The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 41

Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection.

Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20]

And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21]

The hawkers have not got them yet: Your honour please to buy a set?

"Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down; You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour (who can read), Are taught to use them for their creed.[23]

The rev'rend author's good intention Has been rewarded with a pension.

He does an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as G.o.d's in Gloucester, That Moses was a grand impostor; That all his miracles were cheats, Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he has not got a mitre!"

Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club a.s.sembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat.

And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without, One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, My character impartial draws: The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill receiv'd at court.

As for his works in verse and prose I own myself no judge of those; Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: But this I know, all people bought 'em.

As with a moral view design'd To cure the vices of mankind: And, if he often miss'd his aim, The world must own it, to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame.

"Sir, I have heard another story: He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died."

Can we the Drapier then forget?

Is not our nation in his debt?

'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!-- "He should have left them for his betters, We had a hundred abler men, Nor need depend upon his pen.-- Say what you will about his reading, You never can defend his breeding; Who in his satires running riot, Could never leave the world in quiet; Attacking, when he took the whim, Court, city, camp--all one to him.-- "But why should he, except he s...o...b..r't, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whose counsels aid the sov'reign power To save the nation every hour?

What scenes of evil he unravels In satires, libels, lying travels!

Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, But eats into it, like a moth!"

His vein, ironically grave, Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave.

To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own.[24]

"He never thought an honour done him, Because a duke was proud to own him, Would rather slip aside and chuse To talk with wits in dirty shoes; Despised the fools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres.[25]

He never courted men in station, _Nor persons held in admiration;_ Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid.

Though trusted long in great affairs He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends; And only chose the wise and good; No flatterers; no allies in blood: But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown.

"With princes kept a due decorum, But never stood in awe before 'em.

He follow'd David's lesson just; _In princes never put thy trust:_ And would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in power.

The Irish senate if you named, With what impatience he declaim'd!

Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, For her he stood prepared to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft exposed his own.

Two kingdoms,[26] just as faction led, Had set a price upon his head; But not a traitor could be found, To sell him for six hundred pound.

"Had he but spared his tongue and pen He might have rose like other men: But power was never in his thought, And wealth he valued not a groat: Ingrat.i.tude he often found, And pitied those who meant the wound: But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of human kind: Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes.

He labour'd many a fruitless hour, To reconcile his friends in power; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While they pursued each other's ruin.

But finding vain was all his care, He left the court in mere despair.[27]

"And, oh! how short are human schemes!

Here ended all our golden dreams.

What St. John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, To save their sinking country lent, Was all destroy'd by one event.

Too soon that precious life was ended, On which alone our weal depended.[28]

When up a dangerous faction starts,[29]

With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; _By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,_ To ruin, slaughter, and confound; To turn religion to a fable, And make the government a Babel; Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; To sacrifice old England's glory, And make her infamous in story: When such a tempest shook the land, How could unguarded Virtue stand!

With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene: His friends in exile, or the tower, Himself[30] within the frown of power, Pursued by base envenom'd pens, Far to the land of slaves and fens;[31]

A servile race in folly nursed, Who truckle most, when treated worst.

"By innocence and resolution, He bore continual persecution; While numbers to preferment rose, Whose merits were, to be his foes; When _ev'n his own familiar friends_, Intent upon their private ends, Like renegadoes now he feels, _Against him lifting up their heels._ "The Dean did, by his pen, defeat An infamous destructive cheat;[32]

Taught fools their int'rest how to know, And gave them arms to ward the blow.

Envy has own'd it was his doing, To save that hapless land from ruin; While they who at the steerage stood, And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.

"To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state, A wicked monster on the bench,[33]

Whose fury blood could never quench; As vile and profligate a villain, As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian:[34]

Who long all justice had discarded, _Nor fear'd he G.o.d, nor man regarded;_ Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, And make him of his zeal repent: But Heaven his innocence defends, The grateful people stand his friends; Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, Prevail to bring him in convict.

"In exile,[35] with a steady heart, He spent his life's declining part; Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.

Alas, poor Dean! his only scope Was to be held a misanthrope.

This into gen'ral odium drew him, Which if he liked, much good may't do him.

His zeal was not to lash our crimes, But discontent against the times: For had we made him timely offers To raise his post, or fill his coffers, Perhaps he might have truckled down, Like other brethren of his gown.

For party he would scarce have bled: I say no more--because he's dead.

What writings has he left behind?

I hear, they're of a different kind; A few in verse; but most in prose-- Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;-- All scribbled in the worst of times, To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, As never fav'ring the Pretender; Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, Against the court to show his spite; Perhaps his travels, part the third; A lie at every second word-- Offensive to a loyal ear: But not one sermon, you may swear."

His friendships there, to few confined Were always of the middling kind;[36]

No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, Who fain would pa.s.s for lords indeed: Where t.i.tles give no right or power,[37]

And peerage is a wither'd flower; He would have held it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face.

On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He vented oft his wrath in vain; [Biennial[38]] squires to market brought; Who sell their souls and [votes] for nought; The [nation stripped,] go joyful back, To *** the church, their tenants rack, Go snacks with [rogues and rapparees,][39]

And keep the peace to pick up fees; In every job to have a share, A gaol or barrack to repair; And turn the tax for public roads, Commodious to their own abodes.[40]

"Perhaps I may allow the Dean, Had too much satire in his vein; And seem'd determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it.

Yet malice never was his aim; He lash'd the vice, but spared the name; No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant; His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe: He spared a hump, or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux.

True genuine dulness moved his pity, Unless it offer'd to be witty.

Those who their ignorance confest, He ne'er offended with a jest; But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.

"Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, Must be or ridiculed or lash'd.

If you resent it, who's to blame?

He neither knew you nor your name.

Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a duke?

"He knew an hundred pleasant stories, With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: Was cheerful to his dying day; And friends would let him have his way.

"He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; And show'd by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much.

That kingdom he hath left his debtor, I wish it soon may have a better."

And, since you dread no farther lashes Methinks you may forgive his ashes.

[Footnote 1: This poem was first written about 1731 but was not then intended to be published; and having been shown by Swift to all his "common acquaintance indifferently," some "friend," probably Pilkington, remembered enough of it to concoct the poem called "The Life and Character of Dr. Swift, written by himself," which was published in London in 1733, and reprinted in Dublin. In a letter to Pope, dated 1 May, that year, the Dean complained seriously about the imposture, saying, "it shall not provoke me to print the true one, which indeed is not proper to be seen till I can be seen no more." See Swift to Pope, in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 307. The poem was subsequently published by Faulkner with the Dean's permission. It is now printed from a copy of the original edition, with corrections in Swift's hand, which I found in the Forster collection.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: _Var_. "But would not have him stop my view."]

[Footnote 3: _Var_. "I ask but for an inch at most."]

[Footnote 4: _Var_. "Why must I be outdone by Gay."]

[Footnote 5: The author supposes that the scribblers of the prevailing party, which he always opposed, will libel him after his death; but that others will remember the service he had done to Ireland, under the name of M. B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project of Wood's halfpence, in five letters to the people of Ireland, at that time read universally, and convincing every reader.]

[Footnote 6: The Dean supposeth himself to die in Ireland.]

[Footnote 7: Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, then of the bedchamber to the queen, professed much favour for the Dean. The queen, then princess, sent a dozen times to the Dean (then in London), with her commands to attend her; which at last he did, by advice of all his friends. She often sent for him afterwards, and always treated him very graciously. He taxed her with a present worth 10, which she promised before he should return to Ireland; but on his taking leave the medals were not ready.

A letter from Swift to Lady Suffolk, 21st November, 1730, bears out this note.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 8: The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months; but she forgot or thought them too dear. The Dean, being in Ireland, sent Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which the queen seeing took it from her and wore it herself and sent to the Dean for as much as would clothe herself and children, desiring he would send the charge of it; he did the former, it cost 35, but he said he would have nothing except the medals; he went next summer to England, and was treated as usual, and she being then queen, the Dean was promised a settlement in England, but returned as he went, and instead of receiving of her intended favours or the medals, hath been ever since under Her Majesty's displeasure.]

[Footnote 9: Chartres is a most infamous vile scoundrel, grown from a footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland.

He had a way of insinuating himself into all ministers, under every change, either as pimp, flatterer, or informer. He was tried at seventy for a rape, and came off by sacrificing a great part of his fortune. He is since dead; but this poem still preserves the scene and time it was writ in.--_Dublin Edition,_ and see _ante_, p. 191.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 10: Sir Robert Walpole, chief minister of state, treated the Dean in 1726 with great distinction; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, with the Dean's friends chosen on purpose: appointed an hour to talk with him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great friend; for he defended Wood's project of halfpence, etc. The Dean would see him no more; and upon his next year's return to England, Sir Robert, on an accidental meeting, only made a civil compliment, and never invited him again.]

[Footnote 11: Mr. William Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate friend, detesting his administration, became his mortal enemy and joined with my Lord Bolingbroke, to expose him in an excellent paper called the Craftsman, which is still continued.]

[Footnote 12: Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to Queen Anne, of blessed memory. He is reckoned the most universal genius in Europe. Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated him most injuriously working with King George I, who forgot his promise of restoring the said lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert Walpole.]

[Footnote 13: Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or country. His character, in part, may be found in Mr. Pope's "Dunciad." He published three volumes, all charged on the Dean, who never writ three pages of them. He hath used many of the Dean's friends in almost as vile a manner.]