll understand We have our remedy at hand, That if perchance we start a doubt, Ere it is fix'd, we wipe it out; As surgeons, when they lop a limb, Whether for profit, fame, or whim, Or mere experiment to try, Must always have a styptic by) Fancy steps in, and stamps that real, Which, _ipso facto_, is ideal. 390 Can none remember?--yes, I know, All must remember that rare show When to the country Sense went down, And fools came flocking up to town; When knights (a work which all admit To be for knighthood much unfit) Built booths for hire; when parsons play'd, In robes canonical array'd, And, fiddling, join'd the Smithfield dance, The price of tickets to advance: 400 Or, unto tapsters turn'd, dealt out, Running from booth to booth about, To every scoundrel, by retail, True pennyworths of beef and ale, Then first prepared, by bringing beer in, For present grand electioneering; When heralds, running all about To bring in Order, turn'd it out; When, by the prudent Marshal's care, Lest the rude populace should stare, 410 And with unhallow'd eyes profane Gay puppets of Patrician strain, The whole procession, as in spite, Unheard, unseen, stole off by night; When our loved monarch, nothing both, Solemnly took that sacred oath, Whence mutual firm agreements spring Betwixt the subject and the king, By which, in usual manner crown'd, His head, his heart, his hands, he bound, 420 Against himself, should pa.s.sion stir The least propensity to err, Against all slaves, who might prepare, Or open force, or hidden snare, That glorious Charter to maintain, By which we serve, and he must reign; Then Fancy, with unbounded sway, Revell'd sole mistress of the day, And wrought such wonders, as might make Egyptian sorcerers forsake 430 Their baffled mockeries, and own The palm of magic hers alone.

A knight, (who, in the silken lap Of lazy Peace, had lived on pap; Who never yet had dared to roam 'Bove ten or twenty miles from home, Nor even that, unless a guide Was placed to amble by his side, And troops of slaves were spread around To keep his Honour safe and sound; 440 Who could not suffer, for his life, A point to sword, or edge to knife; And always fainted at the sight Of blood, though 'twas not shed in fight; Who disinherited one son For firing off an alder gun, And whipt another, six years old, Because the boy, presumptuous, bold To madness, likely to become A very Swiss, had beat a drum, 450 Though it appear'd an instrument Most peaceable and innocent, Having, from first, been in the hands And service of the City bands) Graced with those ensigns, which were meant To further Honour's dread intent, The minds of warriors to inflame, And spur them on to deeds of fame; With little sword, large spurs, high feather, Fearless of every thing but weather, 460 (And all must own, who pay regard To charity, it had been hard That in his very first campaign His honours should be soil'd with rain) A hero all at once became, And (seeing others much the same In point of valour as himself, Who leave their courage on a shelf From year to year, till some such rout In proper season calls it out) 470 Strutted, look'd big, and swagger'd more Than ever hero did before; Look'd up, look'd down, look'd all around, Like Mavors, grimly smiled and frown'd; Seem'd Heaven, and Earth, and h.e.l.l to call To fight, that he might rout them all, And personated Valour's style So long, spectators to beguile, That, pa.s.sing strange, and wondrous true, Himself at last believed it too; 480 Nor for a time could he discern, Till Truth and Darkness took their turn, So well did Fancy play her part, That coward still was at the heart.

Whiffle (who knows not Whiffle's name, By the impartial voice of Fame Recorded first through all this land In Vanity's ill.u.s.trious band?) Who, by all-bounteous Nature meant For offices of hardiment, 490 A modern Hercules at least, To rid the world of each wild beast, Of each wild beast which came in view, Whether on four legs or on two, Degenerate, delights to prove His force on the parade of Love, Disclaims the joys which camps afford, And for the distaff quits the sword; Who fond of women would appear To public eye and public ear, 500 But, when in private, lets them know How little they can trust to show; Who sports a woman, as of course, Just as a jockey shows a horse, And then returns her to the stable, Or vainly plants her at his table, Where he would rather Venus find (So pall'd, and so depraved his mind) Than, by some great occasion led, To seize her panting in her bed, 510 Burning with more than mortal fires, And melting in her own desires; Who, ripe in years, is yet a child, Through fashion, not through feeling, wild; Whate'er in others, who proceed As Sense and Nature have decreed, From real pa.s.sion flows, in him Is mere effect of mode and whim; Who laughs, a very common way, Because he nothing has to say, 520 As your choice spirits oaths dispense To fill up vacancies of sense; Who, having some small sense, defies it, Or, using, always misapplies it; Who now and then brings something forth Which seems indeed of sterling worth; Something, by sudden start and fit, Which at a distance looks like wit, But, on examination near, To his confusion will appear, 530 By Truth's fair gla.s.s, to be at best A threadbare jester's threadbare jest; Who frisks and dances through the street, Sings without voice, rides without seat, Plays o'er his tricks, like Aesop's a.s.s, A gratis fool to all who pa.s.s; Who riots, though he loves not waste, Wh.o.r.es without l.u.s.t, drinks without taste, Acts without sense, talks without thought, Does every thing but what he ought; 540 Who, led by forms, without the power Of vice, is vicious; who one hour, Proud without pride, the next will be Humble without humility: Whose vanity we all discern, The spring on which his actions turn; Whose aim in erring, is to err, So that he may be singular, And all his utmost wishes mean Is, though he's laugh'd at, to be seen: 550 Such, (for when Flattery's soothing strain Had robb'd the Muse of her disdain, And found a method to persuade Her art to soften every shade, Justice, enraged, the pencil s.n.a.t.c.h'd From her degenerate hand, and scratch'd Out every trace; then, quick as thought, From life this striking likeness caught) In mind, in manners, and in mien, Such Whiffle came, and such was seen 560 In the world's eye; but (strange to tell!) Misled by Fancy's magic spell, Deceived, not dreaming of deceit, Cheated, but happy in the cheat, Was more than human in his own.

Oh, bow, bow all at Fancy's throne, Whose power could make so vile an elf With patience bear that thing, himself.

But, mistress of each art to please, Creative Fancy, what are these, 570 These pageants of a trifler's pen, To what thy power effected then?

Familiar with the human mind, And swift and subtle as the wind, Which we all feel, yet no one knows, Or whence it comes, or where it goes, Fancy at once in every part Possess'd the eye, the head, the heart, And in a thousand forms array'd, A thousand various gambols play'd. 580 Here, in a face which well might ask The privilege to wear a mask In spite of law, and Justice teach For public good to excuse the breach, Within the furrow of a wrinkle 'Twixt eyes, which could not shine but twinkle, Like sentinels i' th' starry way, Who wait for the return of day, Almost burnt out, and seem to keep Their watch, like soldiers, in their sleep; 590 Or like those lamps, which, by the power Of law,[257] must burn from hour to hour, (Else they, without redemption, fall Under the terrors of that Hall,[258]

Which, once notorious for a hop, Is now become a justice shop) Which are so managed, to go out Just when the time comes round about, Which yet, through emulation, strive To keep their dying light alive, 600 And (not uncommon, as we find, Amongst the children of mankind) As they grow weaker, would seem stronger, And burn a little, little longer: Fancy, betwixt such eyes enshrined, No brush to daub, no mill to grind, Thrice waved her wand around, whose force Changed in an instant Nature's course, And, hardly credible in rhyme, Not only stopp'd, but call'd back Time; 610 The face of every wrinkle clear'd, Smooth as the floating stream appear'd, Down the neck ringlets spread their flame, The neck admiring whence they came; On the arch'd brow the Graces play'd; On the full bosom Cupid laid; Suns, from their proper orbits sent, Became for eyes a supplement; Teeth, white as ever teeth were seen, Deliver'd from the hand of Green, 620 Started, in regular array, Like train-bands on a grand field day, Into the gums, which would have fled, But, wondering, turn'd from white to red; Quite alter'd was the whole machine, And Lady ---- ---- was fifteen.

Here she made lordly temples rise Before the pious Dashwood's eyes, Temples which, built aloft in air, May serve for show, if not for prayer; 630 In solemn form herself, before, Array'd like Faith, the Bible bore.

There over Melcombe's feather'd head-- Who, quite a man of gingerbread, Savour'd in talk, in dress, and phiz, More of another world than this, To a dwarf Muse a giant page, The last grave fop of the last age-- In a superb and feather'd hea.r.s.e, Bescutcheon'd and betagg'd with verse, 640 Which, to beholders from afar, Appear'd like a triumphal car, She rode, in a cast rainbow clad; There, throwing off the hallow'd plaid, Naked, as when (in those drear cells Where, self-bless'd, self-cursed, Madness dwells) Pleasure, on whom, in Laughter's shape, Frenzy had perfected a rape, First brought her forth, before her time, Wild witness of her shame and crime, 650 Driving before an idol band Of drivelling Stuarts, hand in hand; Some who, to curse mankind, had wore A crown they ne'er must think of more; Others, whose baby brows were graced With paper crowns, and toys of paste, She jigg'd, and, playing on the flute, Spread raptures o'er the soul of Bute.

Big with vast hopes, some mighty plan, Which wrought the busy soul of man 660 To her full bent; the Civil Law, Fit code to keep a world in awe, Bound o'er his brows, fair to behold, As Jewish frontlets were of old; The famous Charter of our land Defaced, and mangled in his hand; As one whom deepest thoughts employ, But deepest thoughts of truest joy, Serious and slow he strode, he stalk'd; Before him troops of heroes walk'd, 670 Whom best he loved, of heroes crown'd, By Tories guarded all around; Dull solemn pleasure in his face, He saw the honours of his race, He saw their lineal glories rise, And touch'd, or seem'd to touch, the skies: Not the most distant mark of fear, No sign of axe or scaffold near, Not one cursed thought to cross his will Of such a place as Tower Hill. 680 Curse on this Muse, a flippant jade, A shrew, like every other maid Who turns the corner of nineteen, Devour'd with peevishness and spleen; Her tongue (for as, when bound for life, The husband suffers for the wife, So if in any works of rhyme Perchance there blunders out a crime, Poor culprit bards must always rue it, Although 'tis plain the Muses do it) 690 Sooner or later cannot fail To send me headlong to a jail.

Whate'er my theme, (our themes we choose, In modern days, without a Muse; Just as a father will provide To join a bridegroom and a bride, As if, though they must be the players, The game was wholly his, not theirs) Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who still Owns no direction but her will, 700 Plies off, and ere I could expect, By ways oblique and indirect, At once quite over head and ears In fatal politics appears.

Time was, and, if I aught discern Of fate, that time shall soon return, When, decent and demure at least, As grave and dull as any priest, I could see Vice in robes array'd, Could see the game of Folly play'd 710 Successfully in Fortune's school, Without exclaiming rogue or fool.

Time was, when, nothing both or proud, I lackey'd with the fawning crowd, Scoundrels in office, and would bow To cyphers great in place; but now Upright I stand, as if wise Fate, To compliment a shatter'd state, Had me, like Atlas, hither sent To shoulder up the firmament, 720 And if I stoop'd, with general crack, The heavens would tumble from my back.

Time was, when rank and situation Secured the great ones of the nation From all control; satire and law Kept only little knaves in awe; But now, Decorum lost, I stand Bemused, a pencil in my hand, And, dead to every sense of shame, Careless of safety and of fame, 730 The names of scoundrels minute down, And libel more than half the town.

How can a statesman be secure In all his villanies, if poor And dirty authors thus shall dare To lay his rotten bosom bare?

Muses should pa.s.s away their time In dressing out the poet's rhyme With bills, and ribands, and array Each line in harmless taste, though gay; 740 When the hot burning fit is on, They should regale their restless son With something to allay his rage, Some cool Castalian beverage, Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain, Taking the Muse's name in vain, Know nothing of their real court, And only fable from report) As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down, Or slakes the Feverette of Brown:[259] 750 But who would in his senses think, Of Muses giving gall to drink, Or that their folly should afford To raving poets gun or sword?

Poets were ne'er designed by Fate To meddle with affairs of state, Nor should (if we may speak our thought Truly as men of honour ought) Sound policy their rage admit, To launch the thunderbolts of Wit 760 About those heads, which, when they're shot, Can't tell if 'twas by Wit or not.

These things well known, what devil, in spite, Can have seduced me thus to write Out of that road, which must have led To riches, without heart or head, Into that road, which, had I more Than ever poet had before Of wit and virtue, in disgrace Would keep me still, and out of place; 770 Which, if some judge (you'll understand One famous, famous through the land For making law[260]) should stand my friend, At last may in a pillory end; And all this, I myself admit, Without one cause to lead to it?

For instance, now--this book--the Ghost-- Methinks I hear some critic Post Remark most gravely--'The first word Which we about the Ghost have heard.' 780 Peace, my good sir!--not quite so fast-- What is the first, may be the last, Which is a point, all must agree, Cannot depend on you or me.

f.a.n.n.y, no ghost of common mould, Is not by forms to be controll'd; To keep her state, and show her skill, She never comes but when she will.

I wrote and wrote, (perhaps you doubt, And shrewdly, what I wrote about; 790 Believe me, much to my disgrace, I, too, am in the self-same case;) But still I wrote, till f.a.n.n.y came Impatient, nor could any shame On me with equal justice fall If she had never come at all.

An underling, I could not stir Without the cue thrown out by her, Nor from the subject aid receive Until she came and gave me leave. 800 So that, (ye sons of Erudition Mark, this is but a supposition, Nor would I to so wise a nation Suggest it as a revelation) If henceforth, dully turning o'er Page after page, ye read no more Of f.a.n.n.y, who, in sea or air, May be departed G.o.d knows where, Rail at jilt Fortune; but agree No censure can be laid on me; 810 For sure (the cause let Mansfield try) f.a.n.n.y is in the fault, not I.

But, to return--and this I hold A secret worth its weight in gold To those who write, as I write now, Not to mind where they go, or how, Through ditch, through bog, o'er hedge and stile, Make it but worth the reader's while, And keep a pa.s.sage fair and plain Always to bring him back again. 820 Through dirt, who scruples to approach, At Pleasure's call, to take a coach?

But we should think the man a clown, Who in the dirt should set us down.

But to return--if Wit, who ne'er The shackles of restraint could bear, In wayward humour should refuse Her timely succour to the Muse, And, to no rules and orders tied, Roughly deny to be her guide, 830 She must renounce Decorum's plan, And get back when, and how she can; As parsons, who, without pretext, As soon as mention'd, quit their text, And, to promote sleep's genial power, Grope in the dark for half an hour, Give no more reason (for we know Reason is vulgar, mean, and low) Why they come back (should it befall That ever they come back at all) 840 Into the road, to end their rout, Than they can give why they went out.

But to return--this book--the Ghost-- A mere amus.e.m.e.nt at the most; A trifle, fit to wear away The horrors of a rainy day; A slight shot-silk, for summer wear, Just as our modern statesmen are, If rigid honesty permit That I for once purloin the wit 850 Of him, who, were we all to steal, Is much too rich the theft to feel: Yet in this book, where Base should join With Mirth to sugar every line; Where it should all be mere chit-chat, Lively, good-humour'd, and all that; Where honest Satire, in disgrace, Should not so much as show her face, The shrew, o'erleaping all due bounds, Breaks into Laughter's sacred grounds, 860 And, in contempt, plays o'er her tricks In science, trade, and politics.

By why should the distemper'd scold Attempt to blacken men enroll'd In Power's dread book, whose mighty skill Can twist an empire to their will; Whose voice is fate, and on their tongue Law, liberty, and life are hung; Whom, on inquiry, Truth shall find With Stuarts link'd, time out of mind, 870 Superior to their country's laws, Defenders of a tyrant's cause; Men, who the same d.a.m.n'd maxims hold Darkly, which they avow'd of old; Who, though by different means, pursue The end which they had first in view, And, force found vain, now play their part With much less honour, much more art?

Why, at the corners of the streets, To every patriot drudge she meets, 880 Known or unknown, with furious cry Should she wild clamours vent? or why, The minds of groundlings to inflame, A Dashwood, Bute, and Wyndham name?

Why, having not, to our surprise, The fear of death before her eyes, Bearing, and that but now and then, No other weapon but her pen, Should she an argument afford For blood to men who wear a sword? 890 Men, who can nicely trim and pare A point of honour to a hair-- (Honour!--a word of nice import, A pretty trinket in a court, Which my lord, quite in rapture, feels Dangling and rattling with his seals-- Honour!--a word which all the Nine Would be much puzzled to define-- Honour!--a word which torture mocks, And might confound a thousand Lockes-- 900 Which--for I leave to wiser heads, Who fields of death prefer to beds Of down, to find out, if they can, What honour is, on their wild plan-- Is not, to take it in their way, And this we sure may dare to say Without incurring an offence, Courage, law, honesty, or sense): Men, who, all spirit, life, and soul Neat butchers of a b.u.t.ton-hole, 910 Having more skill, believe it true That they must have more courage too: Men who, without a place or name, Their fortunes speechless as their fame, Would by the sword new fortunes carve, And rather die in fight than starve At coronations, a vast field, Which food of every kind might yield; Of good sound food, at once most fit For purposes of health and wit, 920 Could not ambitious Satire rest, Content with what she might digest?

Could she not feast on things of course, A champion, or a champion's horse?

A champion's horse--no, better say, Though better figured on that day,[261]

A horse, which might appear to us, Who deal in rhyme, a Pegasus; A rider, who, when once got on, Might pa.s.s for a Bellerophon, 930 Dropt on a sudden from the skies, To catch and fix our wondering eyes, To witch, with wand instead of whip, The world with n.o.ble horsemanship, To twist and twine, both horse and man, On such a well-concerted plan, That, Centaur-like, when all was done, We scarce could think they were not one?

Could she not to our itching ears Bring the new names of new-coin'd peers, 940 Who walk'd, n.o.bility forgot, With shoulders fitter for a knot Than robes of honour; for whose sake Heralds in form were forced to make, To make, because they could not find, Great predecessors to their mind?

Could she not (though 'tis doubtful since Whether he plumber is, or prince) Tell of a simple knight's advance To be a doughty peer of France? 950 Tell how he did a dukedom gain, And Robinson was Aquitain?

Tell how her city chiefs, disgraced, Were at an empty table placed,-- A gross neglect, which, whilst they live, They can't forget, and won't forgive; A gross neglect of all those rights Which march with city appet.i.tes, Of all those canons, which we find By Gluttony, time out of mind, 960 Established, which they ever hold Dearer than any thing but gold?

Thanks to my stars--I now see sh.o.r.e-- Of courtiers, and of courts no more-- Thus stumbling on my city friends, Blind Chance my guide, my purpose bends In line direct, and shall pursue The point which I had first in view, Nor more shall with the reader sport Till I have seen him safe in port. 970 Hush'd be each fear--no more I bear Through the wide regions of the air The reader terrified, no more Wild ocean's horrid paths explore.

Be the plain track from henceforth mine-- Cross roads to Allen I resign; Allen, the honor of this nation; Allen, himself a corporation; Allen, of late notorious grown For writings, none, or all, his own; 980 Allen, the first of letter'd men, Since the good Bishop[262] holds his pen, And at his elbow takes his stand, To mend his head, and guide his hand.

But hold--once more, Digression hence-- Let us return to Common Sense; The car of Phoebus I discharge, My carriage now a Lord Mayor's barge.

Suppose we now--we may suppose In verse, what would be sin in prose-- 990 The sky with darkness overspread, And every star retired to bed; The gewgaw robes of Pomp and Pride In some dark corner thrown aside; Great lords and ladies giving way To what they seem to scorn by day, The real feelings of the heart, And Nature taking place of Art; Desire triumphant through the night, And Beauty panting with delight; 1000 Chast.i.ty, woman's fairest crown, Till the return of morn laid down.

Then to be worn again as bright As if not sullied in the night; Dull Ceremony, business o'er, Dreaming in form at Cottrell's[263] door; Precaution trudging all about To see the candles safely out, Bearing a mighty master-key, Habited like Economy, 1010 Stamping each lock with triple seals; Mean Avarice creeping at her heels.

Suppose we too, like sheep in pen, The Mayor and Court of Aldermen Within their barge, which through the deep, The rowers more than half asleep, Moved slow, as overcharged with state; Thames groan'd beneath the mighty weight, And felt that bauble heavier far Than a whole fleet of men of war. 1020 Sleep o'er each well-known faithful head With liberal hand his poppies shed; Each head, by Dulness render'd fit Sleep and his empire to admit.

Through the whole pa.s.sage not a word, Not one faint, weak half-sound was heard; Sleep had prevail'd to overwhelm The steersman nodding o'er the helm; The rowers, without force or skill, Left the dull barge to drive at will; 1030 The sluggish oars suspended hung, And even Beardmore held his tongue.

Commerce, regardful of a freight On which depended half her state, Stepp'd to the helm; with ready hand She safely clear'd that bank of sand, Where, stranded, our west-country fleet Delay and danger often meet, Till Neptune, anxious for the trade, Comes in full tides, and brings them aid. 1040 Next (for the Muses can survey Objects by night as well as day; Nothing prevents their taking aim, Darkness and light to them the same) They pa.s.s'd that building[264] which of old Queen-mothers was design'd to hold; At present a mere lodging-pen, A palace turn'd into a den; To barracks turn'd, and soldiers tread Where dowagers have laid their head. 1050 Why should we mention Surrey Street, Where every week grave judges meet All fitted out with hum and ha, In proper form to drawl out law, To see all causes duly tried 'Twixt knaves who drive, and fools who ride?

Why at the Temple should we stay?

What of the Temple dare we say?

A dangerous ground we tread on there, And words perhaps may actions bear; 1060 Where, as the brethren of the seas For fares, the lawyers ply for fees.

What of that Bridge,[265] most wisely made To serve the purposes of trade, In the great mart of all this nation, By stopping up the navigation, And to that sand bank adding weight, Which is already much too great?

What of that Bridge, which, void of sense But well supplied with impudence, 1070 Englishmen, knowing not the Guild, Thought they might have a claim to build, Till Paterson, as white as milk, As smooth as oil, as soft as silk, In solemn manner had decreed That on the other side the Tweed Art, born and bred, and fully grown, Was with one Mylne, a man unknown, But grace, preferment, and renown Deserving, just arrived in town: 1080 One Mylne, an artist perfect quite Both in his own and country's right, As fit to make a bridge as he, With glorious Patavinity,[266]

To build inscriptions worthy found To lie for ever under ground.

Much more worth observation too, Was this a season to pursue The theme, our Muse might tell in rhyme: The will she hath, but not the time; 1090 For, swift as shaft from Indian bow, (And when a G.o.ddess comes, we know, Surpa.s.sing Nature acts prevail.

And boats want neither oar nor sail) The vessel pa.s.s'd, and reach'd the sh.o.r.e So quick, that Thought was scarce before.

Suppose we now our City court Safely delivered at the port.

And, of their state regardless quite, Landed, like smuggled goods, by night, 1100 The solemn magistrate laid down, The dignity of robe and gown, With every other ensign gone, Suppose the woollen nightcap on; The flesh-brush used, with decent state, To make the spirits circulate, (A form which, to the senses true, The lickerish chaplain uses too, Though, something to improve the plan, He takes the maid instead of man) 1110 Swathed, and with flannel cover'd o'er, To show the vigour of threescore, The vigour of threescore and ten, Above the proof of younger men, Suppose, the mighty Dulman led Betwixt two slaves, and put to bed; Suppose, the moment he lies down, No miracle in this great town, The drone as fast asleep as he Must in the course of nature be, 1120 Who, truth for our foundation take, When up, is never half awake.

There let him sleep, whilst we survey The preparations for the day; That day on which was to be shown Court pride by City pride outdone.

The jealous mother sends away, As only fit for childish play, That daughter who, to gall her pride, Shoots up too forward by her side. 1130 The wretch, of G.o.d and man accursed, Of all h.e.l.l's instruments the worst, Draws forth his p.a.w.ns, and for the day Struts in some spendthrift's vain array; Around his awkward doxy shine The treasures of Golconda's mine; Each neighbour, with a jealous glare, Beholds her folly publish'd there.

Garments well saved, (an anecdote Which we can prove, or would not quote) 1140 Garments well saved, which first were made When tailors, to promote their trade, Against the Picts in arms arose, And drove them out, or made them clothes; Garments immortal, without end, Like names and t.i.tles, which descend Successively from sire to son; Garments, unless some work is done Of note, not suffer'd to appear 'Bove once at most in every year, 1150 Were now, in solemn form, laid bare, To take the benefit of air, And, ere they came to be employ'd On this solemnity, to void That scent which Russia's leather gave, From vile and impious moth to save.

Each head was busy, and each heart In preparation bore a part; Running together all about The servants put each other out, 1160 Till the grave master had decreed, The more haste ever the worse speed.

Miss, with her little eyes half-closed, Over a smuggled toilette dosed; The waiting-maid, whom story notes A very Scrub in petticoats, Hired for one work, but doing all, In slumbers lean'd against the wall.

Milliners, summon'd from afar, Arrived in shoals at Temple Bar, 1170 Strictly commanded to import Cart loads of foppery from Court; With labour'd visible design, Art strove to be superbly fine; Nature, more pleasing, though more wild, Taught otherwise her darling child, And cried, with spirited disdain, Be Hunter elegant and plain!

Lo! from the chambers of the East, A welcome prelude to the feast, 1180 In saffron-colour'd robe array'd, High in a car, by Vulcan made, Who work'd for Jove himself, each steed, High-mettled, of celestial breed, Pawing and pacing all the way, Aurora brought the wish'd-for day, And held her empire, till out-run By that brave jolly groom, the Sun.

The trumpet--hark! it speaks--it swells The loud full harmony; it tells 1190 The time at hand when Dulman, led By Form, his citizens must head, And march those troops, which at his call Were now a.s.sembled, to Guildhall, On matters of importance great, To court and city, church and state.

From end to end the sound makes way, All hear the signal and obey; But Dulman, who, his charge forgot, By Morpheus fetter'd, heard it not; 1200 Nor could, so sound he slept and fast, Hear any trumpet, but the last.

c.r.a.pe, ever true and trusty known, Stole from the maid's bed to his own, Then in the spirituals of pride, Planted himself at Dulman's side.

Thrice did the ever-faithful slave, With voice which might have reach'd the grave, And broke Death's adamantine chain, On Dulman call, but call'd in vain. 1210 Thrice with an arm, which might have made The Theban boxer curse his trade, The drone he shook, who rear'd the head, And thrice fell backward on his bed.

What could be done? Where force hath fail'd, Policy often hath prevail'd; And what--an inference most plain-- Had been, c.r.a.pe thought might be again.

Under his pillow (still in mind The proverb kept, 'fast bind, fast find') 1220 Each blessed night the keys were laid, Which c.r.a.pe to draw away a.s.say'd.

What not the power of voice or arm Could do, this did, and broke the charm; Quick started he with stupid stare, For all his little soul was there.

Behold him, taken up, rubb'd down, In elbow-chair, and morning-gown; Behold him, in his latter bloom, Stripp'd, wash'd, and sprinkled with perfume; 1230 Behold him bending with the weight Of robes, and trumpery of state; Behold him (for the maxim's true, Whate'er we by another do, We do ourselves; and chaplain paid, Like slaves in every other trade, Had mutter'd over G.o.d knows what, Something which he by heart had got) Having, as usual, said his prayers, Go t.i.tter, totter to the stairs: 1240 Behold him for descent prepare, With one foot trembling in the air; He starts, he pauses on the brink, And, hard to credit, seems to think; Through his whole train (the chaplain gave The proper cue to every slave) At once, as with infection caught, Each started, paused, and aim'd at thought; He turns, and they turn; big with care, He waddles to his elbow-chair, 1250 Squats down, and, silent for a season, At last with c.r.a.pe begins to reason: But first of all he made a sign, That every soul, but the divine, Should quit the room; in him, he knows, He may all confidence repose.

'c.r.a.pe--though I'm yet not quite awake-- Before this awful step I take, On which my future all depends, I ought to know my foes and friends. 1260 My foes and friends--observe me still-- I mean not those who well or ill Perhaps may wish me, but those who Have't in their power to do it too.

Now if, attentive to the state, In too much hurry to be great, Or through much zeal,--a motive, c.r.a.pe, Deserving praise,--into a sc.r.a.pe I, like a fool, am got, no doubt I, like a wise man, should get out: 1270 Note that remark without replies; I say that to get out is wise, Or, by the very self-same rule, That to get in was like a fool.

The marrow of this argument Must wholly rest on the event, And therefore, which is really hard, Against events too I must guard.

Should things continue as they stand, And Bute prevail through all the land 1280 Without a rival, by his aid My fortunes in a trice are made; Nay, honours on my zeal may smile, And stamp me Earl of some great Isle:[267]