WIT AND HUMOUR. WIT AND HUMOUR, SELECTED FBOM THE ENGLISH POETS; WITH AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY, AND CRITICAL COMMENTS. BY LEIGH HUNT, M LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNH1LL. MDCCCXLVI. PKEFACE. THIS book was announced for publication last autumn ; and it would have appeared at that time but for a severe illness which the editor underwent during the progress of his Stories from the Italian Poets, and the consequences of which conspired with other untoward circumstances to delay it till now. What additional amount of indulgence therefore may be required by his portion of the work, the good-natured reader will not withhold. Luckily, the far greater part of the volume cannot fail to amuse ; and in order to make amends for that absence of prose-wit and humour which its limitation to verse rendered at once unavoidable and provoking (con- sidering how much some of the best of the writers excelled in prose, often to the far greater advantage of their pleasantry), the Introductory Essay has been plentifully supplied with examples of both sorts. Comedy, indeed, has had comparatively little to say for itself in verse, even in Shakspeare. Wit and VI PREFACE. satire, and the observation of common life, want, of necessity, the enthusiasm of poetry, and are not i in] .died by their nature into musical utterance. They may write verse in order to concentrate their powers and sharpen their effect ; but it will never be of any high or inspired order. It will be pipe "" and tabor music; not that of the organ or the orchestra. Juvenal sometimes gives us stately hexameters ; but then he was a very serious satirist, and worked himself up into a lofty indignation. One of the perplexities that beset the Editor in his task was the superabundance of materials. They pressed upon him so much, and he overdid his selections to such an extent in the first instance, that he was obliged to retrench two-thirds of them, perhaps more ; and plenty of matter remains for an additional volume, should the public care to have it. At the same time, he unexpectedly found himself unable to extract a great deal of what is otherwise excellent, on account of the freedom of speech in which almost all the wits have indulged, and which they would in all probability have checked, could they have foreseen the changes of custom in that respect, and the effect it would have in bounding their admission into good company. It was lament- able and provoking to discover what heaps of ad- mirable passages the Editor was compelled to omit on this account, from the works of Beaumont and Fletcher down to Don Juan. It was as if the PREFACE. Vll greatest wits had resolved to do the foolishest things, out of spite to what was expected of them by common sense. But excess of animal spirits helps to account for it. Should health enough be spared him (as change of air and scene has enabled him to hope) it is the Editor's intention to follow up this volume next year with the third of the series announced in the -* preface to Imagination and Fancy ; namely, a selec- tion, edited in the like manner, from the Narrative and Dramatic Poets, under the title of Action and Passion. The reason why so much of the book is printed in italics, was explained in the Preface above men- tioned; but to those who have not seen the ex- planation, it is proper to state, that it originated in a wish expressed by the readers of a periodical work, who liked the companionship which it implied between reader and editor. Otherwise, the necessity of thus pointing out particular passages for ad- miration in the writings of men of genius is rapidly decreasing, especially in regard to wit and humour ; faculties, of which, as well as of knowledge in general, of scholarship, deep thinking, and the most proved abilities for national guidance, more evi- dences are poured forth every day in the newspaper press, than the wits of Queen Anne's time, great as they were, dreamed of compassing in a month. And the best of it is, nay, one of the great reasons Till PREFACE. of it is, that all this surprising capacity is on the side of the Great New Good Cause of the World, that of the Rights of the Poor ; for it is only from the heights of sympathy that we can perceive the universal and the just. Meantime, he is preparing for publication a volume apart from the series, and on quite another plan ; its object being to produce such a Selection from Favourite Authors, both in prose and verse, as a lover of books, young or old, might like to find lying in the parlour of some old country-house, or in the quietest room of any other house, and tending to an impartial, an unlimited, and yet entertaining and tranquillizing review of human existence. It is a book, he hopes, such as Mrs. Radcliffe would have liked in her childhood ; Sir Roger de Coverley in his old age ; or Gray and Thomson at any time. And all those interesting persons will have their part in it. Wimbledon, Sept. 22, 1846. CONTENTS, Page AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY ON WIT AND HUMOUR . . 1 to 72 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . 73 CHARACTERS OF PILGRIMS . . ' . '. ' . ; " . 80 THE FRIAR'S TALE; OR, THE SUMMONER AND THE DEVIL . 100 THE PARDONER'S WAY OF PREACHING . . . .114 THE MERCHANT'S OPINION OF WIVES . . . . .116 GALLANTRY OF TRANSLATION . . . .. .118 THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE FAIRIES ' V . . . 120 SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . 122 THE COXCOMB . . . , , .-.,.. . 125 UNWITTING SELF-CRIMINATION . . . . . . 127 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW . . . .. . .129 SELECTIONS FROM BEN JONSON, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . 153 TO MY MUSK ... . ,. . ... . 154 THE FOX . . . . . . . ' . . . 156 SELECTIONS FROM BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, WITH CRITI- CAL NOTICE . . . . . . , . .173 THE PHILOSOPHY OF KICKS AND BEATINGS , , 175 DUKE AND NO DUKE . . . . r . . . . 184 X CONTENTS. Pape ANONYMOUS . . . . -197 THE OLD AND TOUNO COURTIER 197 SELECTIONS FROM RANDOLPH, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . 201 FEAR, RASHNESS, AND FLATTERY 203 PRETENDED FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD . . . 209 SELECTIONS PROM SUCKLING, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . .216 THE CONSTANT LOVER . . 217 THE REMONSTRANCE . 218 A SESSION OF THE POETS 220 THE BRIDEGROOM 227 THE BRIDE 228 SELECTIONS FROM BROME, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . .230 OLD MEN GOING TO SCHOOL 231 SELECTIONS FROM MARVEL, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . 233 ON BLOOD STEALING THE CROWN . . '. . . 235 DESCRIPTION OP HOLLAND ....... 236 FLECNOE, AN ENGLISH PRIEST AT ROME .... 238 SELECTIONS FROM BUTLER, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . 242 DESCRIPTION OP HUDIBRAS AND HIS EQUIPMENTS . . 245 SAINTSHIP versus CONSCIENCE 251 THE ASTROLOGERS 253 A STATESMAN'S CONVERSATION 253 HEROES OF ROMANCE . . 254 SELF-POSSESSION 255 MISCELLANEOUS PASSAGES AND RHYMES .... 255 PASSAGES FROM THE POSTHUMOUS POEMS : CAUTION AGAINST OVER-REFORM 258 LOFTY CARRIAGE OF IGNORANCE 258 CAUTION AGAINST PROSELYTISM 258 FEAR . ... . . . . . .258 HOLLAND AND THE DUTCH . . . 259 CONTENTS. XI Page SELECTIONS FROM DRYDEN, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 260 CHARACTER OF LORD 8HAFTESBURY . , 264 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM .... 267 FOPPERIES OF THE TIME . 269 THE CATHOLIC AND PROTESTANT CLERGY . . . .271 SELECTIONS FROM PHILIPS, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . 274 THE SPLENDID SHILLING 275 SELECTIONS FROM POPE, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . .280 THE SYLPHS AND THE LOCK OF HAIR . . . 282 TROUBLES FROM BAD AUTHORS 291 CHARACTERS AND RULING PASSIONS : CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF WHARTON .... 294 CHARACTER OF ADDISON 296 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM . . . 298 CHARACTER OF THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH . . 299 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF CHANDOS . . . 301 CHARACTER OF NARCISSA . . . 304 CHARACTER OF CHLOE ....... 305 THE RULING PASSION . . . . . 306 SELECTIONS FROM SWIFT, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE 308 THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED . . *, . .310 MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN . . 317 ANCIENT DRAMATISTS 320 ABROAD AND AT HOME 321 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT . . . . 322 SELECTIONS FROM GREEN, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . 331 REMEDIES FOR THE SPLEEN ...... 332 SELECTIONS FROM GOLDSMITH, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . 338 THE RETALIATION . . . . . . . . 340 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 345 SELECTIONS FROM WOLCOT, WITH CRITICAL NOTICE . . 350 . CONVERSATION ON JOHNSON, BY MRS. PIOZZI (THRALB), AND MR. BOSWELL . ...... 352 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY WIT AND HUMOUR. THE facetious Dr. King the civilian, one of the minor, or rather the minim poets, who have had the good luck to get into the Collections, tells -us, that he awoke one morning, speaking the following words " out of a dream," Nature a thousand ways complains, A thousand words express her pains ; ^ But for her laughter has but three, And very small ones, Ha, ha, he ! This seems to be a very tragical conclusion for " poor human nature ;" but the Doctor had probably been taking his usual potations over-night, and so put his waking thoughts into plaintive condition; for had he reflected on that " art of wit" which he pro- fessed, and opposed pleasures to pains, instead of " laughter," as the correct wording of his pro- position required, he would have discovered that .A> \ ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY ' , j reliable fancied.' hay e at least as many ways of expressing themselves as those which are lachry- mose ; gravity tending to the fixed and monotonous, like the cat on the hearth, while levity has as many tricks as the kitten. I confess I felt this so strongly when I began to reflect on the present subject, and found myself so perplexed with the demand, that I was forced to reject plan after plan, and feared I should never be able to give any tolerable account of the matter. I experi- enced no such difficulty with the concentrating serious- ness and sweet attraction of the subject of " Imagina- tion and Fancy ;" but this laughing jade of a topic, with her endless whims and faces, and the legions of indefinable shapes that she brought about me, seemed to do nothing but scatter my faculties, or bear them off deridingly into pastime. I felt as if I was under- going a Saint Anthony's Temptation reversed, a laughable instead of a frightful one. Thousands of merry devils poured in upon me from all sides, doubles of Similes, buffooneries of Burlesques, stalk- ings of Mock-heroics, stings in the tails of Epigrams, glances of Inuendos, dry looks of Ironies, corpu- lences of Exaggerations, ticklings of mad Fancies, claps on the back of Horse-plays, complacencies of Unawarenesses, flounderings of Absurdities, irre- sistibilities of Iterations, significances of Jargons, waitings of Pretended Woes, roarings of Laughters, and hubbubs of Animal Spirits ; all so general yet ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 3 particular, so demanding distinct recognition, and yet so baffling the attempt with their numbers and their confusion, that a thousand masquerades in one would have seemed to threaten less torment to the pen of a reporter. Nor has this difficulty been unfelt before, even by the profoundest investigators. The famous Dr. Barrow, who was one of the writers of all others from whom a thoroughly searching account of Wit might have been expected, both as he was a wit himself and remarkable for exhausting the deepest subjects of reflection, has left a celebrated passage on the subject, in which indeed much is said, and a great many definite things glanced at, but which still includes a modest confession of incompleteness. " It may be demanded," says he, " what the thing we speak of is, and what this facetiousness doth import ; to which question I might reply, as Democritus did to him that asked the definition of a man 'tis that which we all see and know; and one better apprehends what it is by acquaintance, than I can inform him by description. It is indeed a thing so versatile and multiform, appearing in so many shapes, so many postures, so many garbs, so variously apprehended by several eyes and judgments, that it seemeth no less hard to settle a clear and certain notice thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to define the figure of fleeting air. Sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale ; sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the affinity of their sound; sometimes it is wrapped in a dress of luminous expression ; sometimes it lurketh under an odd simili- tude. Sometimes it is lodged in a sly question ; in a smart answer ; B 2 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY in a quirkish reason ; in a shrewd intimation ; in cunningly diverting or cleverly restoring an objection ; sometimes it is couched in a bold scheme of speech ; in a tart irony ; in a lusty hyperbole ; in a startling metaphor ; in a plausible reconciling of contradictions ; or in acute nonsense. Sometimes a scenical representation of persons or things, a counterfeit speech, a inimical look or gesture, passeth for it. Sometimes an affected simplicity, sometimes a presumptuous blunt- ness, gives it being. Sometimes it riseth only from a lucky hitting upon what is strange ; sometimes from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose. Often it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up one can hardly tell how. Its ways are unaccount- able and inexplicable, being answerable to the numberless rovings of fancy and windings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speaking out of the simple and plain way (such as reason teacheth and knoweth things by), which by a pretty surprising uncouthness in conceit or expression doth affect and amuse the fancy, showing in it some wonder, and breathing some delight thereto. It raiseth admiration, as signifying a nimble sagacity of apprehension, a special felicity of invention, a vivacity of spirit, and reach of wit more than vulgar ; it seeming to argue a rare quickness of parts, that one can fetch in remote conceits applicable; a notable skill that he can dexterously accommodate them to a purpose before him ; together with a lively briskness of humour not apt to damp those sportful flashes of imagination. Whence in Aristotle such persons are termed tTTiCtZiot, dexterous men, and turpoTrot, men of facile and versatile manners, who can easily turn themselves to all things, or turn all things to themselves. It also procureth delight, by gratifying curi- osity with its rareness or semblance of difficulty (as monsters, not for their beauty but their rarity as juggling tricks, not for their use but their abstruseness are beheld with pleasure) ; by diverting the mind from its road of serious thoughts ; by instilling gaiety and airiness of spirit ; by provoking to such dispositions of spirit in way of emulation or compliance ; and by seasoning matter, otherwise distasteful or insipid, with an unusual and thence grateful tang." Barrow's Works, Sermon 14. ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 5 It is obvious that many of the distinctions here so acutely made are referable to the same forms of Wit, and therefore are but distinctions of mode without difference of matter. Yet so abundant, neverthe- less, are the varieties which he has intimated, that had the writer followed them up with illustra- tions, and so have been tempted to endeavour at completing the subject, one almost fancies he might have done so. But he was truly in a state of embarras des richesses of perplexity with his abun- dance. Locke followed Barrow ; and was the first to discern in Barrow's particulars the face of a general proposition. He described Wit as " lying most in the assemblage of ideas, and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures, and agreeable visions in the fancy." (Human Understanding, book ii. chap, x.) But the necessity of fetching congruity out of in- congruity itself is here scarcely hinted at, perhaps not at all. Addison first pointed it out in his papers on Wit in the Spectator : where, in commenting on this passage of Locke, he heightens the properties pointed out by the philosopher, by adding to them the requirements of Delight and Surprise; and com- pletes them, or at least intimates their completion, by the demand of Dissimilitude. " Every resem- blance in the ideas," he observes, " is not that AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY which we call Wit, unless it be such an one that \ gives Delight and Surprise to the reader" " parti- cularly the last ;" and " it is necessary that the ideas should not lie too near one another in the nature of things ; for where the likeness is obvious, it gives no surprise." No. 62. Upon this hint of the great master, all the subse- quent critics have spoken ; such as Campbell in his Philosophy of Rhetoric, Beattie in his Essay on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition, and Hazlitt in the re- marks on " Wit and Humour," prefixed to his Lec- tures on the English Comic Poets. The last in parti- cular has entered into the metaphysical portion of the subject, or the inquiry into the causes of our laughter and entertainment, with so much of his usual acuteness and gusto, that I gave up, in mo- desty, all attempt to resume it, beyond what a dif- ferent treatment might require. I resolved to con- fine myself to what was in some measure a new, and might at all events be not an undesirable or least satisfactory, mode of discussion; namely, as thorough an account as I could give of the principal forms both of Wit and Humour, accompanied with examples. In order to prepare the way, however, for the readier acceptance of the definition of Wit, it may be as well to state the cause of Laughter itself, or of our readiness to be agreeably influenced by this kind of exercise of the fancy. We are so constituted ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 7 that the mind is willingly put into any state of move- ment not actually painful ; perhaps because we are then made potentially alive to our existence, and feel ourselves a match for the challenge. Hobbes refers all laughter to a sense of triumph and " glory ;" and upon the principle here expressed, his opinion seems to be justifiable ; though I cannot think it entirely so on the scornful ground im- plied by him.* His limitation of the cause of laughter looks like a saturnine self-sufficiency. There are numerous occasions, undoubtedly, when we laugh out of a contemptuous sense of superiority, or at least when we think we do so. But on occasions of pure mirth and fancy, we only feel superior to the pleasant defiance which is given to our wit and comprehension; we triumph, not insolently but congenially ; not to any one's dis- advantage, but simply to our own joy and re- assurance. The reason indeed is partly physical as well as mental. In proportion to the vivacity of the surprise, a check is given to the breath, different in degree, but not in nature, from that which is occasioned by dashing against some pleasant friend round a corner. The breath * "The passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves by comparison with the infirmity of others, or with our own formerly : for men laugh at the follies of themselves past, when they come suddenly to remembrance, except they bring with them any present dishonour." Treatise on Human Nature, chap. ix. 8 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY recedes, only to re-issue with double force ; and the happy convulsion which it undergoes in the process is Laughter. ^Do I triumph over my friend in the laughter? Surely not. I only triumph over the strange and sudden jar, which seemed to put us for the moment in the condition of antagonists. Now this apparent antagonism is the cause, per se, of the laughter occasioned by Wit. Our surprise is the consequence of a sudden and agreeable percep- tion of the incongruous ; sudden, because even when we laugh at the recollection of it, we undergo, in imagination, a return of the suddenness, or the liveliness of the first impression (which is the reason why we say of a good thing that it is always " new") ; and agreeable, because the jar against us is not so vio- lent as to hinder us from recurring to that habitual idea of fitness, or adjustment, by which the shock of the surprise is made easy. It is in these reconcile- ments of jars, these creations and re-adjustments of disparities, that the delightful faculty of the wit and humorist is made manifest. He at once rouses our minds to action ; suggests, and saves us the trouble of a difficulty ; and turns the help into a compliment, by implying our participation in the process. It does not follow that everything witty or humorous excites laughter. It may be accompanied with a sense of too many other things to do so ; with too much thought, with too great a perfection even, or with pathos and sorrow. All extremes meet; ex- ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 9 cess of laughter itself runs into tears, and mirth be- comes heaviness. Mirth itself is too often but me- lancholy in disguise. The, jests of the fool in Lear are the sighs of knowledge. But as far as Wit and Humour affect us on their own accounts, or unmodi- fied by graver considerations, laughter is their usual result and happy ratification. The nature of Wit, therefore, has been well ascer- tained. It takes many forms ; and the word indeed means many things, some of them very grave and important ; but in the popular and prevailing sense of the term (an ascendancy which it has usurped, by the help of fashion, over that of the Intellectual Faculty, or Perception itself), Wit may be defined to be the Arbitrary Juxtaposition of Dissimilar Ideas, fur some lively purpose of Assimilation or Contrast, gene- rally of both. It is fancy in its most wilful, and strictly speaking, its least poetical state ; that is to say, Wit does not contemplate its ideas for their own sakes in any light apart from their ordinary prosaical one, but solely for the pur- pose of producing an effect by their combination. Poetry may take up the combination and improve it, but it then divests it of its arbitrary character, and converts it into something better. Wit is the clash and reconcilement of incongruities ; the meet- ing of extremes round a corner ; the flashing of an artificial light from one object to another, disclosing some unexpected resemblance or connection. It is B5 10 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY the detection of likeness in unlikeness, of sympathy in antipathy, or of the extreme points of antipathies themselves, made friends *by the very merriment of their introduction. The mode, or form, is compara- tively of no consequence, provided it give no trouble to the apprehension ; and you may bring as many ideas together as can pleasantly assemble. But a single one is nothing. Two ideas are as necessary to Wit, as couples are to marriages ; and the union is happy in proportion to the agreeableness of the offspring. So Butler, speaking of marriage it- self: What security 's too strong To guard that gentle heart from wrong, That to its friend is glad to pass Itself away, and all it has, And like an anchorite gives over This world for the heav'n of a lover. Jfudibras, Part iii. Canto 1. This is Wit, and something more. It becomes poetry by the feeling ; but the ideas, or images, are as different as can be, and their juxtaposition as arbitrary. For what can be more unlike than a lover, who is the least solitary of mortals, or who desires to be so, and a hermit, to whom solitude is every thing ? and yet at the same time what can be more identical than their sacrifice of every worldly advantage for one blissful object ? This is the clue to the recognition of Wit, through whatever form it is arrived at. The two-fold im- ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 11 pression is not in every case equally distinct. You may have to substantiate it, critically; it may be discerned only on reflection ; but discernible it is always. Steele in one of the papers of the Spec- tator, and in the character of that delightful ob- server, thinks that a silent man might be supposed freer than all others from liabilities to misinterpre- tation ; " and yet," adds he, " I remember I was once taken up for a Jesuit, for no other reason but my profound taciturnity." No. 4. There appears in this sentence at first sight, to be nothing but what is exclusively in character with the mute and single- minded Spectator ; for even the Jesuit seems to be rendered harmless by the charge of dumbness. Yet as extremes meet, and a Jesuit is always supposed to mean something different from what he pretends, a contrast of the greatest kind is first suggested between that crafty professor and our honest countryman, and then doubly and ludicrously im- pressed by a sense of the unmerited, noisy, and public danger, to which the innocent essayist was subjected in being taken before a magistrate. The case, I think, is the same with Humour. Humour, considered as the object treated of by the humorous writer, and not as the power of treating it, derives its name from the prevailing quality of moisture in the bodily temperament; and is a ten- dency of the mind to run in particular directions of / thought or feeling more amusing than accountable; at 12 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY least in the opinion of society. It is therefore, either in reality or appearance, a thing incon- i sistent. It deals in incongruities of character and circumstance, as Wit does in those of arbitrary ideas. The more the incongruities the better, provided they are all in nature ; but two, at any rate, are as necessary to Humour, as the two ideas are to Wit ; and the more strikingly they differ yet harmonize, the more amusing the result. Such is the melting together of the propensities to love and war in the person of exquisite Uncle Toby; of the gullible and the manly in Parson Adams; of the _^ professional and the individual, or_the accidental and the^ permanent, in the Canterbury Pilgrims ; of the objectionable and the agreeable, the fat and the sharpwitted, in Falstaff ; of honesty and knavery in Gil Bias; of pretension and non-performance in the Bullies of the dramatic poets ; of folly and wisdom in Don Quixote; of shrewdness and dolt- ishness in Sancho Panza ; and it may be added, in the discordant yet harmonious co-operation of Don Quixote and his attendant, considered as a pair: for those two characters, by presenting themselves to the mind in combination, insensibly conspire to give us one compound idea of the whole abstract human being; divided indeed by its extreme con- tradictions of body and soul, but at the samje time made one and indivisible by community of error and the necessities of companionship. Sancho is the ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 13 flesh, looking after its homely needs; his master, who is also his dupe, is the spirit, starving on senti- ment. Sancho himself, being a compound of sense and absurdity, thus heaps duality on duality, con- tradiction on contradiction ; and the inimitable asso- ciates contrast and reflect one another. "The reason, Sancho," said his master, "why thou feelest that pain all down thy back, is, that the stick which gave it thee was of a length to that extent." " God's my life!" exclaimed Sancho, impatiently, "as if I could not guess that, of my own head ! The question is, how am I to get rid of it?" I quote from memory; but this is the substance of one of their dialogues. This is a sample of Humour. Don Quixote is always refining upon the ideas of things, apart from their requirements. He is provokingly for the abstract and immaterial, while his squire is labouring under the concrete. The two-fold impression requisite to the effect of Humour is here seen in what Sancho's master says, contrasted with what he ought to say ; and Sancho redoubles it by the 'very justice of his complaint ; which, however reasonable, is at variance with the patient courage to be expected of the squire of a knight-errant. I have preceded my details on the subject of Wit by defining both Wit and Humour, not only on account of their tendency to coalesce, but because, though the one is to be found in perfection apart from 14 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY the other, their richest effect is produced by the combination. Wit, apart from Humour, generally speaking, is but an element for professors to sport with. In combination with Humour it runs into the richest utility, and helps to humanize the world. In the specimens about to be quoted, I propose to bring the two streams gradually together, till no- thing be wanting to their united fulness. It must be remembered at the same time (to drop this meta- phor), that the mode, as before observed, is of no consequence, compared with what it conveys. The least form of Wit may contain a quintessence of it ; the shallowest pun, or what the ignorant deem such, include the profoundest wisdom. The principal forms of Wit may perhaps be thus enumerated. 1st. The direct Simile, as just given; which is the readiest, most striking, and therefore most common and popular form. Thus Swift in his Rhapsody on Poetry; Epithets you link In gaping lines to fill a chink ; Like stepping-stones, to save a stride In streets where kennels are too wide ; Or like a heel-piece, to support A cripple with one foot too short j Or like a bridge, that joins a marish To moorland of a different parish. So have I seen ill-coupled hounds Drag different ways in miry grounds. ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 15 So geographers in Afric maps With savage pictures fill their gaps ; And o'er unhabitable downs Place elephants for want of towns. One of the happiest similes to be met with is in Green's poem on the Spleen. It is an allusion to the imposture practised at Naples by the exhibition of the pretended head of St. Januarius, at which a phial full of congealed blood is made to liquefy. Green applies it to the melting of Age at the sight of Beauty, and gallantly turns it into a truth. Shine but on age, you melt its snow ; Again fires long extinguished glow, And charm' d by witchery of eyes, Blood, long congealed, liquefies ! True miracle, and fairly done, By heads which are ador'd while on. 2nd, The Metaphor, which is but another form of the Simile, or, as Addison has defined it, " A Simile in a Word ;" that is to say, an Identification instead of Comparison. Green is remarkable for his ambitious, and, gene- rally speaking, his successful use of this figure of speech : To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green ; Some hilly walks all exercise ; Fling but a stone, the giant dies : Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen : 16 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY And kitten, if the humour hit, Has harlequin' d away the fit. So in his picture of the sourer kind of dissenters ; a description full of wit. Nor they so pure and so precise, Immaculate as their whites of eyes, Who for the spirit hug the spleen, Phylacter'd throughout all their mien ; Who their ill-tasted home-brew' d prayer To the State's mellow forms prefer ; Who doctrines as infections fear Which are not steep'd in vinegar ; And samples of heart-chested grace Expose in show -glass of the face. 3rd, What may be called the Poetical Process, the Leap to a Conclusion, or the Omission of Intermediate Particulars in order to bring the Two Ends of a Thought or Circumstance together; as in one of Addison's papers above mentioned, where he is speaking of a whole Book of Psalms that was minutely written in the face and hair of a portrait of Charles the First ; " When I was last in Oxford, I perused one of the whiskers ; and was reading the other, but could not go so far in it as I would have done," be. Spectator, No. 58. That is to say, he perused that portion of the book which was written in one of the whiskers : but the omission of this common-place, and the identification / of the whisker itself with the thing read, strike the mind with a lively sense of truth abridged, in guise ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 17 of a fiction and an impossibility. This is the favour- ite form of Wit with Addison ; " There is scarce any emotion in the mind which does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan ; insomuch, that if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very angry, that it would have been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind of it ; and at other times so very languishing, that I have been glad, for the lady's sake, the lover was at a sufficient distance from it." Ib. No. 102. In Addison's time it was a fashion for ladies to patch their faces, by way of setting off the fairness of their skin ; and at one time they took to wearing these patches politically ; or so as to indicate, by the sides on which they put them, whether they were Tories or Whigs. Accordingly, by an exquisite intimation of the superficiality of the whole business, he transfers the political feeling from the mind to the face itself; " Upon inquiry (as he sat at the opera), I found that the body of Amazons on my right hand were Whigs, and those on my left Tories ; and that those who had placed themselves in the middle boxes were a neutral party, whose faces had not yet declared them- selves. * * * I must here take notice, that Rosalinda, a famous Whig partizan, has most unfortunately a very beautiful moje on the Tory part of her forehead , which being very conspicuous, has occasioned many mistakes, and given an handle to her enemies to misrepresent her face, as though it had revolted from the Whig interest." Ib. No. 81. A fop, who had the misfortune to possess a fine 18 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY set of masticators, and who was always grinning in order to show them, was designated by Horace Walpole as " the gentleman with the foolish teeth? Nothing of the kind can be better than this. It is painting the man at a blow, quick as the " flash" of his own " ivories." It reminds us of the maxim, that " brevity is the soul of wit ;" a questionable assertion, however, unless by "soul" is meant a cer- tain fervour apart from mind; otherwise the soul of wit is fancy.* 4th, Irony, (Eipcoreta, Talk, in a sense of Dissi- mulation) or Saying one thing and Meaning another , is a mode of speech generally adopted for pur- poses of satire, but may be made the vehicle of the most exquisite compliment. On the other hand, Chaucer, with a delightful impudence, has drawn a pretended compliment out of a satire the most out- rageous. He makes the Cock say to the Hen, in the fable told by the Nun's Priest, that " the female is the confusion of the male ;" but then he says it in Latin, gravely quoting from a Latin author a sen- tence to that effect about womankind. This insult he proceeds to translate into an eulogy : But let us speak of mirth, and stint all this. Madamg Pertt'lote, so have I bliss, * Voltaire says, in his happy manner, " All pleasantries ought to be short ; and, for that matter, gravities too." Art. Prior, &c. in the Dictionnaire Philosophique. ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 19 Of one thing God hath sent me large grace ; For when I see the beauty of your face, Ye ben so scarlet red about your eyen, It maketh all my dred& for to dyen ; For all so siker (so surely) as In principio Mulier est hominis confusio ; (That is, "for as it was in the beginning of the world, woman is the confusion of man.") Madam, the sentence of this Latin is, " Woman is manngs joy and mannSs bliss." Canterbury Tales, Y. 15,163. The famous piece of flattery addressed by his victimizer to Gil Bias is an irony in all its glory. Nothing can beat it as an effusion of impudence^ and a lesson^ But it is surpassed in depth and dry- ness by Swift's banter on the Protestant Nunnery, a project meditated in his time by a literary lady, or, as he calls her, a " Platonne." It is more impu- dent than the other, inasmuch as it was a banter on a living person, and inflicted, moreover, through the medium of Steele, who would probably have re- jected such an attack on the fair pietist, had he not been overpowered by the wit and assumption of his contributor. It is in The Tatler, then newly set up (No. 32) ; and is so masterly a piece of effrontery that I must here give the greater part of it. "Every man," says the author, "that has wit, and humour, and raillery, can make a good flatterer for woman in general : but a Platonne is not to be touched with panegyric : she will tell you it is a 20 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY sensuality in the soul to be delighted that way. You are not therefore to commend, but silently consent to all she does and says. You are to consider, in her the scorn of you is not humour but opinion. "There were, some years since, a set of these ladies who were of quality, and gave out, that virginity was to be their state of life during this mortal condition, and therefore resolved to join their fortunes and erect a nunnery. The place of residence was pitched upon ; and a pretty situation, full of natural falls and risings of waters, with shady coverts, and flowery arbours, was approved by seven of the founders. There were as many of our sex who took the liberty to visit their mansions of intended severity ; among others, a famous rake of that time, who had the grave way to an excellence. He came in first : but upon seeing a servant coming towards him, with a design to tell him this was no place for him or his companions, up goes my grave impudence to the maid; "Young woman," said he, "if any of the ladies are in the way on this side of the house, pray carry us on the other side towards the gardens. We are, you must know, gentlemen that are travelling England ; after which we shall go into foreign parts, where some of us have already been." Here he bows in the most humble manner, and kissed the girl, who knew not how to behave to such a sort of carriage. He goes on: "Now you must know we have an ambition to have it to say, that we have a protestant nunnery in England: but pray, Mrs. Betty " "Sir," she replied, "my name is Susan, at your service." " Then I heartily beg your pardon " " No offence in the least," said she, "for I have a cousin-german whose name is Betty." " Indeed," said he, " I pro- test to you that was more than I knew ; I spoke at random. But since it happens that I was near in the right, give me leave to present this gentleman to the favour of a civil salute." His friend advances, and so on, until they had all saluted her. By this means the poor girl was in the middle of the crowd of these fellows, at a loss what to do, without courage to pass through them ; and the Platonics at several peep-holes, pale, trembling, and fretting. Rake perceived they were observed, and therefore took care to keep Sukey in chat with questions concerning their way of life ; when appeared at last Madonnella, a lady who had writ a fine book concerning the recluse ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 21 life, and was the projectrix of the foundation. She approaches into . the hall ; and Rake, knowing the dignity of his own mien and aspect, goes deputy from the company. She begins ; " Sir, I am obliged to follow the servant, who was sent out to know what affair could make strangers press upon a solitude, which we, who are to inhabit this place, have devoted to heaven and our own thoughts ?" " Madam," replies Rake, with fcn air of great distance, mixed with a certain in- difference, by which he could dissemble dissimulation, " your great intention has made more noise in the world than you design it should; and we travellers, who have seen many foreign institutions of this kind, have a curiosity to see, in its first rudiments, the seat of primitive piety ; for such it must be called by future ages, to the eternal honour of the founders : I have read Madonnella's excellent and seraphic discourse on this subject." The lady immediately answered, " If what I have said could have contributed to raise any thoughts in you that may make for the advancement of intellectual and divine con- versation, I should think myself extremely happy." He immediately fell back with the profoundest veneration; then advancing, " Are you then that admired lady ? If I may approach lips that have uttered things so sacred" He salutes her. His friends followed his example. The devoted within stood in amazement where this would end, to see Madonnella receive their address and their company. But Rake goes on " We would not transgress rules ; but if we may take the liberty to see the place you have thought fit to choose for ever, we would go into such parts of the gardens as is consistent with the severities you have imposed on yourselves." We need not accompany Rake any farther. The reader will have observed that this story of Swift's is full of Humour as well as Wit. The best irony is apt to be so, because it is concerned with human nature. Wit may be wholly turned on things in- animate ; but when you come to sarcasm and scorn, you come (as a misanthropist would say) to man- kind. 22 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY There is another form of irony more surprising than this, or at least more startling ; for the surprise in Swift may be said to be constant. It is when the writer gives a comic turn to an apparently grave passage. It is a favourite with the Italians, from whom it has been imitated by a writer who has equalled their satirists in wit, and surpassed them in poetry. I need not say that I allude to the author of Don Juan. I will usher in a sample or two from that work by a well-known passage from Tassoni, the author of the mock-heroic poem entitled the Rape of the Bucket. (Secchia Rapita). The blow aimed in the concluding line is at the pretended Petrarchists, or herd of writers of love-verses, with which Italy was then overrun ; Del celeste Monton gia il Sole uscito Saettava co' rai le nubi algenti ; Parean stellati i campi, e il ciel fiorito, E sul tranquillo mar dormiano i venti ; Sol Zefiro ondeggiar fece sul lito L'erbetta molle, e i fior vaghi e ridenti ; E s'udian gli usignuoli al primo albore, E gli asini cantar versi d'amore. Canto i. st. 6. Now issuing from the Ram, the sun forth showers On the cold clouds his radiant archery ; Earth shone in turn like heav'n, the skies like flowers, And every wind fell sleeping on the sea ; Only the Zephyr with his gentle powers Mov'd the soft herbage on the flowery lea : Nightingales murmur'd still their loves and pities, And jackasses commenced their amorous ditties. ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 23 The author of Don Juan is not so merely abrupt as this ; the step into which he beguiles you is not so jarring ; but what he loses in violence of surprise, he gains in agreeableness. Thus, in speaking of the pedantic Spanish lady ; Her favourite science was the mathematical ; Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity ; Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all ; Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity : In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy ; her morning dress was dimity. Canto i. st. 12. He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, And how the goddesses came down to men : He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours ; And when he look'd upon his watch again, He found how much old time had been a winner He also found that he had lost his dinner. Ibid. st. 94. Epigrammatic Wit may be held to belong to this form ; though in general it announces itself by its title and brevity, and thus substitutes expec- tation for surprise; a higher principle in great things, but not in small. Here follows, how- ever, an epigram of a very startling kind. It is a remonstrance addressed to a lady : When late I attempted your passion to prove, Why were you so deaf to my prayers ? Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love ; But why did you kick me down stairs ? 24 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY This kind of surprise, in its preceding form, is connected with another species of irony, the Mock- heroic in general, or Raillery in the shape of Poetic Elevation. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourished two locks. Rape of the Lock, Canto 2. Here thou, great Anna, whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take, and sometimes tea. Ibid. Canto 3. Happy the man, who void of care and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A splendid shilling. Philips. Drayton, in his Nymphidia, or Court of Faery, has an amusing description of a rider, who turns and winds a fiery "earwig" The best mock- heroical epigram I am acquainted with is one to a similar purpose on an ant. I quote from memory : High mounted on an ant, Nanus the tall Dared its whole fire, and got a dreadful fall. Under th' unruly beast's proud feet he lies, All torn ; but yet with generous ardour cries, " Behold me, gods ! and thou, base world, laugh on, For thw I fall, and thus fell Phaeton." But this species of wit is too well known to need dwelling upon. It may be useful, however, to ob- serve, by way of caution against the mistakes of ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 25 such students in poetry as think " classicality" every- thing, and who write a great deal of mock-heroic without knowing it, that one of its secrets consists in an application of old metaphors, inversions, and other conventional and ancient forms of speech to modern languages. Much wit in prose is enhanced by a scholarly acquaintance with Greek and Latin ety- mology, and a corresponding use of words in their primitive and thoroughly applicable senses an ac- complishment turned to special account by Sydney Smith. But take away inversions, the metaphorical habit, and other Virgilianisms from conventional poetry, and you destroy two-thirds of the serious verses of the last century. They are sometimes admirably used, for purposes of banter, by wits who are guilty of the very fault when they become grave. Thus Peter Pindar, who is as dull in his serious poetry as he is laughable in his comic : Once at our house, amidst our Attic feasts, We likened our acquaintances to beasts ; (It is Boswell, speaking of Johnson.) As, for example, some to calves and hogs, And some to bears and monkeys, cats and dogs. We said (which charm'd the Doctor much, no doubt) His mind was like OF elephants the snout ; That could pick pins up, yet possess'd the vigour For trimming well the jacket of a tiger. Bozzy and Piozsy. C 26 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY And Dr. King, on the perils of brown-paper plas- ters attendant upon athletic exercises : He that of feeble nerves and joints complains, From nine-pins, coits, and from trap-ball abstains ; Cudgels avoids, and shuns the wrestling-place, Lest vinegar resound his loud disgrace. Art of Cookery. " Vinegar resounding " is very ridiculous ; but not more so, than the use of the same classical me- taphor on a thousand occasions, where the presence of Fame's trumpet or of the ancient lyre is out of the question. But the most agreeable form of irony, especially when carried to any length, is that which betrays the absurdity it treats of (or what it considers such) by an air of bonhomie and good faith, as if the thing ridiculed were simplest matter of course, and not at all exposed by the pretensions with which it is art- fully set on a level. It is that of Marot and La Fontaine; of Pulci, Berni, and Voltaire. In the elder of these Italians, and in the two oldest of the Frenchmen, it is best assumed, as far as regards simplicity; but in Berni and Voltaire it is most laughable, because by a certain excess and caricature of indifference it gives its cue to the reader, and so makes him a party to the joke, as rich comic actors do with their audiences. Such is Voltaire's exquisite banter on War, in which he says, that a monarcli picks up a parcel of men " who have nothing to do, ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 27 dresses them in coarse blue cloth at two shillings a yard, binds their hats with coarse white worsted, turns them to the right and left, and marches away with them to GLORY." Dictionnaire Philosophique . Art. Guerre. Thus also, speaking of the Song of Solomon (to the poetry of which, and the oriental warrant of its imagery, he was too much a Frenchman of that age to be alive, notwithstanding his genius), he says of it, that it is not in the style of the Greeks and Ro- mans ; but then he adds, as if in its defence, that Solomon was " a Jew ;" and " a Jeio is not obliged to write like Virgil." (" Un Juif n'est pas oblige d'ecrire comme Virgile." Id. Art. Salomon.} It is impossible to help laughing at this, however uncritical. Very lucky was it for the interests and varieties of poetry, that the East was not obliged to write like the West ; much less to copy a copyist. Voltaire was a better Christian than he took himself for, and the greatest wit that ever lived ; but Solomon had more poetry in his little finger at least, of the imaginative sort, than the Frenchman in his whole mocking body. 5th, Burlesque, or Pure Mockery ', from burlare, Ital., to jest with, to jeer. The word, I take it, comes from the same imitative root as burrasca and burberia (storm and swelling), and originates in the puffing and blowing of the cheeks of the old comedians. This is the caricature and contradic- c 2 28 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY tion of the serious in pretension, as the mock-heroic is the echo and the misapplication of the dignified in style. It farcically degrades, as the other playfully elevates ; and is a formidable exhibi- tion, when genius is the performer. Aristophanes, by means of it, confounded Socrates with the sophists, and prepared the way for his murder. Its greatest type in the English language is Hudi- bras, which reversed the process of Aristophanes, and rescued good sense and piety out of the coarse hands of the Puritans. Plentiful specimens of it from that poem will be found in the present volume. The work of Rabelais is a wild but profound bur- lesque of some of the worst abuses in government and religion, and has had a corresponding effect on the feelings, or unconscious reasonings, of the world. This must be its excuse for a coarseness which was perhaps its greatest recommendation in the " good old times," though at present one is astonished how people could bear it. Rabelais' combination of work and play, of merriment and study, of excessive animal spirits with prodigious learning, would be a perpetual marvel, if we did not reflect that nothing is more likely to make a man happy, particularly a Frenchman, than his being able to indulge his genius, and cultivate the task he is fit for. Native vivacity and suitable occupation conspire to make his existence perfect. Voltaire is a later instance. Thus there can be no doubt that the mirth of Rabe- ON WIT AND HUMOUR. '29 lais was as real as it seems. Indeed it could not otherwise have been so incessant. It is a pity somebody does not take up the wonderful transla- tion of him by Urquhart, and make a good single volume of it, fit for modern readers. It would in- clude all the best points, and even what Barrow would have called its most "acute nonsense," jargon, which sometimes is the only perfect exhibi- tion of the nonsense it ridicules. Such, for instance, is the gibberish so zealously poured forth by the counsel for plaintiff and defendant in the court of law (Book the Second), and the no less solemn summing up, in the same language, by the learned judge. A little correction would soon render that passage admissible into good company. What, too, could be more easily retained in like manner, than the account of the gigantic despot Gargantua, who " ate six pilgrims in a salad ?" of the Abbey of the Thelemites, or people who did as they pleased, (natural successors of the prohibited)? of the reason " why monks love to be in kitchens ?" of the Pope- mania and the decretals? of the storm at sea, and how Panurge would have given anything to be out of it on dry land, even to the permission to some- body to kick him ? Admirable things have the wits and even the gravest reformers (the wits themselves are sometimes the gravest) got out of this prince of buffoons, whom the older I grow (always excepting the detestable coarseness taught him by the monks) 30 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY the more I admire ; for I now think that his Oracle of the Bottle meant the sincerity which is to be found in wine, and that his despair of "extracting water out of pumice-stones," and of " washing asses' heads without losing his soap" pointed only at things that ought to be impossible, and not at those hopes for the world which his own heartiness tended to animate. Steele, Swift, Sterne, nay the Puritans themselves, as far as they were men of business, got wisdom out of Rabelais ; and so perhaps has the noble Society of his modern countrymen, whose motto is " Help yourself, and Heaven will help you." " Put your trust in God," said the Crom- wellite, " and keep your powder dry." " Panta- gruel," says Rabelais, " having first implored the assistance of Heaven, held fast, by the pilot's ad- vice, of the mast of the ship." (book iv. chap. 19). " We must implore, invoke, pray, beseech and supplicate Heaven," quoth Epistemon; " but we mustn't stop there; we must, as holy writ says, co-operate with it." " Devil take me," said Friar John, " but the close of Seville would all have been gathered, vintaged, gleaned, and swallowed up, if I had only sung ' From the snares of the enemy,' like the rest of the scoundrelly monks ; and hadn't bestirred myself to save the vineyard as I did." ******* Friar John had stripped himself to his waistcoat to help the seamen. Epistemon, Ponocrates, and the rest did as much. Panurge alone sat on the deck, weeping and howling. "Odzooks!" cried Friar John : "What! Panurge playing the calf ! Panurge whining ! Panurge braying ! Would it not become thee much better to lend ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 31 us a helping hand, than to keep sitting there like a baboon and lowing like a cow?" " Be, be, be, bout, bous, bous," returned Panurge ; (he was blubbering, and swallowing the water that broke over them) " Friar John, my friend, my good father, I'm drowning ; I drown ; I'm a dead man, my dear father in God; I'm a dead man, my friend ; your valour cannot save me from this : alas ! alas ! we 're above E la (a term in music), above the pitch, out of tune, and off the hinges. Be, be, be, bous. Alas ! we're above G Sol Re Ut. I sink, I sink, my father, my uncle, my all. The water's got into me. I pash it in my shoes Bous, bous, bous, posh I drown alas ! alas ! //" , hu, /in, hu, bous, bous, bobous, ho, ho, alas ! Would to Heaven I were in company with those good holy fathers we met this morning going to council, so godly, so comely, so fat and happy, my friend. Holos, holos, holos, alas, ah, see there ! This devilish wave (God forgive me) / mean this wave of Providence, will sink our vessel. Alas, Friar John, my father, my friend ; confess me. I 'm down on my knees. I confess my sins your blessing." " Go to the devil," said Friar John ; " will you never leave off whining and snivelling ? Come and help us." " Don't swear," said Panurge, " don't swear, holy father, my friend, I beseech you. To-morrow as much as you please. I drown. I'll give eighteen hundred thousand crowns to any one that will set me on shore. Oh, my dear friend, I confess : hear me confess : a little bit of a will or testament at any rate." " His will !" said Friar John. " Stir your stumps, now or never, you pitiful rascal. The poor devil 's frighten'd out of his wits." " Bous, bous, bous," continued Panurge. " I sink ; I die, my friends. I die in charity with all the world. Farewell. Bous, bous, bousowwanwaus. St. Michael ! St. Nicholas ! now or never. De- liver me from this danger, and I here make a solemn vow to build you a fine large little chapel or two between Conde and Monsoreau, where neither cow nor calf shall feed. Oh, oh ! pailfuls are getting down my throat bous, bous. How devilish bitter and salt it is ! Oh you sinn'd just now, Friar John, you did indeed; you sinn'd when you swore ; think of that, my FORMER CRONY! former, I say, because it 's all over with us j with you as well as with me. Oh, I sink, I 32 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY sink. Oh to be but once again on dry ground ; never mind how or in what condition ; oh, if I weu but on firm land, with somebody kicking me." But I must get out of the company of Rabelais, or I shall never see land in this essay. The above is a hasty specimen of the sort of abridgment which I think might be made of this immortal jester ; and after the fashion of the disinterestedness which he and other scholars have taught me, I here make a present of the notion to the booksellers. It is good to be brought up in the company of the cheerful. PARODY (IIapa>8ia, Side-song ? song turned from its purpose) is sometimes pure burlesque, and some- times a species of complimental irony, hovering be- tween burlesque and mock-heroic. Dr. King's Art of Cookery, quoted in the foregoing section, is a parody on Horace's Art of Poetry, and commences like its original with remarks on the fault of incon- gruity : Ingenious Lister, were a picture drawn With Cynthia's face, but with a neck like brawn, With wings of turkey, and with feet of calf, Though drawn by Kneller, it would make you laugh. (I do not think it would, any more than the like monstrosity in Horace. It would be simply shock- * This extract is abridged from two different editions of the variorum translation of Rabelais ; or rather, the concluding passage is added, and quoted from memory, out of the one I first met with j which I take to be the best. ON WIT AND HUMOUR. ing. But the rest is good, both as to books and dishes). Such is, good sir, the figure of a feast By some rich farmer's wife and sister drest ; Which, were it not for plenty and for steam, Might be resembled to a sick man's dream, Where all ideas huddling run so fast, That syllabubs come first, and soups the last. Not but that cooks and poets still were free To use their power in nice variety ; Hence, mackerel seem delightful to the eyes, Though dress'd with incoherent gooseberries : Crabs, salmon, lobsters, are with fennel spread, Who never touch'd that herb till they were dead : Yet no man lards salt pork with orange-peel, Or garnishes his lamb with spitch-cock'd eel. Parody is not only a compliment instead of a satire, as some people think it, but a compliment greater than it is thought by others, for it is a greater test of merit. Sometimes it is so close, yet amusing, as to become almost identical ; in which case it betrays the existence of something too much like itself in the original ; that is to say, uninten- tionally subject to a derisive echo. Mr. Crabbe, an acute though not impartial observer of common life, a versifier of singular facility, and a genuine wit, had nevertheless a style so mixed up with conven- tionalisms and antithetical points, that the happy parody of him in the Rejected Addresses seems almost identical with what he himself would have written on the same theatrical subject, not intending to c 5 34 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY make so much game of it The parody is like the echo of an eccentric laugh. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polish' d Stubb's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his younger boy Up as a corn-cutter, a safe employ ; Pat was the urchin's name, a red-hair'd youth, Fonder of purl and skittle grounds than truth. Backs with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait. The Splendid Shilling (see it in the present volume) is an excellent parody of the style of Milton. So is Isaac Hawkins Browne's Pipe of Tobacco, of the styles of Pope and Ambrose Philips. Come let me taste thee, unexcis'd of kings and (alluding to an anti-climax in Pope's praise of Murray) Persuasion tips his tongue whene'er he talks, And he has lodgings in the King's Bench Walks. But Parody, I think, sooner palls upon the reader than most kinds of Wit. In truth, it is very easy ; and, in long instances, tiresome from its easi- ness, sometimes from its vulgarity. I remember in my youth trying in vain to read Cotton's Tra- vestie of Virgil. It revolted me with its coarse- ness. I retained only the following four indifferent lines : ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 35 Thus spoke this Trojan heart of oak, And thundered through the gate like smoke : His brother Paris followed close, Resolv'd to give the Greeks a dose. There is some excellent parody, however, in Beau- mont and Fletcher's Knight of the Burning Pestle, in the Duke of Buckingham's Rehearsal, Sheridan's Critic, and Fielding's Tom Thumb, particularly, I think, the last. It has more gaiety as well as goodnature than the other satires. The speech of Tom Thumb, when desired by the king to name his reward for the victories he has gained him, is a banter on the high flights in the plays of Dryden and others, some of which are literally given King. Oh Thumb, what do we to thy valour owe ? Ask some reward, great as we can bestow. Thumb. I ask not kingdoms ; / can conquer those ; I ask not money ; money I've enough. For what I 've done, and what I mean to do, For giants slain, and giants yet unborn, Which I will slay, if this be called a debt, Take my receipt in full : I ask but this, To sun myself in Huncamunca's eyes. (Huncamunca is the princess royal.) King, (aside) Prodigious bold request.' And the simile of the Dogs is too good to omit, for the solemnity of its triviality, and the stately mono- syllabic stamp of its music : So when two dogs are fighting in the streets, With a third dog one of the two dogs meetx ; 36 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY (" Dogs meets" is an exquisite hiss, and punning in- timation) With angry tooth he bites him to the bone ; And THIS dog smarts for what THAT dog had done. This simile reminds me of a happy one of poor Kit Smart, in whom a good deal of real genius seems to have wasted itself away in complexional weakness. I quote it from memory : Thus when a barber and a collier fight, The barber beats the luckless collier white ; In comes the brick-dustman with rouge bespread, And beats the barber and the collier red ,- The rallying collier whirls his empty sack, And beats the brick-dustman and barber black : Black, white, and red in various clouds are toss'd, And in the dust they raise the combatants are lost. Dr. Johnson's mimicry of the simple style of the old ballads is good : As with my hat upon my head I walk'd along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand. Nevertheless this jest is an edifying instance of a wit's not being always aware of the beauty con- tained in what he parodies. Johnson would have been fifty times the "poet" he was, had he been alive to the simplicity which he saw only in its abuse. 6th, Exaggeration, Ultra- Continuity, and Extrava- gance in General. These heads might be thought to ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 37 belong to the preceding section ; but there is generally satire in Burlesque, which is not perhaps the case with Exaggeration. You may exaggerate in order to eulogize, and sincerely too ; the excess in that case being but the representation of the good spirits and gratitude with which you do it, and an intimation that justice is not to be done niggardly. Thus FalstafF, himself an exaggeration, overflows both in praise and blame. Love exaggerates as well as spleen. Everything exaggerates which has a natural tendency to make the best or the worst of what it feels. We " feed fat a grudge :" we pamper a predilection. The voluptuous is the expatiatory and the con- tinuous. "Another bottle" makes its appearance, because the last was one too much, and it is three in the morning. But in regard to Wit and Humour, it must be confessed that Exaggeration is generally on the side of objection, though seldom illnaturedly. When otherwise, it becomes revolting, and defeats its purpose. Ben Jonson's attacks on Inigo Jones are not so good as his Epicure Mam- mon. The two best pieces of comic exaggeration I am acquainted with (next to whole poems like Hudibras) arai the Descriptions of Holland by the author of that poem, and Andrew Marvel. The reader will find passages of them in the present volume. Holland and England happened to be great enemies in the time of Charles the Second, and the wits were always girding at the Dutch- 38 AV ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY man and their " ditch." Butler calls them a people That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousins -german up in dishes; and Marvel, in the same strain, says, The fish oft-times the burgher dispossess'd, And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest. Hazlitt, in his observations on Marvel (Lectures, ut sup. Templeman's edition, p. 105), cannot see the jest in this line. He thinks it " forced" and "far- fetched." I remember he made the same observa- tion once to Charles Lamb and myself, and was entering into a very acute discourse to prove that we ought not to laugh at such exaggerations, when we were forced to interrupt him by a fit of laughter uncontrollable. The exaggerations, no doubt, are extremely far-fetched, but they are not forced ; Marvel could have talked such by the hundred, ad libitum ; and it is this easiness and flow of extra- vagance, as well as the relative truth lurking within it, that renders it delightful to those who have animal spirits enough to join the merriment ; which Hazlitt had not. His sense of humour, strong as it was, did not carry him so far as that. Had it done so, I doubt whether, on the very principle of extremes meeting, he would have enumerated among his provocatives to laughter "a funeral," " a wedding," or even " a damned author, though he may be our friend." What he says about ON WIT AND HUMOUR. 39 the difficulty of bearing demands on our gravity is very true. I would not answer for my own upon occasions of common formal solemnity, or even at " a sermon," if the preacher was very bad. But the same liability to sympathy with the extremest pre- sent emotion, which would have made him laugh heartily with Marvel, would probably have ab- sorbed him in the troubles and griefs of the other occasions, and so prevented his having a thought of laughter: for he was a very goodnatured man at heart. But the risibilities of the serious are not always to be accounted for. Spinoza found some- thing excessively droll and diverting in the combats of spiders.* Falstaff exaggerates admirably on the subject of Bardolph's nose : If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face. My oath should be, " By this fire." But thou art altogether given over ; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran'st up Gad's-hill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wildfire, there 's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, and everlasting bonfire-light/ Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night between tavern and tavern,- but the sack that thou hast drank me would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the dearest chandler's * See, in Mr. Knight's " Weekly Volumes," the Biographical His- tory of Philosophy by my friend G. H. Lewes j the most lucid and complete summary of philosophical opinion, which the language pos- 40 AN ILLUSTRATIVE ESSAY in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire, any time this two and thirty years. Heaven reward me for it ! King Henry IV. Part I., Act 3. Of laudatory exaggeration there is a beautiful specimen put into the mouth of the Dauphin, in the play of King Henry the Fifth. Shakspeare pro- bably intended it to be nationally as well as individu- ally characteristic. It is spoken the night before the battle of Agincourt. But if it has all the confi- dence and animal spirits of our gallant neighbours, it is no less well intended towards their wit and eloquence. Constable of France. Tut ! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day. Duke of Orleans. You have an excellent armour ; but let my horse have his due. Constable. It is the best horse of Europe. Orleans. Will it never be morning ? Dauphin. My lord of Orleans, and my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and armour. Orleans. You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world. Dauphin. What a long night is this ! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ha, ha ! He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs ; le cheval volant, the Pegasus
  • . I do not say I was kick'd. 2 Sw. No ; nor no silly creature that wears his head Without a case, bis soul in a skin coat. You kick'd, dear brother ! Bes. Nay, gentlemen, let us do what we shall do, Truly and honestly. Good sirs, to the question. 1 Sw. Why, then, I say, suppose your boy kick'd, captain. 2 Sw. The boy, may be supposed, is liable. But, kick my brother ! 1 Sw. A foolish forward zeal, sir, in my friend. But to the boy : Suppose, the boy were kick'd. Bes. I do suppose it. 1 Sw. Has your boy a sword ? Bes. Surely, no ; I pray, suppose a sword too. 1 Sw. I do suppose it. You grant, your boy was kick'd then. 2 Sw. By no means, captain ; let it be supposed stil The word " grant" makes not for us. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 179 1 Sw. I say, this must be granted. 2 Sw. This wit* be granted, brother ? 1 Sw. Ay, this must be granted. 2 Sw. Still, this must ? 1 Sw. I say, this must be granted. 2 t#. Ay ! give me the must again ! Brother, you palter. 1 Sw. I will not hear you, wasp. 2 Sw. Brother, I say you palter ; the must three times together ! / wear as sharp steel as another man, And my fox bites as deep. Musted, my dear brother ! But to the cause again. Bes. Nay, look you, gentlemen ! 2 Sir. In a word, I ha' done. 1 Sw. A tall man, but intemperate j 't is great pity. Once more, suppose the boy kick'd. 2 Sw. Forward. 1 Sw. And, being thoroughly kick'd, laughs at the kicker. 2 Sw. So much for us. Proceed. 1 Sw. And hi this beaten scorn, as I may call it, Delivers up his weapon ; where lies the error ? Bes. It lies i' the beating, sir ; I found it four days since. 2 Sw. The error, and a sore one, as I take it, Lies in the thing kicking. Bes. I understand that well ; 'tis sore indeed, sir. 1 Sw. That is according to the man that did it. 2 Sw. There springs a new branch : Whose was the foot ? Bes. A lord's. 1 Sw. The cause is mighty ; but, had it been two lords, And both had kick'd you, if you laugh'd, 't is clear. Bes. I did laugh ; but how will that help me, gentlemen ? 2 Sw. Yes, it shall help you, if you laugh'd aloud. Bes. As loud as a kick'd man could laugh, I laugh'd, sir. 1 Sw. My reason now : The valiant man is known By suffering and contemning ; you have had Enough of both, and you are valiant. 180 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 2 Sw. If he be sure he has been kicked enough : For that brave sufferance you speak of, brother, Consists not in a beating and away, But in a cudgelVd body, from eighteen To eight and thirty ; in a head rebuked With pots of all size, daggers, stools, and bedstaves : This shews a valiant man. Bes. Then I am valiant, as valiant as the proudest ; For these are all familiar things to me; Familiar as my sleep, or want of money ; All my whole body 's but one bruise, with beating. I think I have been cudgell'd with all nations, And almost all religions. 2 Sw. Embrace him, brother ! this man is valiant ; I know it by myself, he 's valiant. 1 Sw. Captain, thou art a valiant gentleman, To bide upon, a very valiant man. Bes. My equal friends o' th' sword, I must request Your hands to this. 2 Sw. 'T is fit it should be. Bes. Boy, Get me some wine, and pen and ink, within. Am I clear, gentlemen ? 1 Sw. Sir, when the world Has taken notice of what we have done, Make much of your body ; for I '11 pawn my steel, Men will be coyer of their legs hereafter. Bes. I must request you go along, and testify To the lord Bacurius, whose foot has struck me, How you find my cause. 2 Sw. We will; and tell that lord he must be ruled ; Or there be those abroad will rule his lordship. [Exeunt . SCENE. The house of BACURIUS. Enter BACURIUS and a Servant. Bac. Three gentlemen without, to speak with me ? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 181 Serv. Yes, sir. Bac. Let them come in. Enter BESSUS, with the two Swordmen. Serv. They are enter'd, sir, already. Bac. Now, fellows, your business ? Are these the gentlemen ? Bes. My lord, I have made bold to bring these gentlemen, My friends o' th' sword, along with me. /'"'- I am Afraid you '11 fight, then. Bes. My good lord, I will not ; Your lordship is mistaken ; fear not, lord. Bac. Sir, I am sorry for 't. Bes. I ask no more In honour. Gentlemen, you hear my lord Is sorry. Bac. Not that I have beaten you, But beaten one that will be beaten ; One whose dull body will require a lamming, As surfeits do the diet, spring and fall. Now, to your swordmen : What come they for, good Captain Stockfish ? Bes. It seems your lordship has forgot my name. Bac. No, nor your nature neither ; though they are Things fitter, I must confess, for anything Than my remembrance, or any honest man's : What shall these billets do ? be piled up in my wood-yard ? Bes. Your lordship holds your mirth still, heaven continue it ! But, for these gentlemen, they come Bac. To swear you are a coward ? Spare your book ; I do believe it. Bes. Your lordship still draws wide ; They come to vouch, under their valiant hands, I am no coward. Bac. That would be a show, indeed, worth seeing. Sirs, Be wise and take money for this motion, travel with 't : And where the name of Bessus has been known, 182 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Or a good coward stirring, 't will yield more than A tilting. This will prove more beneficial to you, If you be thrifty, than your captainship, And more natural. Men of most valiant hands, Is this true ? 2 Sw. It is so, most renowned. Bac. 'T is somewhat strange. 1 Sw. Lord, it is strange, yet true. We have examined, from your lordship 1 8 foot there To this man's head, the nature of the beatings ; And we do find his honour is come off Clean and sufficient. This as our swords shall help us. Bac. You are much bounden to your bilbo-men ; I am glad you're straight again, captain. 'T were good You would think some way how to gratify them j They have undergone a labour for you, Bessus, Would have puzzled Hercules with all his valour. 2 Sw. Your lordship must understand we are no men Of the law, that take pay for our opinions ; It is sufficient we have cleared our friend. Bac. Yet there is something due, which I, as touch'd In conscience, will discharge. Captain, I '11 pay This rent for you. Bes. Spare yourself, my good lord ; My brave friends aim at nothing but the virtue. Bac. That 's but a cold discharge, sir, for the pains. 2 Sw. Oh, lord ! my good lord ! Bac. Be not so modest ; I will give you something. Bes. They shall dine with your lordship, that's sufficient. Bac. Something in hand the while. You rogues, you apple -squires, Do you come hither with your bottled valour, Your windy froth, to limit out my beatings ? [Kicks them. 1 Sw. I do beseech your lordship. 2 Sw. Oh, good lord ! Bac. 'Sfoot, what a bevy of beaten slaves are here ! Get me a cudgel, sirrah, and a tough one. [Exit Servant. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 183 2 Sw. More of your foot, I do beseech your lordship. Bac. You shall, you shall, dog, and your fellow beagle. 1 Sw. O' this side, good, my lord. Bac. Off with your swords ; For if you hurt my foot, I'll have you flead, You rascals. 1 Sw. Mine 's off, my lord. [They take off their swords. 2 Sw. I beseech your lordship, stay a little ; my strap 's tied. Now, when you please. Bac. Captain, these are your valiant friends ; You long for a little too ? Bes. I am very well, I humbly thank your lordship. Bac. What 's that in your pocket hurts my toe, you mungrel ? 2 Sw. (takes out a pistot) Here 'tis, sir ; a small piece of artillery. That a gentleman, a dear friend of your lordship's, Sent me with to get it mended, sir ; for, if you mark, The nose is somewhat loose. Bac. A friend of mine, you rascal ? I was never wearier of doing nothing, Than kicking these two foot-balls. Enter Servant. Serv. Here 's a good cudgel, sir. Bac. It comes too late ; I am weary ; pr'ythee, Do thou beat them. 2 Sw. My lord, this is foul play, I 'faith, to put afresh man upon us : Men are but men, sir. Bac. That jest shall save your bones. Captain, rally up your rotten regiment, and begone. I had rather thresh than be bound to kick these rascals, till they cried, " ho !" Bessus, you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit. Farewell ! as you like this, pray visit me again ; 't will keep me in good health. [Exit. 2 Sw. He has a devilish hard foot ; I never felt the like. 1 Sw. Nor I; and yet, I am sure, I have felt a hundred. 184 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 2 Sv>. If he kick thus i 1 the dog-days, he will be dry-foundred. What cure now, captain, besides oil of bays ? Bes. Why, well enough, I warrant you ; you can go ? 2 Sir. Yes, Heaven be thank 'd ! but I feel a shrewd ache; Sure, he 's sprang my huckle-bone. 1 Sir. I ha' lost a haunch. Be. A little butter, friend, a little butter; Butter and parsley is a sovereign matter : Probatum est. 2 Sw. Captain, we must request Your hand now to our honours. Bes. Yes, marry, shall ye, And then let all the world come ; we are valiant To ourselves, and there 's an end. 1 Sw. Nay, then, we must be valiant. Oh, my ribs ! 2 Sw. Oh, my inside ! A plague upon these sharp-toed shoes; they 're murderers, [Exeunt. DUKE AND NO DUKE. An intriguing wife and her companions persuade Mount-Marine, a foolish gentleman (for the pur- pose of keeping him in town and spending his money), that the king, besides conferring on him a variety of other titles, has made him a duke. After- wards, in prosecution of the same design, they pre- tend they have been ordered to unmake him. SCENE A room in the house of MARINE. Enter LONGUEVILLE to MARINE and others. Long. Where 's Monsieur Mount-Marine ? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 185 Gentlemen. Why, there he stands ; will ye aught with him ? Long. Yes. Good-day, Monsieur Marine ! Mar. Good-day to you. Long. His majesty doth recommend himself Most kindly to you, sir, and hath, by me, Sent you this favour : kneel down ; rise a knight ! Mar. I thank his majesty ! Long. And he doth further Request you not to leave the court so soon ; For though your former merits have been slighted, After this time there shall no office fall Worthy your spirit (as he doth confess There 's none so great) but you shall surely have it. Gent, (aside to Mar.) Do you hear ? If you yield yet, yon are an ass. Mar. I '11 show my service to his majesty In greater things than these : but for this small one I must entreat his highness to excuse me. Long. I '11 bear your knightly words unto the king, And bring his princely answer back again. [Exit. Gent. Well said ! Be resolute a while ; I know There is a tide of honours coming on ; I warrant you ! Enter BEAUFORT. Beau. Where is this new made knight ? Mar. Here, sir. Beau. Let me enfold you in my arms, Then call you lord ! the king will have it so : Who doth entreat your lordship to remember His message sent to you by Longueville. Gent. If you be dirty, and dare not mount aloft. You may yield now ; I know what I would do. Mar. Peace ! I will fit him. Tell his majesty I am a subject, and I do confess 186 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. I serve a gracious prince, that thus hath heap'd Honours on me without desert ; but yet As for the message, business urgeth me, I must begone, and he must pardon me, Were he ten thousand kings and emperors. Beau. I '11 tell him so. Gent. Why, this was like yourself ! Beau. As he hath wrought him, 'tis the finest fellow [Aside. That e'er was Christmas -lord ! he carries it So truly to the life, as though he were One of the plot to gull himself. [Exit. Gent. Why, so ! You sent the wisest and the shrewdest answer Unto the king, I swear, my honour'd friend, That ever any subject sent his liege. Mar. Nay, now I know I have him on the hip, 1 11 follow it. Enter LONGUEVILLE. Long. My honourable lord ! Give me your noble hand, right courteous peer, And from henceforward be a courtly earl ; The king so wills, and subjects must obey : Only he doth desire you to consider Of his request. Gent. Why, faith, you are well, my lord ; Yield to him. Mar. Yield ? Why, 'twas my plot Gent. Nay, 'T was your wife's plot. Mar. To get preferment by it. And thinks he now to pop me in the mouth But with an earldom ? I '11 be one step higher. Gent. It is the finest lord ! I am afraid anon He will stand upon't to share the kingdom with him. \ A\ni--. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 187 Enter BEAUFORT. Beau. Where 's this courtly earl ? His majesty commends his love unto you, And will you but now grant to his request, He bids you be a duke, and choose of whence. Gent. Why, if you yield not now, you are undone ; What can you wish to have more, but the kingdom ? Mar. So please his majesty, I would be duke Of Burgundy, because I like the place. Beau. I know the king is pleased. Mar. Then will I stay, And kiss his highness' hand. Beau. His majesty Will be a glad man when he hears it. Long, (aside to the Gent.) But how shall we keep this from the world's ear, That some one tell him not, he is no duke ? Gent. We '11 think of that anon. Why, gentlemen, Is this a gracious habit for a duke ? Each gentle body set a finger to, To pluck the clouds (of these his riding weeds) From off the orient sun, off his best clothes ; I'll pluck one boot and spur off. [They pluck him. Long. I another. Beau. 1 11 pluck his jerkin off. Gent. Sit down, my lord. Both his spurs off at once, good Longueville ! And, Beaufort, take that scarf off, and that hat. Now set your gracious foot to this of mine ; One pluck will do it ; so ! Off with the other ! Long. Lo, thus your servant Longueville doth pluck The trophy of your former gentry off. Off with his jerkin, Beaufort ! Gent. Didst thou never gee A nimble tailor stand so in his stockings, 188 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Whilst some friend help'd to pluck his jerkin off, To dance a jig ? Enter JAQUES. Long. Here 's his man Jaques come, Booted and ready still. Jaques. My mistress stays. Why, how now, sir ? What does your worship mean, To pluck your grave and thrifty habit off ? Mar. My slippers, Jaques ! Long. Oh, thou mighty duke ! Pardon this man, that thus hath trespassed, In ignorance. Mar. I pardon him. Long. Jaques ! His grace's slippers ! Jaques. Why, what 's the matter ? Long. Footman, he 's a duke : The king hath rais'd him above all his land. . Enter LADY in plain apparel. Gent. See, see my mistress ! Long, (aside') Let 's observe their greeting. Lady. Unto your will, as every good wife ought, I have turn'd all my thoughts, and now am ready. Mar. Oh, wife, I am not worthy to kiss The least of all thy toes, much less thy thumb, Which yet I would be bold with ! All thy counsel Hath been to me angelical ; but mine To thee hath been most dirty, like my mind. Dear duchess, I must stay. Lady. What ! are you mad, To make me dress and undress, turn and wind me, Because you find me pliant ? Said I not The whole world should not alter me, if once I were resolved ? and now you call me duchess : Why, what 's the matter ? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 189 Mar. Lo ! a knight doth kneel. Lady. A knight ? Mar. A lord. Lady. A fool. Mar. I say doth kneel An earl, a duke. Long. In drawers. Beau. Without shoes. Lady. Sure you are lunatic ! Gent. No, honour'd duchess, If you dare but believe your servant's truth, I know he is a duke. Lady. Your grace's pardon. Long. The choicest fortunes wait upon your grace ! Gent. And give him all content and happiness ! Bean. Let his great name live to the end of time ! Mar. We thank you, and are pleased to give you notice We shall at fitter times wait on your loves ; Till when, be near us. Long. May it please your grace To see the city ? 't will be to the minds And much contentment of the doubtful people. Mar. I am determined so. Till my return, I leave my honour'd duchess to her chamber. Be careful of your health ! I pray you be so. Gent. Your grace shall suffer us, your humble servants, To give attendance, fit so great a person, Upon your body ? Mar. I am pleased so. Long, (aside) Away, good Beaufort ; raise a guard sufficient To keep him from the reach of tongues ; be quick ! And, do you hear ? remember how the streets Must be disposed for cries and salutations. Your grace determines not to see the king ? . Mar. Not yet ; I shall be ready ten days hence To kiss his highness* hand, and give him thanks, 190 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. As it is fit I should, for his great bounty. Set forward, gentlemen ! Groom. Room for the duke there ! [They issue forth. Room there afore ; sound ! Room, and keep your places, And you may see enough ; keep your places ! Long. These people are too far unmanner'd, thus To atop your grace's way with multitudes. Mar. Rebuke them not, good monsieur : Tw their loves, Which I will answer, if it please my stars To spare me life and health. 2 Gent. God bless your grace ! Mar. And you, with all my heart. 1 Gen. Now Heaven preserve you ! Mar. I thank you too. 3 Gent. Now Heaven save your grace ! Mar. I thank you all. Beau. On there before ! Mar. Stand, gentlemen ! Stay yet a while ; I 'm minded to impart My love to these good people, and my friends, Whose love and prayers for my greatness Are equal in abundance. Note me well, And with my words my heart ; for as the tree Long. Your grace had best beware ; ' t will be inform'd Your greatness with the people. Mar. I had more, My honest and ingenuous people ; but The weight of business hath prevented me ; / am call' d from you : But this tree I speak of Shall bring forth fruit, I hope, to your content. And so, I share my bowels amongst you all. All. A noble duke! a very noble duke ! [Exeunt. * * * * * UMONT AND FLETCHER. 191 SCENE. A Hall in MARINE'S House. Enter MARINE and JAQUES. Mar. Not gone unto my tenants, to relate My grace, and honour, and the mightiness Of my new name, which would have struck a terror Through their coarse doublets to their very hearts ? Jaques. Alas, great lord and master, I could scarce With safety of my life return again Unto your grace's house : and, but for one That had some mercy, I had sure been hang'd. Mar. My house ? Jaques. Yes, sir, this house ; your house i' th* town. Mar. Jaques, we are displeased , hath it no name ? Jaques. What name ? Mar. Dull rogue ! what, hath the king bestow'd So many honours, open'd all his springs, And shower'd his graces down upon my head, And has my house no name ? no title yet ? Bur gundy -house, you ass ! Jaques. Your grace's mercy ! And when I was come off, and had recover'd Bur gundy -house, I durst not yet be seen, But lay all night, for fear of pursuivants, In Burgundy wash-house. Mar. Oh, sir, 'tis well ; Can you remember now ? But, Jaques, know, Since thy intended journey is so crost, I will go down myself this morning. Jaques. Sir ? Mar. Have I not said this morning ? Jaques. But consider That nothing is prepared yet for your journey ; Your grace's teams not here to draw your clothes, And not a carrier yet in town to send by. 192 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Mar. I say, once more, go about it. You're a wise man ! you'd have me linger time, Till I have worn these clothes out. Will you go ? [Exit JAQUKS. Make you ready, wife ! Enter LADY. Lady. I am so, mighty duke. Mar. Nay, for the country. Lady. How, for the country ? Mar. Yes ; I am resolved To see my tenants in this bravery, Make them a sumptuous feast, with a slight show Of Dives and Lazarus, and a squib or two, And so return. Lady. Why, sir, you are not mad ? Mar. How many dukes have you known mad ? Pray speak. Lady. You are the first, sir, and I hope the last : But you are stark-horn mad. Mar. Forbear, good wife. Lady. As I have faith, you're mad ! Sir, you shall know There is a greater bond that ties me here, Allegiance to the king. Has he not heap'd Those honours on you to no other end, But to stay you here ? and shall I have a hand In the offending such a gracious prince ? Enter BEAUFORT, LONGUEVILLE, GENTLEMAN, and MARIA. Lady. Ob, gentlemen, we are undone ! Long. For what ? Lady. This gentleman, the lord of Lome, my husband, Will be gone down to shew his playfellows Where he is gay. Beau. What, down into the country ? Lady. Yes, 'faith. Was ever fool but he so cross ? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, 193 I would as fain be gracious to him, As he could wish me ; but he will not let me. Speak faithfully, will he deserve my mercy ? Long. According to his merits, he should have A guarded coat and a great wooden dagger. Lady. If there be any woman that doth know The duties 'twixt a husband and his wife, Will speak but one word for him, he shall 'scape : Is not that reasonable ? But there 's none. {Aside} Be ready therefore to pursue the plot We had against a pinch ; for he must stay. Long, (aside) Wait you here for him, whilst I go, And make the king acquainted with your sport, For fear he be incensed for your attempting Places of so great honour. [Exit. Lady. Go ; be speedy. Mar. What, are you ready, wife ! Lady. An hour ago. Mar. I cannot choose but kiss thy royal lips, Dear duchess mine, thou art so good a woman. Beau. You 'd say so, if you knew all, goodman Duckling ! [Aside. Clermont. (a foolish kinsman) This was the happiest fortune could befall me ! [Aside. Now, in his absence, will I follow close Mine own preferment ; and I hope, ere long, To make my mean and humble name so strong As my great cousin's ; when the world shall know I bear too hot a spirit to live low. The next spring will I down, my wife and household ; I '11 have my ushers, and my four lacqueys, Six spare caroches too : But mum, no more ! What I intend to do, 1 11 keep in store. Mar. Montez, montez ! Jaques, be our querry ! Groom. To horse there, gentlemen, and fall in couples ! Mar. Come, honour'd duchess ! K 194 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Enter LONGUEVILLK. Long. Stand, thou proud man ! Mar. Thieves, Jaques ! raise the people ! Long. No ; raise no people ! 'T is the king's command Which bids thee once more stand, thmt haughty man ' Thou art a monster ; for thou art ungrateful ; And, like a fellow of a rebel nature, Hast flung from his embraces : not return M So much as thanks ; and, to oppose his will, Resolved to leave the court, and set the realm A-fire, in discontent and open action : Therefore he bids thee stand, thou proud man, Whilst, with the whisking of my sirord about, I take thy honours off: This first sad whisk Takes off thy dukedom ; thou art but an earl. Mar. You are mistaken, Longueville. Long. Oh, 'would I were ! This second whisk divides Thy earldom from thee ; thou art yet a baron. Mar. No more whisks, if you love me Longueville! Long. Two whisks are past, and two are yet behind Yet all must come : but not to linger time, With these two whisks I end. Now, Mount-Marine, For thou art now no more, so says the king ; And I have done his highness' will with grief. Mar. Degraded from my honours ? Long. 'T is too certain. Lady. Oh, my poor husband ! what a heavy fortune Is fallen upon him ! Beau. M (-thinks 't is strange, That, Heaven forewarning great men of their falls With such plain tokens, they should not avoid 'em : For the last night, betwixt eleven and twelve, Two great and hideous blazing stars were seen To fight a long hour by the clock, the one BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 195 Dress* d like a duke, the other like a king ; Till at the last the crowned star o'ercame. Gent. Why do you stand so dead, Monsieur Marine ? Mar. So Caesar fell, when in the capitol They gave his body two-and-thirty wounds. Be warned, all ye peers ; and, by my fall, Hereafter learn to let your wives rule all! Marine is finally permitted to think himself a Duke, but only in secret. Gent, (aside to Marine) Hark ye, sir ; The king doth know you are a duke. Mar. No ! does he ? Gent. Yes ; and content you shall be ; with this caution That none know it but yourself; for, if you do, He 1 II take J t away by act of parliament. Mar. Here is my hand ; and whilst I live or breathe, No living wight shall know I am a duke. Gent. Mark me directly, sir ; your wife may know it. Mar. May n't Jaques ? Gent. Yes, he may. Mar. May n't my cousin ? Gent. By no means, sir, if you love life and state. Mar. (out loud) Well then, know all, I 'm no duke. Gent. No, 1 11 swear it. Mar. Know all, I am no duke. Lady. What say you ? Mar. Jaques. {Aside to him. Jaques. Sir ? Mar. I am a duke. Both. Are you ? Mar. Yes, 'faith ; yes, 'faith, But it must only run amongst ourselves. K 2 196 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Lady, (aside) As I could wish. (Aloud) Let all young sprightly That have dull foolish coxcombs to their husbands, Learn by me all their duties, what to do, Which is, to make 'em fools, and please 'em too ! ANONYMOUS. THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. THIS is a banter by some " fine old Queen Elizabeth gentleman" (or somebody writing in his character) on the new and certainly far less respectable times of James the First ; an age in which a gross and unprincipled court took the place of a romantic one, and greatness became confounded with worldli- ness ; an age in which a lusus natures was on the throne, in which Beaumont and Fletcher were spoilt, the corruption and ruin of the great Bacon completed, Sir Walter Raleigh murdered, and a pardon given to Lord and Lady Somerset. However, I must not injure the pleasant effect of an old song by pitching the critical prelude in too grave a tone. It is here printed, as given with corrections in Percy's Reliques, from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection of Ballads, Garlands, &c., preserved at Magdalen College in Cambridge. 198 ANONYMOUS. This Pepys is " our fat friend" of the Memoirs, now a man of as jovial a reputation, as he was once considered staid and formal. He must have taken singular delight in the song before us ; for though a lover of old times, and an objector upon principle to new, he had an inclination to the pleasures of both. The song is admirable ; full of the gusto of iteration, and exquisite in variety as well as same- ness. It repeats the word "old" till we are ena- moured of antiquity, and prepared to resent the impertinence of things new. What a blow to retiring poverty is the " thump on the back with the stone !" and what a climax of negative merit is that of the waiting-gentlewoman, who, when her lady has dined, " lets the servants not eat !" I should not wonder if it had been written by Decker. It has all his humour, moral sweetness, and flow. An old song made by an aged old pate Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages, That every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges ; Like an old courtier, &c. ANONYMOUS. 199 With an old study fill'd full of learned old books; With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by hi* looks ; With an old buttery hatch, worn quite off the hooks ; And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows ; With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose ; And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak and a man dumb ; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawk'd, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds ; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind ; But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd ; Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care. 200 ANONYMOUS. Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with a wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair, Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good ; With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel -board, tehereon no victuals ne'er stood, Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays ; With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys ; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must be gone, And leave none to keep house but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete ; With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat ; With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has din'd, lets the servants NOT eat; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestor's old manors are sold ; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, Among our young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers. RANDOLPH. BORN, 1605 DIED, 1634. THOMAS RANDOLPH, who died Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, aged twenty-nine, was one of the favourite disciples of Ben Jonson. He had a vein of comedy gayer and more natural than his master's, which might have rendered him a favourite with posterity, had he outlived the influence of his training. He had as much learning for his time of life, more animal spirits, and appears to have been very amiable. His brother collected and published his writings, with an introduction full of love and respect. He lost a finger once in endeavouring to part two combatants ; and, instead of bewailing the mishap, turned it into a subject for epigram, and said he hoped to " shake hands with it in heaven." Randolph's best known play, the Muses Lookiny- Glass, which is to be found in late collections of the old drama, is singularly full of life, considering it is one continued allegory, and didactic withal. And K 5 202 RANDOLPH. his dramatic pastoral, called Amyntas, or the Impos- sibk Dowry (from an imaginary fairy investiture), deserves to be known quite as well, for its gaiety and graceful fancy. If he had but understood " the art of arts, the art to blot," he would have been popular to this day. But who did, in his time, even the greatest ? Who thoroughly understands it any time ? And what heaps of inferior poets have since gone, or are going, to oblivion, who took him doubtless for some obsolete gentleman, oppressed with a " quaint" love of talking, while they fancied their own garrulity to be the right " soul of wit ?" In the following scene from the Muses Lookiny- Glass, the poet, under the Greek names of Deilus, Aphobus, and Colax, presents us with caricatures of Fear, Rashness, and Flattery. The excessive double-dealing of Flattery, in his asides to the two others, is very ludicrous ; and the extravagances of Fear have a foundation in truth, not unworthy to stand side by side with the honest poltrooneries of the hero in John Paul.* * Vide Mr. Carlyle's admirable translation of Tales from the German. RANDOLPH. 203 FEAR, RASHNESS, AND FLATTERY. DEILUS undergoes paroxysms of terror from the near conversation of APHOBUS. COLAX (aside) adulates them both , but ulti- mately rids himself of their company, on finding that he yet* nothing by it. Deilus. Good Aphobus, no more such terrible stories ; I would not for a world lie alone to-night : I shall have such strange dreams ! Aphobus. What can there be That I should fear ? The gods ? if they be good, 'T is sin to fear them : if not good, no gods ; And then let them fear me. Or are they devils That must affright me ! Deil. Devils ! where, good Aphobus ? / thought there was some conjuring abroad; ' T is such a terrible wind ! O here it is ; Now it is here again ! O still, still, still. Apho. What is the matter ? Deil. Still it follows me ! The thing in black, behind ; soon as the sun But shines, it haunts me ' Gentle spirit, leave me ! Cannot you lay him ? What ugly looks it has ! With eyes as big as saucers, nostrils wider Than barber's basons ! Apho. It is nothing, Deilus, But your weak fancy that from every object Draws arguments of fear. This terrible black tiling Deil. Where is it, Aphobus ? Apho. Is but your shadow, Deilus. Deil. And should we not fear shadows ? Apho. No, why should we ? 204 RANDOLPH. Deil. Who knows but they come leering after us, To steal away the substance ? ' Watch him, Aphobus. Apho. I fear nothing. Cola*, (aside to APHOBUS) / do commend your valour, That fixes your great soul fast as a centre, Not to be mov'd with dangers. Let slight cock -boats Be shaken with a wave, while you stand firm Like an undaunted rock, whose constant hardness Rebeats the fury of the raging sea, Dashing it into froth. Base fear doth argue A low degenerate soul. Deil. (in answer to APHOBUS) Now /fear every thing. Colax. (aside to DEILUS) 'Tis your discretion. Every thing has danger, And therefore every thing is to be feared. I do applaud this wisdom. 'T is a symptom Of wary providence. His too confident rashness [Secretly making a gesture towards APHOBUS. Argues a stupid ignorance in the soul, A blind and senseless judgment. Give me fear To man the fort ; 't is such a circumspect And wary sentinel ; but daring valour, Uncapable of danger, sleeps securely, And leaves an open entrance to his enemies. Deil. What, are they landed ? Apho. Who ? Deil. The enemies That Colax talks of. Apho. If they be, I care not ; Though they be giants all, and ann'd with thunder. Deil. Why, do you not fear thunder ? Apho. Thunder ? No ! No more than squibs and crackers. Deil. Squibs and crackers .' I hope there be none here ! s'lid, squibs and crackers ! RANDOLPH. 205 The mere epitomes of the gunpowder treason ! Faux in a lesser volume !'* Apho. Let fools gaze At bearded stars. It is all one to me, As if they had been shav'd. Thus, thus would I Out-beard a meteor ; for I might as well Name it a prodigy when my candle blazes. Deil. Is there a comet, say you ? Nay, I saw it ; It reached from Paul's to Charing, and portends Some certain imminent danger to the inhabitants ' Twixt those two places. I 'II go get a lodging Out of its influence. 3 Colax. Will that serve you ? I fear It threatens general ruin to the kingdom. Deil. I '11 to some other country. Color. There is danger To cross the seas. Deil. h there no way, good Colax, To cross the sea by land? the situation, The horrible situation of an island ! Colax. (aside to APHOBUS) You, sir, are far above such frivolous thoughts. You fear not death. Apho. Not I. Col. Not sudden death. Apho. No more than sudden sleeps. Sir, I dare die. Deil. I dare not. Death to me is terrible. / will not die.* Apho. How can you, sir, prevent it ? Deil. Why, I will kill myself. Col. A valiant course ; And the right way to prevent death indeed. Your spirit (aside to DEILUS) is true Roman ! But yours (aside to APHOBUS) greater, That fears not death, nor yet the manner of it. (Aloud) Should heaven fall 206 RANDOLPH. Apho. Why, then we should have larks. Deil. I shall never eat larks again, while I breathe. Col. Or should the earth yawn like a sepulchre, And with an open throat swallow you quick ? Apho. 'T would save me the expenses of a grave. Deil. I had rather trouble my executors by th' half. Apho. Cannons to me are pop-guns. Deil. Pop-guns to me Are cannons. The report will strike me dead. Apho. A rapier 's but a bodkin. Deil. But a bodkin ! ! It 's a most dangerous weapon. Since I read Of Julius Caesar's death, / durst not venture Into a tailor's shop for fear of bodkins. Apho. O that the valiant giants should again Rebel against the gods, and besiege heaven, So I might be their leader. Col. (aside to APHOBUS) Had Enceladus Been half so valiant, Jove had been his prisoner. Apho. Why should we think there be such things as dangers ? Scylla, Charybdis, Python, are but fables ; Medea's bull and dragon very tales ; Sea-monsters, serpents, all poetical figments ; Nay, hell itself, and Acheron, mere inventions ; Or were they true, as they are false, should I be So tim'rous as to fear these bug-bear Harpies, Medusas, Centaurs, Gorgons ? Deil. O good Aphobus, Leave conjuring, or take me into the circle. What shall I do, good Colax ? Col. Sir, walk in. There is, they say, a looking-glass, a strange one Of admirable virtues, that will render you Free from enchantments. Deil. Now ? a looking -y lass ? Dost think I can endure it ? Why there lies RANDOLPH. 207 A man within ' f in ambush to entrap me. I did but l\ft my hand up, and he presently Catch'd at it. Col. Twas the shadow, sir, of yourself ; Trust me, a mere reflection. Deil. (mustering up all his forces'). I will trust thee. Apho. What glass is that? Col. (aside to APHOBUS) A trick to fright the idiot Out of his wits ; a glass so full of dread, Rend 'ring to the eye such horrid spectacles As would amaze even you, sir. I do think Your optic nerves would shrink in the beholding. This if your eye endure, I will confess you The prince of eagles. Apho. Look to it, eyes : if ye refuse this right, My nails shall damn you to eternal night. Col. (aside to himself) Seeing no hope of gain, I pack them hence. 'T is gold gives flattery all her eloquence. 1 Who knows but they come leering after us, To steal away the substance ? A very poetical apprehension, and very poetically expressed. The word leering has a fine comic mystery in it ; which is always an aggravation of horror, upon the principle of extremes meeting ; malice in benevolence. Squibs and crackers ! The mere epitomes of the gunpowder treason ! Faux in a lesser volume I The wording of this extravagance is just as if Charles Lamb had written it. But indeed, in the 208 RANDOLPH. pregnancy as well as colouring of his style, he was one of our old wits come back again. I'll go get a lodging Out of its influence. The caricatures of Fear, after all, are no carica- tures. It is the only passion that cannot be over- drawn. Multitudes of people in civilized countries have been known to do things as ridiculous as this ; have believed in the end of the world because a madman announced it, and gone out of town to avoid an earthquake next Wednesday ! 4 "I will not die." Here again there is no caricature. These ridiculous words have too often become ter- rible to the hearers, in the mouth of poor angry mortality. What Deilus also says afterwards of his killing himself to avoid death, has not onlv the authority of Ovid Mortisque timorem Morte fugit And from the fear of Death Flies into death's own arras ; but is founded in the depths of the secret of terror. RANDOLPH. 209 PRETENDED FAIRIES ROBBING AN ORCHARD. DORYLAS has induced JOCASTUS, a foolish country gentleman, to believe him to be OBERON, Prince of the Fairies; and, in company with some other young rogues, takes advantage of his credulity to rob his orchard. Enter DORYLAS, with a bevy of Fairies. Dor. (to his companions) How like you my Grace ? Is not my countenance Royal and full of majesty ? Walk I not Like the young Prince of Pygmies ? Ha, my knaves ! We '11 fill our pockets. Look, look yonder, elves : Would not yon apples tempt a better conscience Than any we have to rob an orchard ? Ha ! Fairies, like nymphs with child, must have the things They long for. You sing here a fairy catch In that strange tongue I taught you, while myself Do climb the trees. (He climbs.) Thus princely Oberon Ascends his throne of state. CHORUS OF FAIRIES. Nos beata Fauni proles, 1 Q///7///.V nun est nidi/mi moles, Quamvis Lunam incolamus, Hortos scepefrequentamus. [We, the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 210 RANDOLPH. Furto cuncta magis bella, Furto dulcior puella, Furto omnia decora, Furto poma dulciora. Cum mortales lectojacent, Notts poma nocte placent ; Ilia tamen sunt ingrata, Nisifurto sint parata. Enter JOCASTUS and his servant BROMIUS. Joe. What divine noise, fraught with immortal harmony, Salutes mine ears ? Brom. Why, this immortal harmony Rather salutes your orchard. These young rascals, (Aside). These peascod shellers, do so cheat my master, We cannot have an apple in the orchard, But straight some fairy longs for 't. (To his master.} Well, if I Might have my will, a whip again should jerk 'em Into their old mortality. Joe. Dar'st thou, screech-owl, Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples. When to bed the world are bobbing, Then 's the time for orchard robbing ; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling. Were it not for stealing, stealing.] RANDOLPH. '211 With thy rude croaking interrupt their music, Whose melody has made the spheres to lay Their heavenly lutes aside, only to listen To their more charming notes ? Brom. Say what you will, I say a cudgel now were excellent music. CHORUS OF FAIRIES. Oberon, descende citus, Ne cogaris hinc invitus. Canes audio latrantes, Et mortales vigilantes. Joe. Prince Oberon ! I heard his Grace's name. Brom. O ho ! I spy his Grace. Most noble Prince, Come down, or I '11 so pelt your Grace with stones, That I believe your Grace was ne'er so pelted, Since 't was a Grace. Dor. Bold mortal, hold thy hand. Brom. Immortal thief, come down, or I will fetch you. 2 Methinks it should impair your Grace's honour To steal poor mortals' apples. Now, have at you. Dor. Jocastus, we are Oberon ; and we thought That one so near to us as you in favour, Would not have suffer'd this profane rude groom Thus to impair our royalty. [Oberon, descend, we pray thee, Lest a swift stick over-lay thee. Dogs are on the watch, and barking, Eyes of mortals anti -larking.] '212 RANDOLPH. Joe. Gracious Prince, The fellow is a fool, and not yet purg'd From his mortality. Dor. Did we, out of love And our entire affection, of all orchards Choose yours, to make it happy by our dances, Light airy measures and fantastic rings, And you, ungrateful mortal, thus requite us, All for one apple ! Joe. (to BROMIUS) Villain, thou hast undone me ! His Grace is much incens'd. Dor. You know, Jocastus, Our Grace have orchards of our own, more precious Than mortals can have any ; and we sent you A present of them t' other day. Joe. 'T is right : Your Grace's humble servant must acknowledge it. Brom. Some of his own, I'm sure. Dor. I must confess Their outside look'd something like yours indeed ; But then the taste more relish' d of eternity, The same with nectar. Joe. Your Grace is welcome To any thing I have. Nay, gentlemen, (to the others} Pray do not you spare neither. Elves. Tititati. Joe. What say these mighty peers, great Oberon ? Dor. They cannot speak this language, but in ours They thank you ; and they say they will have none. Elves. Tititati, Tititati. Joe. What say they now ? Dor. They do request you now To grant them leave to dance a fairy ring About your servant, and for his offence Pinch him. Do you, the while, command the traitor Not dare to stir, nor once presume to mutter. RANDOLPH. 213 Joe. Traitor, for so Prince Oberon deigns to call thee, Stir not, nor mutter. Brom. To be thus abus'd ! Joe. Ha ! mutterest thou ? Brom. I have deserv'd better. Joe. Still mutterest thou ? Brom. I see I must endure it. Joe. Yet mutterest thou ? Now, noble lords, begin, When it shall please your honours. Dor. Tititdti, Our noble friend permits Tititatee ; Do you not, sir ? Joe. How should I say I do ? Dor. Tititatee. Joe. Tititatee, my noble lords. 3 (Fairies dance about BROMIUS, and pinch and scratch him in chorus.) Quoniam per te violamur, Ungues hie experiamur : Statim dices tibi datam Cut em valde variatam. Joe. Tititati to your lordship for this excellent music. Brom. (aside). This 't is to have a coxcomb for one's master. Joe. Still mutterest thou ? [Exit BROMIUS. (DORYLUS descends from the tree ; JocASTUs/a/& on his knees.) Dor. Arise up, Sir Jocastus, our dear knight. [Since by thee comes profanation Taste thee, lo ! excoriation : Thou shalt own, that in a twinkling Thou hast got a pretty crinkling.] '214 RANDOLPH. Now hang the hallow'd bell about his neck ; We call it a mellisonant tingle-tangle, (Aside). (A sheep-bell stolen from his own fat wether) The ensign of his knighthood. Sir Jocastus, We call to mind we promis'd you long since The President of our Dances' place ; we are now Pleas'd to confirm it on you. Give him there His staff of dignity. Joe. Your Grace is pleas'd To honour your poor liegeman. Dor. Now be gone. Joe. Farewell unto your Grace and eke to you. Tititatee, my noble lords ; farewell. [Exit. Dor. Tititatee, my noble fool ; farewell. ****** So we are clean got off. Come, noble Peers Of Faery, come attend our Royal Grace ; Let 's go and share our fruits with our Queen Mab, And the other dairy-maids ; where of this theme We will discourse amidst our cakes and cream. CHORUS OF FAIRIES. Cum tot poma habeamvs, Triumphos latijam canamus. Faunos ego credam ortos, Tantum ut frequentant hortos. [Now for all this store of apples, Laud we with the voice of chapels. Elves, methinks, were ordain'd solely To keep orchard -robbing holy. RANDOLPH. 215 / domum, Oberon, ad illas Qua nos manent nunc ancillas ; Quorum osculemur ninum, Inter poma, lac, et vinum.* 1 " NOS beata Fauni proles," &c. There is something very charming in these Latin rhymes. They make one wish (in spite of the danger of being charged with a Gothic taste) that Horace and Catullus, say rather Ovid, had written in rhyme as well as blank verse, and so given us a fairy music with some of his words, beyond the power of his lutes and lyres to hand down. 2 " Immortal thief, come down," &c. It must be Confessed that Bromius talks too well for a servant. So, for that matter, does his master, for so foolish a country- gentleman. But we are to recollect that the play is a pastoral with an Arcadian licence. 3 " Tititatee, my noble lords," &c. Moliere him Self would have enjoyed this extravagance. It is indeed quite in his manner. *" Inter poma, lac, et vinum."A line that shuts Up the scene in "measureless content." Thanks be to the witty scholar, Thomas Randolph, for an addition to the stock of one's pleasant fancies. Home, then, home ; let 's recreate us With the maids, whose dairies wait us ; Kissing them, with pretty grapples, All midst junkets, wine, and apples.] SUCKLING. BORN, 1609 DIED, 1641. SIR JOHN SUCKLING, son of the Comptroller of the Household to Charles the First, was so true a wit, and hit so delightful a point between the sentiment of the age of Elizabeth and the gallantry of the Stuarts, that it is provoking to be unable to give some of his best pieces at all in a publication like the present, and only one or two short ones without mutilation. He comes among a herd of scented fops with careless natural grace, and an odour of morning flowers upon him. You know not which would have been most delighted with his compli- ments, the dairy maid or the duchess. He was thrown too early upon a town life ; otherwise a serious passion for some estimable woman, which (to judge from his graver poetry) he was very capable of entertaining, might have been the salva- tion of him. As it was, he died early, and, it is j said, not happily ; but this may have been the ; SUCKLING. 217 report of envy or party-spirit ; for he was a great loyalist. It is probable, however, that he excelled less as a partizan than as a poet and a man of fashion. He is said to have given a supper to the ladies of his acquaintance, the last course of which consisted of millinery and trinkets. The great Nelson's mother was a Suckling of the same stock, in Norfolk. Steele, in the Tatler (No. 40), not undeservedly quotes a passage from Suckling, side by side with one about Eve from Milton. It is in his tragedy of Brennoralt, where a lover is looking on his sleeping mistress : 44 Her face is like the milky way i' the sky, A meeting of gentle lights without a name." Feelings like these enabled his fair friends to put up with such pleasant contradictions to sentiment as the following : THE CONSTANT LOVER. Out upon it, I have lov'd Three whole days together ; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. 218 SUCKLING. But the spite on ' t is, no praise Is due at all to me ; Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her nlace. 1 1 " A dozen in her place." This song is the perfection of easy, witty, light yet substantial writing. There is no straining after thoughts or images, and not a word out pf its place, or more words than there ought to be, unless we except the concluding verse of the third stanza ; and this seems to overrun its bounds with a special propriety, besides the grace of its repetition in the stanza following. Here fol- lows another short piece, which can also be given entire. The last line has a vivacity and novelty delightfully unexpected; but I am afraid it was suggested by a similar turn in one of our old drama- tists, though I cannot recollect which. THE REMONSTRANCE. Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? Prythee, why so pale ? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ? Prythee, why so pale ? SUCKLING. 219 Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? Prythee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't ? Prythee, why so mute ? Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move, This cannot take her ; If of herself she willJot love, Nothing can make her. The Devil take her. Suckling was the first writer (in English) of those critical Sessions, or gatherings together of the poets for the adjustment of their claims to superiority, which gave rise to similar pleasantries on the part of Rochester, Sheffield, and others. Sir John's Ses- sions of the Poets seems to have been poured forth at a sitting, as heartily as his bottle. It has all the negligence, but at the same time spirit, of a first impulsive sketch ; and perhaps it might have been hurt by correction; though such a verse as the second in the fifth stanza " Prepar'd with Canary wine " could hardly have been intended to remain. The whole poem is here given almost verbatim. L 2 220 SUCKLING. A SESSION OF THE POETS. 1 A session was held the other day, And Apollo himself was at it, they say. The Laurel, that had been so long reserv'd, Was now to be given to him best deserv'd : And therefore the wits of the town came thither, 'T was strange to see how they flock'd together ; Each, strongly confident of his own way, Thought to bear the laurel away that day. There was Selden, and he sat close by the chair ; Wenman not far off, which was very fair, Sands with Townsend, for they kept no order, Digby and Cbillingworth a little further. There was Lucan's translator too, and he That makes God speak so big in his poetry ;* Selwin, and Waller, and Bartlets, both the brothers ; Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others. The first that broke silence was good old Ben, Prepar'd with Canary wine ; And he told them plainly he deserv'd the bays, For bis were call'd " Works," where others were but Plays : 2 And bid them remember how he had purg'd the stage Of errors that had lasted many an age ; * Who was this ? SUCKLING. 221 And he hop'd they didn't think the Silent Woman, The Fox and the Alchymist, out-done by no man. Apollo stopt him there, and bid him not go on ; 'T was merit, he said, and not presumption Must carry it ; at which Ben turn'd about, And in great choler offered to go out. But those that were there, thought it not fit To discontent so ancient a wit ; And therefore Apollo call'd him back again, And made him mine host of his own New Inn. Tom Carew* was next, but he had a fault That would n't well stand with a Laureat ; His muse was so slow, that the issue of his brain Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and pain ; And all that were present there did agree A Laureat muse should be easy and free. Yet sure 't was n't that ; but 't was thought that his grace Consider'd he was well he had a cup-bearer's place. 3 Will Davenant, asham'd of a foolish mischance That he had got lately travelling in France, Modestly hoped the handsomeness of 's muse Might any deformity about him excuse. And surely the company would have been content If they could have found any precedent ; But in all their records, either in verse or prose, There was not one Laureat without a nose. * Pronounced Carey. 222 SUCKLING. To Will Bartlet sure all the wits meant well, 4 But first they would see how his ' Snow " would sell ; Will smil'd, and swore in their judgments they went less, That concluded of merit upon success. Suddenly taking his place again, He gave way to Selwin, who straight stept in ; But alas ! he had been so lately a wit, That Apollo himself scarce knew him yet. Toby Matthews (plague on him) how came he there ? Was whispering nothing in somebody's ear, When he had the honour to be nam'd in court ; But, sir, you must thank my Lady Carlisle for 't ; For had not her " Character " furnish'd you ont With something of handsome, without all doubt You and your sorry lady-muse had been In the number of those that were not let in. In haste from the court two or three came in, And they brought letters, forsooth, from the Queen ! 'T was discreetly done too, for if they had come Without them, they had scarce been let into &e room. This made a dispute ; for 't was plain to be seen Each man had a mind to gratify the Queen ; But Apollo himself could not think it fit ; There was difference, he said, betwixt fooling and wit.* Suckling next was call'd, but did not appear ; But straight one whisper'd Apollo i' th' ear, That of all men living he car'd not for 't ; He lov'd not the Muses so well as his sport ; And priz'd black eyes, or a lucky hit At bowls, above all the trophies of wit i SUCKLING. 223 But Apollo was angry, and publicly said 'T was fit that a fine were set on 's head. Wat Montagu next stood forth to his trial, And did not so much as suspect a denial ; But witty Apollo ask'd him first of all If he understood his own " Pastoral.' 1 For if he cou'd do it, ' t would plainly appear He understood more than any man there, And did merit the bays above all the rest, But the Monsieur was modest, and silence confest. During these troubles in the court was hid One that Apollo soon miss'd, little Sid ; And having spy'd him, call'd him out of the throng, And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong. Murray was summon'd ; but 't was urg'd, that he Was chief already of another company. Hales, set by himself, most gravely did smile To see them about nothing keep such a coil ; Apollo had spy'd him, but knowing his mind Past by, and call'd Falkland, that sat just behind : But he was of late so gone with divinity, That he had almost forgot his poetry ; Though to say the truth, and Apollo did know it, He might have been both his priest and his poet. At length who but an Alderman did appear, At which Will Davenant began to swear ; But wiser Apollo bade him draw nigher, And, when he was mounted a little higher, He openly declar'd, that the best sign Of good store of wit was to have good store of coin ; 224 SUCKLING. And without a syllable more or less said, He put the laurel on the Alderman'* head. At this all the wits were in such amaze, That, for a good while, they did nothing but gaze One upon another ; not a man in the place But had discontent writ at large in his face. Only the small Poets cheered up again Out of hope, as 'twas thought, of borrowing; But sure they are out ; for he forfeits his " crown," When he lends to any Poet about the town. 8 1 "A Session of the Poets." Of the " poets" here men- tioned, Selden is the famous jurist; Sands (or Sandys) the translator of Ovid ; Digby, Sir Kenelm ; Chillingworth, the controversialist ; " Lucan's trans- lator," May; Jack Vaughan, Sir John, afterwards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas ; Porter, Endy- mion, an accomplished courtier and loyalist ; Toby Matthews, a busy body about town, author of a " C/ia- racter" of Lady Carlisle, of whom he was a great ad- mirer ; Wat Montague, Walter of the Manchester family, author of a poem called the " Sheppartfs Paradise" who became a Roman Catholic, and had an abbey given him in France, whence he is called " Monsieur ;" Little Sid, Sidney Godolphin, one of the many great men of the age, who were diminu- tive in person ; Hales, the " ever-memorable" of Eton ; Falkland, Lord Falkland, the romantic victim of the civil wars. Ben Jonson, Waller, SUCKLING. 225 Carew, and Davenant need no explanation. Who the others were I cannot say. 2 " For his were call'd Works, where others were but Plays.' 1 An actual boast of Jonson's. " Works" they cer- tainly were, the result of the greatest labour and pains. Shakspeare's plays were emanations. But the classic Ben thought no title for his books comparable to one that was a translation of the Latin word opera. The New Inn, subsequently men- tioned, is the name of one of his comedies. 3 "A cup-6earer's place." Carew held this office at court. 4 " How his * Snotc' would sell." A poem, I presume, so called. * " There was difference, he said, betwixt fooling and wit." This seems hardly respectful towards the Queen from the son of his Majesty's Comptroller of the Household. But perhaps Henrietta Maria was sometimes forced to give letters, which she was not unwilling to see regarded accordingly. Still the tone of the rejection, notwithstanding what is said of the wish to gratify her, seems hardly such as would have been liked by a woman of her temper. Had she ever called Suckling a fool ? and so pro- voked him to show the difference between a real wit like himself, and some of the pretenders in her Majesty's train ? L 5 226 SUCKLING. He forfeit* hit ' ' trotm," When he lends to any Poet about the town. A pun on the word crown. Suckling's dramas are so confused and obscure, that they seem to have been written when he was half awake. Probably he was too impatient to fashion them properly. The construction of a regular play with not enough passion in it to make it flow off at a heat, must have been a heavy task to a man ac- customed to the excitement of the gaming-table, and with his hands full of " affairs of the heart." Sir John's most renowned effusion, therefore, was a Ballad on a Wedding ; and exquisite of its kind it is. Its only fault is that it commences in language more provincial than it goes on with. Yet times and manners are so altered, that I can only give tfie two following portraits out of it. The latter for- tunately contains the most charming touches in the poem. The bridegroom is said to have been Lord Broghill, the well-known soldier and politician (afterwards Earl of Orrery), and the bride, Lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. SUCKLING. 227 THE BRIDEGROOM. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen ; Oh ! things without compare ! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing-Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs ; And there did I see, coming down, Such folks as are not in our town, Forty at least in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger though than thine), Walk'd on before the rest : Our landlord looks like nothing to him ; The king (God bless him), 'twould undo him, Shou'd he go still so drest. At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town ; Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown. 228 SUCKLING. THE BRIDE. Her finger was so small, the ring Wou'd not stay on, which they did bring ; It was too wide, a peck ; And to say truth (for out it must) It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light; But oh ! she dances such a way ! No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy bears comparison (Who sees them is undone), For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear, The side that '# next the sun. Her lips were red, and one was thin Compared to that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly ; But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July. 1 1 With the lip described in this stanza all the world has been in love. I used to think that the SUCKLING. 229 accent on the first syllable of " JMy" was a pleasant exercise of will on the writer's part, in order to force a rhyme with " truly ;" but on turning to the dictionary I find it is the proper one. I suppose we have got the habit of calling it July, from a wish to make the distinction the greater between it and June. I beg pardon of the u lip " for turn- ing from it to this dry bit of criticism. It is impos- sible to quit the subject without turning again, to give it another glance. B B M E. BORN, ? DIED, 1652. I KNOW nothing of Richard Brome, except that he once acted in some kind of capacity of " servant" to Ben Jonson ; that he wrote a number of come- dies, which succeeded ; and that one of them, the Jovial Crew, or Merry Beggars, was in possession of the stage not long ago. The following laughable fancy is extracted by Charles Lamb into his " Dra- matic Specimens" If Brome wrote many such, he deserves to be better known. The "second child- hood of the old gentlemen is very ludicrous, espe- cially of the restive one, who tells his young director that he is " none of his father." There was another Brome, Alexander, a jovial attorney and loyalist during the Civil Wars, whose bacchanalian vein is said to have done good service to his cause. I have looked through his volume, but can find little in it except noise and smartness ; though there is a tone of sincerity that does him BROME. 231 honour. There is nothing so ready to take the will for the deed in matters of wit and song, as convi- viality and good-fellowship ; and very pardonable is the mistake ; though the printed consequences are too apt to resemble the dullness " next morning." OLD MEN GOING TO SCHOOL. Scene from the comedy of the Antipodes, in which the " world is turned upside down," servants ruling their masters, children sending their parents to school, &c. SON, SERVANT, GENTLEMAN, and LADY, natives. ENGLISH TRAVELLER. Servant (to his young master). How well you saw Your father to school to-day, knowing how apt He is to play the truant ! Son. But is he not Yet gone to school ? Servant. Stand by, and you shall see. Enter three OLD MEN, with satchels. All three (singing). Domine, domine, duster; Three knaves in a cluster. Son. O this is gallant pastime ! Nay, come on. h this your school? was that your lesson, hay ? 232 BROME. 1st Old Man. Pray now, good son, indeed, indeed Son. Indeed You shall to school. Away with him ; and take Their wagships with him, the whole cluster of 'em. 2nd Old Man. You sha'n't send us now, so you sha'n't 3rd Old Man. We be none of your father, so we ben't. Son. Away with 'em, I say ; and tell their school-mistress What truants they are, and bid her pay 'em soundly. All three. Oh, oh, oh ! Lady. Alas ! will nobody beg pardon for The poor old boys ? English Traveller. Do men of such fair years Here go to school ? Gentleman. They would die dunces else. These were great scholars in their youth ; but when Age grows upon men here, their learning wastes, And so decays, that if they live until Threescore, their sons send them to school again ; They'd die as speechless else as new-born children. English Traveller. 'T is a wise nation; and the piety Of the young men most rare and commendable. Yet give me, as a stranger, leave to beg Their liberty this day. Son. T is granted. Hold up your heads, and thank the gentleman Like scholars, with your heels now.* All three. Gratias, gratias.^ [Exeunt stinging. * He means they are to scrape, and make a bow. f " Thanks, thanks." They say it in Latin, according to school custom, and to show their progress. M A K V E L, BORN 1620 DIED 1678. ANDREW MARVEL, a thoughtful and graceful poet, a masterly prose-writer and controversialist, a wit of the first water, and, above all, an incorruptible patriot, is thought to have had no mean hand in putting an end to the dynasty of the Stuarts. His wit helped to render them ridiculous, and his in- tegrity added weight to the sting. The enmity, indeed, of such a man was in itself a reproach to them ; for Marvel, though bred on the Puritan side, was no Puritan himself, nor a foe to any kind of reasonable and respectable government. He had served Cromwell with his friend Milton, as Latin Secretary, but would have aided Charles the Second as willingly, in his place in Parliament, had the king been an honest man instead of a pensioner of France. The story of his refusing a carte blanclie from the king's treasurer, and then sending out to borrow a guinea, would be too well known to need 234 MARVEL. allusion to it in a book like the present, if it did not contain a specimen of a sort of practical wit. Marvel being pressed by the royal emissary to state what would satisfy his expectations, and finding that there was no other mode of persuading him that he had none, called in his servant to testify to his dining three days in succession upon one piece of mutton. Even the wise and refined Marvel, however, was not free from the coarseness of his age ; and hence I find the same provoking difficulty as in the case of his predecessors, with regard to extracts from the poetical portion of his satire. With the prose I should not have been at a loss. But the moment these wits of old time began rhyming, they seem to have thought themselves bound to give the same after-dinner license to their fancy, as when they were called upon for a song. To read the noble ode on Cromwell, in which such a generous compliment is paid to Charles the First, the de- vout and beautiful one entitled Bermuda, and the sweet overflowing fancies put into the mouth of the Nymph lamenting the loss of her Faun, and then to follow up their perusal with some, nay most of the lampoons that were so formidable to Charles and his brother, you would hardly think it possible for the same man to have written both, if examples were not too numerous to the contrary. Fortunately for the reputation of Marvel's wit, with those who MARVEL. 235 chose to become acquainted with it, he wrote a great deal better in prose than verse, and the prose does not take the license of the verse. Hence, as Swift for another reason observes, we can still read with pleasure his answer to his now forgotten antagonist Parker. Of his witty poems, I can only give a single one entire, which is the following. The reader knows the impudent Colonel Blood, who, in the disguise of a clergyman, attempted to steal the crown, in payment (as he said) of dues withheld from him in Ireland. Marvel had not forgotten the days of Laud, and he saw people still on the bench of bishops who were for renewing the old persecutions. Hence the bitterness of the implica- tion made against prelates. ON BLOOD STEALING THE CROWN. When daring Blood, his rent to have regain'd, Upon the British diadem distrain' d, He chose the cassock, circingle,* and gown, The fittest mask for one that robs the crown; But his lay-pity underneath prevail'd, And whilst he sav'd the keeper's life, he fail'd. With the priest's vestment had he but put on The prelate's cruelty, the crown had gone. * The girdle of a cassock ; generally spelt surcingle. 236 MARVEL. DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND.' Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, As but the off-scouring of the British sand ; And so much earth as was contributed By English pilots, when they heaved the lead ; Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell. * * * * Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, They, with mad labour, fish'd the land to shore ; And dived as desperately for each piece Of earth, as if it had been of ambergreece ; Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, Less than what building swallows bear away ; Or than those pills which sordid beetles rowl, Transferring into them their dunghill soul. How did they rivet with gigantic piles Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; And to the stake a struggling country bound, Where barking waves still bait the forced ground ; Building their wat'ry Babel far more high To catch the waves than those to scale the sky. Yet still his claim the injured ocean layed, And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played ; As if on purpose it on land had come To show them what's their mare Liberum ;* A daily deluge over them does boil ; And earth and water play at level -coyl ;f * A free ocean ; for which the Dutch jurists were then contending with the English. t I cannot discover the meaning of this word, and unfortunately am at a distance from linguists better informed. MARVEL. 237 The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest ; And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw Whole shoals of Ihitch served up for cabillau;* Or, as they over the new level ranged, For pickled herring, pickled Heeren changed. Nature, it seem'd, asham'd of her mistake, Would throw their land away at duck and drake : Therefore necessity, that first made kings, Something like government among them brings ; For as with pigmys, who best kills the crane, Among the hungry he that treasures grain, Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, So rules among the drowned he that drains. Not who first sees the rising sun, commands ; But who could first discern the rising lands. Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, Him they their lord and country's father speak. To make a bank was a great plot of state ; INVENT A SHOVEL, AND BE A MAGISTRATE. 1 Description of Holland. The jest of this effusion lies in the intentional and excessive exaggeration. To enjoy it thoroughly, it is necessary perhaps that the reader should be capable, in some degree, of the like sort of jesting, or at least have animal spirits enough to run willing riot with the extravagance. Mr. Hazlitt, for defect of these, could see no kind of joke in it, notwithstanding his admiration of Mar- vel. He once began an argument with Charles Lamb and myself, to prove to us that we ought not * Fresh cod. 238 MARVEL. to laugh at such things. Somebody meanwhile was reading the verses ; and the only answer which they left us the power to make to our critical friend was by laughing immeasurably. But I have mentioned this in the Introductory Essay. FLECNOE, AN ENGLISH PRIEST AT ROME. 1 Obliged by frequent visits of this man, Whom as a priest, poet, and musician, I for some branch of Melchizedec took (Tho' he derives himself from my Lord Brooke) I sought his lodging ; which is at the sign Of the Sad Pelican ; subject divine For poetry. There, three stair-cases high, Which signifys his triple property, I found at last a chamber, as 'twas said, But seem'd a coffin set on the stairs' head, Not higher than sev'n, nor larger than three feet : There neither was or ceiling, or a sheet, Save that th' ingenious door did, as you come, Turn in, and shew* to wainscot half the room. * * * * Straight without further information, In hideous verse, he in a dismal tone, Begins to exercise ; as if I were Possess' d ; and sure the devil brought me there. But I, who now imagin'd myself brought To my last tryal, in a serious thought Seem. MARVEL. 239 Calmed the disorders of my youthful breast, And to my martyrdom prepared rest. Only this frail ambition did remain, The last distemper of the sober brain, That there had been some present to assure The future ages how I did endure: And how I, silent, turn'd my burning ear Towards the verse ; and when that could not hear, Held him the other ; and unchanged yet, Ask'd him for more, and pray'd him to repeat ; Till the tyrant, weary to persecute, Left off, and tried to allure me with his lute. I, that perceiv'd now what his musick meant, Ask'd civilly, if he had eat this Lent ? He answered, yes ; with such, and such an one ; For he has this of gen'rous, that alone He never feeds ; save only when he trys With gristly tongue to dart the passing flies. I ask'd if he eat flesh. And he, that was So hungry, that tho' ready to say mass, Would break his fast before, said he was sick, And th' ordnance was only politick. Nor was I longer to invite him : scant Happy at once to make him Protestant, And silent. Nothing now dinner stay'd, But still he had himself a body made .- / mean till he were dress' d ; for else so thin He stands, as if he only fed had been With consecrated wafers ; and the host Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast. This basso relievo of a man, Who as a camel tall, yet eas'ly can The needle's eye thread without any stitch, His only impossible is to be rich ; 240 MARVEL. Lest his too subtle body, growing rare, Should leave his soul to wander in the air, He therefore circumscribes himself in rhymes ; And swaddled in '* own papers seven times, Wears a close jacket of poetic buff, With which he doth his third dimension stuff. Thus armed underneath, he over all Does make a primitive Sotana fall ; And above that yet casts an antique cloak, Worn at the first council of Antioch ; Which by the Jews long hid and disesteem'd, HE HEARD OF BY TRADITION, and redeemed. But were he not in this black habit deck'd, This half transparent man would soon reflect Each colour that he past by ; and be seen, As the camelion, yellow, blew, or green. He dress'd, and ready to disfurnish now His chamber, (whose compactness did allow No empty place for complimenting doubt, But who came last is forc'd first to go out), I met one on the stairs who made me stand, Stopping the passage, and did him demand ; I answer'd, " He is here, sir ; but you see You cannot pass to him but thorow me." He thought himself affronted ; and reply 'd, "I, whom the palace never was deny'd, Will make the way here." I said, " Sir, you'll do Me a great favour, for I seek to go." 1 Flecnoe, an English Priest at Rome. Poor FlecnOC was the poetaster, after whom Dryden christened Shad- well " MacFlecnoe." See passages from the satire 3 thus entitled in the present volume. The verses before us which are written in the same spirit of exaggeration as the preceding, exhibit that strange MARVEL. 241 ruggedness in the versification), which was inten- tional in the satirists of those days when they used the heroic measure, and which they took to be the representative of the satirical numbers of Horace or his predecessors. Flecnoe luckily appears to have rendered the most good-natured poets callous, by a corresponding insensibility to the hardest attacks, BUTLER, BORN, 1612 DIED, 1680. BUTLER is the wittiest of English poets, and at the same time he is one of the most learned, and what is more, one of the wisest. His Hudibras, though naturally the most popular of his works from its size, subject, and witty excess, was an accident of birth and party compared with his Miscellaneous Poems ; yet both abound in thoughts as great and deep as the surface is sparkling; and his genius altogether, having the additional recommendation of verse, might have given him a fame greater than Rabelais, had his animal spirits been equal to the rest of his qualifications for a universalist At the same time, though not abounding in poetic sensibi- lity, he was not without it. He is author of the touching simile, True as the dial to the gun, Although it be not nhind upon. The following is as elegant as anything in Love- lace or Waller : BUTLER. 243 What security 's too strong 7\) guard that gentle heart from wrong, That to its friend is glad to pass Itself away, and all it has, , And like an anchorite, gives over This world, for the heaven of a lover ? And this, if read with the seriousness and singleness of feeling that become it, is, I think, a comparison full of as much grandeur as cordiality, Like Indian widows, gone to bed Inflaming curtains to the dead. You would sooner have looked for it in one of Marvel's poems, than in Hudibras. Butler has little humour. His two heroes, Hudi- bras and Ralph, are not so much humourists as pedants. They are as little like their prototypes, Don Quixote and Sancho, as two dreary pup- pets are unlike excesses of humanity. They are not even consistent with their other prototypes, the Puritans, or with themselves, for they are dull fellows unaccountably gifted with the author's wit. In this respect, and as a narrative, the poem is a failure. Nobody ever thinks of the story, except to wonder at its inefficiency ; or of Hudibras himself, except as described at his outset. He is nothing but a ludicrous figure. But considered as a banter issuing from the author's own lips, on the wrong side of Puritanism, and indeed on all the pedantic and hypocritical abuses of human reason, the whole production is a marvellous compound of wit, learn- M 2 244 BUTLER. ing, and felicitous execution. The wit is pure and incessant ; the learning as quaint and out-of-the-way as the subject ; the very rhymes are echoing scourges, made of the peremptory and the incongruous. This is one of the reasons why the rhymes have been so much admired. They are laughable, not merely in themselves, but from the masterly will and vio- lence with which they are made to correspond to the absurdities they lash. The most extraordi- nary license is assumed as a matter of course ; the accentuation jerked out of its place with all the indifference and effrontery of a reason "sufficing unto itself." The poem is so peculiar in this respect, the laughing delight of the reader so well founded, and the passages so sure to be accompanied with a full measure of wit and knowledge, that I have retained its best rhymes throughout, and thus brought them together for the first time. Butler, like the great wit of the opposite party, Marvel, was an honest man, fonder of his books than of worldly success, and superior to party itself in regard to final principles. He wrote a satire on the follies and vices of the court, which is most likely the reason why it is doubted whether he ever: got anything by Hudibras ; and he was so little prejudiced in favour of the scholarship he possessed, that he vindicated the born poet above the poet of books, and would not have Shakspeare tried by a| Grecian standard. BUTLER. 245 DESCRIPTION OF HUDIBRAS AND HIS EQUIPMENTS. When civil dudgeon first grew high, And men fell out they knew not why ; When hard words, jealousies, and fears, Set folks together by the ears, And made them fight, like mad or drunk, For dame Religion, as for punk ; l (Whose honesty they all durst swear for, Though not a man of them knew wherefore ;) When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded ; And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, And out he rode a colonelling. A wight he was, whose very sight would Entitle him Mirror of Knighthood, That never bow'd his stubborn knee To anything but chivalry, Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right Worshipful on shoulder-blade ; Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for chartel* or for warrant j Great on the bench, great in the saddle, That could as well bind o'er as swaddle ft Mighty he was at both of these, And styl'd of war, as well as peace. (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water). But here our authors make a doubt, Whether he were more wise or stout : * Chartel is a challenge to a duel. t Swaddle, to swathe or bind hi clothes ; hence, to beat or cudgel. 246 BUTLER. Some hold the one, and some the other, But, howsoe'er they make a pother, The difference was so small, his brain Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain ; Which made some take him for a tool, That knaves do work with, calVd a fool. For 't has been held by many, that As Montaigne, playing with his cat, Complains she thought him but an ass, Much more she would Sir Hudibras (For that 's the name our valiant knight To all his challenges did write) j But they 're mistaken very much ; T is plain enough he was no such. We grant, although he had much wit, H' was very shy of using it, As being loth to wear it out, And therefore bore it not about, Unless on holy-days, or so, As men their best apparel do. Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak ; That Latin was no more difficile, Than to a blackbird 't is to whistle : Being rich in both, he never scanted His bounty unto such as wanted ; But much of either would afford To many that had not one word. He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic ; He could distinguish and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side; On either which he would dispute, Confute, change hands, and still confute. BUTLER. 247 He 'd undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man's no horse; He 'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl; A calf an alderman, a goose & justice, 9 And rooks committee-men and trustees. He 'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination. All this by syllogism, true In mood and figure, he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; And when he happen'd to break off I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, H' had hard words ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by ; Else, when with greatest art he spoke, You 'd think he talk'd like other folk ; For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. But, when he pleas'd to show 't, his speech, In loftiness of sound, was rich ; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedants much affect ; It was a particolour'd dress Of patch'd and pieball'd languages ; T was English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin ; It had an old promiscuous tone, As if h' had talk'd three parts in one ; Which made some think, when he did gabble, Th 1 had heard three labourers of Babel, Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. 9 * In mathematics he was greater Than Tycho Brahe or Enra Pater ; 4 248 BUTLKR. For he, by geometric scale, Could take the size of pots of ale ; Resolve, by sines and tangents, strait, jf bread or butter wanted weight; And wisely tell, what hour o* th' day The clock does strike, by algebra. For his religion, it was fit 5 To match his learning and his wit : 'T was presbyterian true blue ; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant ; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery ; And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks ; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done ; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended : A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies ; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss ; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick ; That with more care keep holy -day The wrong, than others the right way ; Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to : BUTLER. 249 Still so pennerse and opposite, As \f they worshipped God for spite : The self -same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for : Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow : All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin : Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly ; Quarrel with mine d pies and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. 6 Th' apostles of this fierce religion Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon . To whom our knight, by fast instinct Of wit and temper was so linkt, As if hypocrisy and nonsense Had got the advowson of his conscience* .- Thus was he gifted and accoutred, We mean on th' inside, not the outward : That next of all we shall discuss ; Then listen, sirs ; it follows thus. His tawny beard was th' equal grace Both of his wisdom and his face; In cut and dye so like a tile, A sudden view it would beguile ; The upper part whereof was whey, The nether orange, mix'd with grey. This hairy meteor did denounce The fall of sceptres and of crown* ; With grisly type did represent Declining age of government ; And tell, with hieroglyphic spade, Its own grave and the state's were made. M 5 250 BUTLER. 1 " For dame Religion, as for punk." An old word for prostitute. * "A calf an alderman, a goose a justice." As this is the only line overrunning the measure of the poem, and its length not at all necessary, I think it pro- bable Butler wrote A calf an alderman, goose justice. 3 "A leash of languages." How happy a Word is this leash, which means at once three in number, and a band for a dog. 4 "Erra Pater." The name of an obscure old astro- loger, applied in those days to the impostor Lilly. 5 " For his religion" &c. Most admirable is this de- scription of the assumptions, perversities, and ego- tisms, of a fanatical creed, which identifies its will and pleasure with God's, and betrays its pretended morals and self-denial by the most barbarous kind of self-indulgence. Nothing can surpass the subtle pungency of worshipping God " for spite," or that of the exquisite, never-to-be-sufficiently repeated couplet, Compound for sins they are inclin'd to, By damning those they have no mind to. 6 " Quarrel with mine' d pies," &c. The Puritans set their faces against good cheer, particularly at Christmas. You were to be as uncomfortable as themselves, on pain of being denounced by their envy. BUTLER. 251 SAINTSHIP versus CONSCIENCE. " Why didst thou choose that cursed sin, Hypocrisy, to set up in ?" " Because it is the thriving'st calling, The only saints' bell that rings all in ; In which all churches are concern'd, And is the easiest to he learn'd. * * * * Quoth he, " I am resolv'd to b Thy scholar in this mystery ; And therefore first desire to know Some principles on which you go. What makes a knave a child of God, And one of us ?"" A livelihood." " What renders beating out of brains, And murder godliness ?" " Great gains" "What's tender conscience ?" " Tis a botch That will not bear the gentlest touch ; But, breaking out, despatches more Than th' epidemical'st plague-sore." 11 What makes y' encroach upon our trade, And damn all others ?" " To be paid" 11 What's orthodox and true believing Against a conscience ?" " A good living ." " What makes rebelling against kings A good old cause ?" " Administrings." ' " What makes all doctrines plain and clear?" tl About two hundred pounds a-year." " And that which was prov'd true before, Prove false again ?" " Two hundred more." " What makes the breaking of all oaths A holy duty ?" " Food and clothes." "What, laws and freedom, persecution?" " Being out of power and contribution." BUTLER. " What makes a church a den of thieves ?" 11 A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.'* 11 And what would serve, if these were gone, To make it orthodox ?" " Our otrn." " What makes morality a crime. The most notorious of the time ; Morality, which both the saints And wicked too cry out against /" " 'Cause grace and virtue are within Prohibited degrees of kin; And therefore no true saint allows They shall be suffered to espouse." 1 " What makes rebelling against kings A good old cause ?" " Administrings." Administrings were powers given by the law to appropriate the goods of persons dying intestate. Nothing was ever wittier or better written than the whole of the passage here following, particularly the first and last four lines. I have closed the extract with the latter, in order to give it its best effect ; otherwise the author goes on capitally well, For saints can need no conscience That with morality dispense, As virtue 's impious when '/w rooted In nature only, and not imputed; And so he proceeds to conclude, that A large conscience is all one, And signifies the same as none. Such are the meetings of extremes in fanatical religions. And the description is no caricature. BUTLER. 253 By the ridiculous doctrine of " imputed merit," God's creatures were to be all vice, in order to com- pliment the Creator with the exclusive possession of all virtue! The children were to be made pure scoundrels, in order to do the greater honour to the father ! Such are the flatteries of superstition ! THE ASTROLOGERS. Quoth Ralph, Not far from hence doth dwell A cunning man, hight Sidrophel, That deals in Destiny's dark counsels And sage opinions of the moon sells; To whom all people far and near On deep importances repair ; When brass and pewter hap to stray, Or linen slinks out of the way, When geese and pullet are seduc'd, And sows of sucking pigs are chows'd. He made an instrument to know If the moon shine at full or no ; That would as soon as e'er she shone, straight Whether 't were day or night demonstrate : Tell what her diameter to an inch is, And prove that she 's not made of green cheese. A STATESMAN'S CONVERSATION. All a subtle statesman says Is half hi words and half in face, As Spaniards talk in dialogues Of heads and shoulders, nods and shrugs 254 BUTLER. Intrust it under solemn votes Of " mum," and " silence," and " the rose,' To be retail'd again in whispers For th' easy credulous to disperse. HEROES OF ROMANCE. There was ah ancient sage philosopher, That had read Alexander Ross over, 1 And swore the world, as he could prove, Was made of fighting and of love. Just so romances are, for what else Is hi them all, hut love and battles ? O' th' first of these w 1 have no great matter To treat of, but a world o' the latter, In which to do the injur'd right We mean, in what concerns just fight. Certes our authors are to blame, For, to make some well-sounding name A pattern fit for modern knights To copy out in frays and fights, (Like those that a whole street do raze, To build a palace in the place,) They never care how many others They kill, without regard of mothers, Or wives, or children, so they can Make up some fierce, dead-doing man, Compos'd of many ingredient valours, Just like the manhood of nine tailors. 1 " That had read Alexander Ross over." A tedious and voluminous writer of divinity. BUTLER. 255 SELF-POSSESSION. T is not restraint or liberty That makes men prisoners or free, But perturbations that possess The mind, or equanimities. The whole world was not half so wide To Alexander when he cried Because he had but one to subdue, As was a paltry narrow tub to Diogenes, who is not said (For aught that ever I could read) To whine, put finger i' th' eye, and sob, Because he had ne'er another tub. 1 1 " Another tub." Diogenes, who desired Alexander to " stand out of his sunshine," is here made to turn the tables a second time and in the happiest manner, on the great spoiled child of Victory. MISCELLANEOUS PASSAGES AND RHYMES. " O Heaven !" quoth she, " can that be true ? I do begin to fear 't is you ; Not by your individual whiskers, But by your dialect and discourse. 11 A torn beard 's like a batter'd ensign ; That '* bravest which there are most rents in. 256 BUTLER. Th' extremes of glory and of shame, Like east and west, become the same. No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows. Wholesale critics, that in coffee- Houses cry down all philosophy. Antichristian assemblies To mischief bent as far 's in them lies. Bruis'd in body, And conjured into safe custody. That proud dame Used him so like a base rascallion, That old Pyg what d' ye call him ma I ion. That cut his mistress out of stone, Had not so hard a hearted one. It was a question whether he Or 's horse were of a family More worshipful ; till antiquaries, After they'd almost por'd out their eyes. Did very learnedly decide The business on the horse's side. Have they invented tones to win The women, and make them draw in The men ; as Indians with & female Tame elephant inveigle the male ? BUTLER. Doctor epidemic, Stor'd with deletery med'cines, Which whosoever took is dead since. So th' Emperor Caligula, That triumph'd o'er the British sea, Took crabs and oysters prisoners, And lobsters 'stead of cuirassiers ; Engaged his legions in fierce bustles With periwinkles, prawns, and mussels, And led his troops, with furious gallops, To charge whole regiments of scallops. Madame, I do, as is my duty Honour the shadow of your shbe-tie. Conven'd at midnight in outhbuses, To appoint new rising rendezvouses. 257 'Mong these there was a politician, With more heads than a beast in vision. So politic, as \f one eye Upon the other were a spy That to trepan the one to think The other blind, both strove to blink. 1 1 "Strove to blink." This was Lord Shaftesbury. What an idea of craft and self-deception ! a man's two eyes, the most united and friendly of all things, and which cannot stir but in unison, endeavouring to outwit one another ! 258 BUTLER. PASSAGES FROM THE POSTHUMOUS POEMS. CAUTION AGAINST OVER-REFORM. Should once the world resolve V abolish All that 's ridiculous and foolish, It would have nothing left to do, T apply in jest or earnest to ; No business of importance, play, Or state, to pass the time away. LOFTY CARRIAGE OF IGNORANCE. The truest characters of ignorance, Are vanity, and pride, and arrogance ; As blind men use to bear their noses higher Than those that have their eyes and sight entire. CAUTION AGAINST PROSELYTISM. More proselytes and converts use t' accrue To false persuasions than the right and true ; For error and mistake are infinite, But truth has but one way to be i' th' right. The greatest saints and sinners have been made Of proselytes of one another's trade. A convert 's but a fly, that turns about After his head 's pull'd off, to find it out. BUTLER. 259 HOLLAND AND THE DUTCH. A country that draws fifty foot of water ; In which men live, as in the hold of Nature , That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousins -german up in dishes ; A land that rides at anchor, and is moord; In which men do not live, but go aboard. 1 1 Our great satirist is here indulging himself in one of the pleasant " extravagances" which he re- commends as refreshments of thought : but it is impossible to take leave of extracts from such a writer without expressing a kind of transport at the perfection of his wit and good sense. D B I D E N. BORN, 1631 DIED, 1701 IP Dryden had been cast in a somewhat finer mould, and added sentiment to his other qualifica- tions, he would have been almost as great a poet in the world of nature, as he was in that of art and the town. He had force, expression, scholarship, ge- niality, admirable good sense, musical enthusiasm. The rhymed heroic couplet in his hands continues still to be the finest in the language, But his per- ceptions were more acute than subtle ; more sensual, by far, than spiritual. The delicacy of them had no proportion to the strength. He prized the flower, but had little sense of the fragrance ; was gross as well as generous in his intellectual diet ; and if it had not been genuine and hearty, would have shown an almost impudent delight in doing justice to the least refined of Nature's impressions. His Venus was not the Celestial. He would as soon have de- scribed the coarsest flower, as a rose ; sooner, if it DRYDEN, 261 was large and luxuriant. His very repentance has more relish of sin, than regret ; though, indeed, he was too honest a man to have reason to regret any- thing very strongly ; for his faults were those of temperament and an easy disposition. Even his enmities, powerfully as he could word them, were but those of the poet and partizan, not of the human being. They required a public cause or re- peated private offence to provoke them. He had all the goodnature and placability of a child of nature. Agreeably to this character of his genius, Dry- den's wit is less airy than masculine ; less quick to move than eloquent when roused ; less produc- tive of pleasure and love than admiration and a sense of his mastery. His satire, if not so learned and universal as Butler's, is aimed more at the indi- vidual and his public standing, and therefore comes more home to us. The titled wits of the day, who affected alternately to patronize and to correct him, he generally submitted to with his natural modesty, and with the policy of a poor man ; but when the humour or party necessity came upon him, he seized the unlucky individual, as Gulliver might have done a lord of Lilliput ; and gripping him, and holding him up by the ribs, exposed his pretensions, limb by limb, to the spectator. Still it was rather in vindi- cation of a power derided, or of a sense of justice pro- voked, than from an ungenerous desire to give pain. 262 DRYDEN. He could bestow commendation on the offender; and was always ready to break off into some enthu- siastic strain of verse or reflection. The 'famous satire on Shad well entitled Mac Flecnoe (that is to say, Flecnoe's son) is, for the most part, so coarse, that I can only quote a few lines from it, which I have accordingly put in this place. But they are the best. They are comprised in the exordium. Flecnoe, the bad poet indicated by Marvel, (see p. 238), is supposed to abdicate the throne of Dulness in favour of its heir-apparent Shadwell. Shadwell had repeatedly intimated his own superiority compared with Dryden, as a writer of plays ; and he was newly appointed laureate to King William, who had ousted James the Second and his greater laureate ; so that Dryden had every provocation against him, political and poetical. All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey ; This Flecnoe found, who, like Augustus, young, Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long : In prose and verse was own'd without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. This aged prince, now governing in peace. And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state ; And, pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, Cry'd, ; Tis resolv'd ; for nature pleads, that he Should only rule, who most resembles me. DRYDEN. 263 Shadwell alone my perfect image bears ; Mature in dulnessfrom his tender years: Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval : But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray j His rising fogs prevail against the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty ; Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, And spread in solemn state supinely reign. Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, Thou last great prophet of tautology 1 Heywood and Shirley were dramatic writers of the past age, both superior to what Dryden here intimates of them; but he saw their tediousness and commonplace, and did not feel their sentiment. Shadwell was a great fat debauchee, who mis- took will for genius ; and because he enjoyed the humour of Ben Jonson, and was not indeed alto- gether destitute of humour himself, poured forth a profusion of shallow dialogue, which was the very dotage of pertness. As to his " poetry," the reader may see a specimen of it in " Imagination and Fancy," p. 44. It is a curious oversight of Dryden 's in this satire, that he should put the best wit of it into the mouth of Flecnoe himself. 264 PRYDEN. CHARACTER OF LORD SHAFTESBURY, 1 Ffom the poem of " ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL."* This plot which fail'd for want of common sense,t Had yet a deep and dangerous consequence : For as when raging fevers boil the blood, The standing lake soon floats into a flood, And every hostile humour, which before Slept quiet in its channels, bubbles o'er ; So several factions, from this first ferment, Work up to foam, and threat the government. Some by their friends, more by themselves, thought wise, Oppos'd the power to which they could not rise. Some had in courts been great, and, thrown from thence, Like friends were harden 'd in impenitence. Some, by their monarch's fatal mercy, grown, From pardon'd rebels, kinsmen to the throne, Were rais'd in power, and public office high ; Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie. Of these the false Achitophel was first, A name to all succeeding ages curst ; For close designs and crooked councils fit ; Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; Restless, unfix'd hi principles and place, In power unpleas'd, impatient of disgrace ; A fiery soul, that working out its way, 1 Fretted the pigmy body to decay, > And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. \ * " Absalom and Achitophel" is a satire, under Jewish names, upon the intrigues of Lord Shaftesbury and the Duke of Monmouth against the Catholic and Court interest. f The Popish Plot, real or pretended, which was sworn to by the infamous Titus Oates. DRYDEN. 265 A daring pilot in extremity, Pleas'd with the danger when the waves went high, He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to show his wit. Great wits to madness surely are allied. And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 2 Else, why should he, with wealth and honour blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest; Punish a body which he could not please, Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease, And all to leave what with such toil he won, To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son ; 3 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try, And born a shapeless lump t like anarchy ? In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state, To compass this the triple bond he broke, ~j The pillars of the public safety shook, I And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke ; J Then, seiz'd with fear, yet still affecting fame, Usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. So easy still it proves, in factious times, With public zeal to cancel private crimes. How safe is treason, and how sacred ill, Where none can sin against the people's will! Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, (Since in another's guilt they see their own. Yet fame deserv'd no enemy can grudge ; The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin* With 1 more discerning eyes, or hands more clean ; Unbrib'd, unsought, the wretched to redress ; Swift of despatch, and easy of access. * A Jewish word for judge. Shaftesbury had been Lord Chan- ceftpr. 266 DRYDEN. Oh ! had he been content to serve the crown With virtues only proper to the gown, Or had the rankness of the soil been freed From cockle that oppress'd the noble seed, David for him his tuneful harp had strung, And heaven had wanted one immortal song. 1 " Character of Lord Shaftesbury." Anthony Ashley Cooper, first Earl of Shaftesbury; a mercurial and ambitious man, not very well principled where power was to be obtained, but not indisposed to be just and patriotic when possessed of it. Even the famous reply which he is said to have made to a banter of Charles the Second, contained a sort of impudent aspiration, which must have at once disconcerted and delighted the merry monarch ; for it implied that his majesty and he stood in a very remarkable state of relationship. The King. Shaftesbury, I believe thou art the wickedest dog in my dominions. Shaftesbury (with a bow). May it please your majesty, of a subject, I believe I am." 8 " Great wits to madness surely are allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide." The truth of this striking couplet may seem to be exemplified in the history of Swift and others ; but it is not the greatness of the wit that is allied to the madness ; it is the weakness or violence of the will. Rabelais was no madman, Molicire was none, Sterne was none, Butler none, Horace, Aristophanes, Ari- DRYDEN. 267 osto, Berni, Voltaire, Shakspeare, Cervantes. The greater the wit, for the most part, the healthier 'the understanding, because it is thoroughly wisest and well-balanced. Some physical irregularity or acci- dent is generally at the bottom of the madness of men of genius. Lee was a drinker, and used to lie at night in the streets. Swift had a diseased blood. Poor Collins probably got the seeds of his malady in the gay life he once led " about town," a very unfit one for his sensitive and sequestered turn of mind. Cowper was driven mad through an exces- sive delicacy of organization frightened by Method- ism ; instead of being soothed, as it ought to have been, by the liberal opinions natural to his heart and good sense. 3 " To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son." Father of the third Earl of Shaftesbury, the philosopher ; who with all his philosophy never forgave Dryden this attack on the parental insignificance. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.* 1 From the same poem. A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed, Of the true old enthusiastic breed : * George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, son of the favourite of James and Charles the First. N 2 268 DRYDEN. 'Gainst form and order they their power employ, Nothing to build, and all things to destroy. But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much. These out of mere instinct, they knew not why, Ador'd their fathers' God, and property ; And by the same blind benefit of fate, The Devil and the Jebusite did hate ; Born to be sav'd, even in their own despite, Because they could not help believing right. Such were the tools ; but a whole hydra more Remains of sprouting heads too long to score. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land. In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stijfin opinion, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long ; But, in the course of one revolving moon, , . Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, ' ' f ' Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy ! Railing and praising were his usual themes, And both, to show his judgment in extremes ; So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God or Devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggar' d by fools whom still he found too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from court ; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief : For spite of him the weight of business fell On Absalom and false Achitophel. DRYDEN. 269 Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. 3 1 "Character of the Duke of Buckingham." The duke in- trigued against a giddy and unprincipled court out of pure similarity of disposition. Dryden's attack on him was partly in payment for offence received in the critical comedy of The Rehearsal. His Grace was very angry, and replied in a wretched pamphlet, which is forgotten. See the interesting notes on Walter Scott's edition of Dryden, vol. ix. p. 272. 2 " He left not faction, but of that was left." See, in the present volume, the rival portrait of Buckingham from the hand of Pope. FOPPERIES OF THE TIME. (Being the Epilogue to Etherege's " MAN OF MODE, or SIR FOPLING FLUTTER." Most modem wits such monstrous fools have shown, They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own : Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass, But there goes more to a substantial ass : Something of man must be expos 'd to view, That, gallants, he may more resemble you. Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ, The ladies would mistake him for a wit, 270 DRYDEN. And when he sings, talks loud, and cocks,* would cry, " I vow, mi-thinks, he's pretty company;" So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refin'd, As he took pains to graft upon his kind. True fops help Nature's work, and go to school, To file and finish God Almighty's fool. Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him, can call; He ' knight o' th' shire, and represents you all. From each he meets he culls whatever he can ; Legion 's his name a people hi a man. His bulky folly gathers as it goes, And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows. His various modes from various fathers follow ; One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow. His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd; And this, the yard-long snake he twirls bebind.f From one the sacred periwig he gain'd, Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prof and. Another's diving bow he did adore, Which, with a shog, casts all the hair before ; Till he with full decorum brings it back, And rises with a water-spaniel shake. As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight, These sure he took from most of you who write. Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd, For no one fool is hunted from the herd. * Videlicet, his hat. 1 1 know not what he means by this. DRYDEN. 271 THE CATHOLIC AND PROTESTANT CLERGY. From the " HIND AND THE PANTHER." A plain good man whose name is understood,* (So few deserve the name of plain and good)* Of three fair lineal lordships stood possess 'd, And liv'd, as reason was, upon the best. His house with all convenience was purvey'd, The rest he found, but rais'd the fabric where he pray'd.f And in that sacred place his beauteous wife Employ'd her happiest hours of holy life. Nor did their alms extend to those alone, Whom common faith more strictly made their own. A sort of DovesJ were hous'd too near their hall, Who cross the proverb, and abound in gall. Though some, 't is true, are passively inclin'd, The greater part degenerate from their kind ; Voracious birds, that hotly bill and breed, And largely drink, because on salt they feed. Small gain from them their bounteous owner draws ; ~\ Yet, bound by promise, he supports their cause, As corporations privileg'd by laws. J Another farm he had behind his house, Not overstock 'd, but barely for his use ; Wherein his poor Domestic Poultry fed, And from his pious hands receiv'd their bread. * James II. Dryden was at this time a Catholic, f The Catholic chapel set up by James in Whitehall. The clergy of the Church of England. It is amusing to see them represented as living on the " alms" of the barely tolerated king. The Catholic clergy maintained by the king. 272 DRYDEN. Our pamper 'd Pigeons, with malignant eyes, Beheld these inmates and their nurseries : Though hard their fare at evening and at morn, (A cruise of water and an ear of com) 1 Yet still they grudg'd that modicum, and thought A sheaf hi every single grain was brought : Fain would they filch that little food away, While %nrestrain'd these happy gluttons prey; And much they griev'd to see so nigh their hall, The bird that warn'd St. Peter of his fall ; 2 That he 'should raise his mitred crest on high, And clap his wings, and call his family To sacred rites ; and vex the Ethereal powers With midnight matins at uncivil hours ; Nay more, his quiet neighbours should molest Just in the sweetness of their morning rest. Beast of a bird, 3 supinely when he might Lie still and sleep, to rise before the light. What if his dull forefathers us'd that cry, Could he not let a bad example die ? The world was falTn into an easier way : This age knew better than to fast and pray. Good sense in sacred worship would appear, So to begin, as they might end the year. Such feats in former times had wrought the falls Of crowing chanticleers in cloister'd walls. Expell'd for this, and for their lands, they fled ; And sister Partlet with her hooded head * Was hooted hence because she would not pray a-bed. , The way to win the restiff world to God, Was to lay by the disciplining rod, Unnatural fasts, and foreign forms of prayer : Religion frights us with a mien severe. The Nuns. DRYDEN. 273 'T is prudence to reform her into ease, And put her in undress, to make her please. A lively faith will bear aloft the mind, And leave the luggage of good works behind. 1 " A cruise of water and an ear of corn." The ideal mo- nastic regimen ! very different from that of monks in general. a " The bird that wanCd St. Peter of his fall.' 1 This verse is from Spenser : " The bird that warned Peter of his fall." Spenser, whom chance had put on the side of the Puritans (for no man would naturally have been more for a gorgeous creed than he), not unwillingly omitted the title of Saint to Peter. The Catholic Dryden as willingly availed himself of the abbreviated past tense to restore it. The reader may remember Sir Roger de Coverley's perplexity at the successive rebukes he received, when a little boy, from a Catholic for asking his way to "Marybone," and from a Puritan for restoring the saint her title. 3 Beast of a bird." What a happy anomaly, and vigour of alliteration ! How well it comes, too, after the fond pathos of the luxury of the line before it ! N 5 PHILIPS. BORN, 1676 DIED, 1708. JOHN PHILIPS was a young and lively writer, who, having succeeded in a burlesque, was unfortunately induced to attempt serious poetry, and devoted himself to it with a scholarly dulness which he would probably have seen the folly of in any one else. His serious imitations of Milton are not worth a penny ; but his burlesque of the style of Paradise Lost, though it no longer possesses the novelty which made it popular, is still welcome to the lover of wit The low every-day circumstances, and the lofty classic manner with its nomenclatures, are happily interwoven ; the more trivial words are brought in with unlooked-for effect ; the motto is particularly felicitous; and the comparison of the rent in the small-clothes with the ship that has sprung a leak at sea, and founders, concludes the poem with a tremendous and calamitous grandeur, only to be equalled by the exclamation of the Spaniard ; who PHILIPS. 275 said he had torn his " breeches, as if heaven and earth had come together." THE SPLENDID SHILLING. " Sing, heavenly mute, Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme;" A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling : he nor hears with pain New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpye, or Town-hall repairs ; Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix' d his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phyllis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, ( Wretched repast /) my meagre corpse sustain : Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill 1 d fingers ; or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well polish'd jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent. Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree, 276 PHILIPS. Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over -shadowing rides, with a design To wend his wares at the Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil ! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster ! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends.* With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do ? or whither turn ? Amaz'd, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole ; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell !) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; So horrible he seems ! His faded brow Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous actsforbode ; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes ; (ye gods avert Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike itself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd * To-wit, his garret. PHILIPS. 277 A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the god* With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued : if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is convey' d, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware ye debtors ! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect ; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallow'd touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies : she secret stands Within her woven cell ; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue . The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make ; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils ; Then with envenom'd jaws the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shade* 278 PHILIPS. This world envelope, and th' inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distress'd, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind ; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave ; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose : But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale ; In vain ; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, John-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay ; Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain. My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue /) An horrid chasm disclose with orifice Wide, discontinuous ; at which the winds Eurus and Auster and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, PHILIPS. 279 Long sails secure, or through the ^Egean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea. In at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming. Horrors seize The mariners ; death in their eyes appears ; They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray -, (Vain efforts) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. POPE, BORN, 1688 DIED, 1744. BESIDES being an admirable wit and satirist, and a man of the most exquisite good sense, Pope was a true poet ; and though in all probability his entire nature could never have made him a great one (since the whole man contributes to form the genius, and the very weaknes of his organization was in the way of it), yet in a different age the boy who wrote the beautiful verses Blest be the man whose wish and care, would have turned out, I think, a greater poet than he was. He had more sensibility, thought, and fancy, than was necessary for the purposes of his school ; and he led a sequestered life with his books and his grotto, caring little for the manners he drew, and capable of higher impulses than had been given him by the wits of the time of Charles the Second. It was unlucky for him (if indeed it did not pro- duce a lucky variety for the reading world) that POPE. 281 Dryden came immediately before him. Dryden, a robuster nature, was just great enough to mislead Pope; and French ascendency completed his fate. Perhaps, after all, nothing better than such a honey and such a sting as this exquisite writer developed, could have been got out of his little delicate pungent nature; and we have every reason to be grateful for what they have done for us. Hundreds of greater pretensions in poetry have not attained to half his fame, nor did they deserve it ; for they did not take half his pains. Perhaps they were unable to take them, for want of as good a balance of qualities. Success is generally commensurate with its grounds. Pope, though a genius of a less masculine order than Dryden, and not possessed of his numbers or his impulsiveness, had more delicacy and fancy, has left more passages that have become proverbial, and was less confined to the region of matter of fact. Dryden never soared above earth, however nobly he walked it. The little fragile creature had wings ; and he could expand them at will, and ascend, if to no great imaginative height, yet to charming fairy circles just above those of the world about him, disclosing enchanting visions at the top of drawing rooms, and enabling us to see the spirits that wait on coffee-cups and hoop-petticoats. But more of this in the notes. My limits have allowed me to give only a portion 282 POPE. of the Rape of the Lock, but it is the best and most important, containing the two main points of the poem, the Rape itself, and the leading operations of the sylphs. From his other poems I have also selected such passages as are at once the wittiest and of the most ordinary interest, the characters which he drew from life. THE SYLPHS AND THE LOCK OF HAIR. From " THE RAPE OF THE LOCK." What dire offence from amorous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing. This verse to Caryl, muse ! is due : This ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view : Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive, goddess ! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle ? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ? In tasks so bold can little men engage ? And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage ? Not with more glories in th' ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launch'd on the bosom of the silver'd Thames. Fair nymphs and well-dress'd youths around her shone, But every eye was fix'd on her alone. POPE. 283 On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and Infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those : Favours to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide : If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you ' II forget them all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray : Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey ; Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. TV adventurous Baron the bright locks admir'd ; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implor'd Propitious Heav'n, and every power ador'd ; But chiefly Love to Love an altar built, Of twelve vast French romances neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, And all the trophies of his former loves. > With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, And breathes three amorous sighs to light the fire. 284 POPE. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. But now secure the painted vessel glide*, The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides ; While melting music steals upon the sky, And soften'd sounds along the waters die ; Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay, All but the sylph. With careful thoughts opprest, TV impending wo sat heavy on his breast. 1 He summons straight his denizens of air ; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair ; Soft o'er the shroud aerial whispers breathe, That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light. Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, Dipp'd in the richest tinctures of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, While every beam new transient colours flings, Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle on the gilded mast, Superior by the head was Ariel plac'd ; 2 His purple pinions opening to the sun, He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : " Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear ; Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and daemons, hear ! Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd By law eternal to th' aerial kind : Some in the fields of purest tether play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day ; Some guide the course of wondering orbs on high, Or roll the planets through the boundless sky ; POPE. 285 Some, less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintery main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain : Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide : Of these the chief the care of nations own, And guard with arms divine the British throne. " Our humbler province is to tend the fair, Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care j To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let the imprisoned essences exhale ; To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers ; To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; Nay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow. To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. " This day, black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care ; Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight ; But what, or where the fates have wrapp'd in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail China-jar receive a flaw ; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade ; Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; Or lose her heart, or necklace at a ball ; Or whether Heaven has deem'd that Shock must fall. Haste then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair : The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign ; And, M omentilla, let the watch be thine ; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite Lock ; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 286 POPE. " To fifty chosen sylph*, of special note, We trust ttC important charge, the petticoat : Oft have we known that seven -fold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale. Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. " Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, Be stopped in vials, or transfix* d with pins ; Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye : 3 Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain ; Or alum styptics with contracting power Shrink his thin essence like a shrivell'd flower : Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motions of the whirling mill; In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below /" He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend : Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair ; Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious and trembling for the birth of fate. Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flowers, Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, Doxt sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea. POPE. 287 Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court ; In various talk th' instructive hours they past. Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; At every word a reputation dies. Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and ALL THAT.* O thoughtless mortals, ever blind to fate, Too soon dejected, and too soon elate ! For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, The berries crackle and the mill turns round : On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze : From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. Straight hover round the fair her airy band ; Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd ; Some, o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee (which makes the politician wise t And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain New stratagems the radiant Lock to gain. Ah cease, rash youth ! desist ere 't is too late, Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! 5 But when to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case : 288 POPE. So ladies, in romance, assist their knight, Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. He takes the gift with reverence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends : This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. Sw\ft to the Lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair , And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear ; Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought. As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 6 Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his power expir'd, Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. The Peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, T 1 inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide. E'en then, before the fatal engine clos'd, A wretch'd sylph too fondly interposed; Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon unites again;} The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head FOR EVER AND FOR EVER ! Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last .' Or when rich China vessels, falPn from high, In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! " Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine (The victor cried), the glorious prize is mine ! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach-and-sht the British fair, POPE. 289 As long as Atalantis shall be read, 6 Or the small pillow grace a lady's head, While visits shall be paid on solemn days, When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honour, name, and praise shall live ! " 1 All but the Sylph, with careful thoughts opprest, Th' impending wo sat heavy on his breast. He had appeared to Belinda in a dream, and warned her against a lover. ? Superior by the head was Ariel plac'd. Pope's fairy region, compared with Shakspeare's, was what a drawing-room is to the universe. To give, there- fore, to the sprite of the Rape of the Lock the name of the spirit in the Tempest was a bold christening. Prospero's Ariel could have puffed him out like a taper. Or he would have snuffed him up as an essence by way of jest, and found him flat. But, tested by less potent senses, the sylph species is an exquisite creation. He is an abstract of the spirit of fine life; a suggester of fashions ; an inspirer of airs ; would be cut to pieces rather than see his will contradicted ; takes his station with dignity on a picture-card ; and is so nice an adjuster of claims, that he ranks hearts with necklaces. He trembles for a petticoat at the approach of a cup of chocolate. The punishments inflicted on him when disobedient have a like fitness. He is to be kept hovering over the fumes 290 POPE. of the chocolate ; to be transfixed with pins ; clogged with pomatums, and wedged in the eyes of bodkins. Only (with submission) these punish- ments should have been made to endure for seasons, not "ages." A season is an age for a sylph. Does not a fine lady, when she dislikes it, call it "an eternity?" 3 With singing, laughing, ogling, AND ALL THAT.-~-Imagine a common-place poet (if some friend had written the rest of this couplet) trying to find a good pointed rhyme for the word " chat." How certain he would have been not to think of this familiar phrase, precisely because he was in the habit of using it in daily parlance : how certain, out of an instinct of dulness, to avoid his own conventional language on the only occasion which could render it original. 4 She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair. NisuS, the father of Scylla, and king of Megaris, had a lock in his hair, on the preservation of which depended the fate of his capital. Minos besieged the capital. Scylla fell in love with the besieger, cut off the lock, and was changed into a bird by the . gods. See the story in Ovid, at the beginning of Book the Eighth. 5 An earthly lover lurking at her head. He had warned her against it in a dream. 8 As long as " Atalantis" shall be read. A book fashionable scandal written by Mrs. Manly. Mar- montel, in his translation of the Rape of the POPE. 291 (generally a very close and correct one), has con- founded it with the Atlantis of Bacon; concluding, perhaps, according to the opinion then prevailing in Paris, that " philosophy" was a fashionable study with the belles of London. TROUBLES FROM BAD AUTHORS. (From the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.) Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said ; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I 'm dead. The dog-star rages ! nay, 't is past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me : Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy ! to catch me just at dinner time." 1 Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? o 2 292 POPE. All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause : Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life ! (which did you not prolong. The world had wanted many an idle song), ^ nat drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? A dire dilemma ! either way I 'm sped ; If foes they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I ! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie : To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility ; I read With honest anguish, and an aching head ; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, " Keep your piece nine years." " Nine years !" cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes e'er he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends : " The piece, you think, is incorrect ? Why take it ; I 'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it ;" Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me : " You know his grace ; I want a patron : ask him for a place." Pitholeon libeU'd me" But here 's a letter Informs you, sir, 't was when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine, 8 He '11 write a journal, or he '11 turn divine." Bless me! a packet. " 'T is a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." POPE. 293 If I dislike it, "furies, death, and rage /" If I approve, " Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars), my whole commission ends, The players and I are luckily no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him, " 'Sdeath ! I '11 print it, And shame the fools Your interest, sir, with Lintot." " Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much :" " Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks : At last he whispers, " Do ; and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door ; " Sir, let me see your works and you no more." 7 Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time. The precincts of the Mint, in those days, included a jail for debtors. It was shabby of the poor devils of authors to take advantage of the poet's dinner- hour ; but was it quite magnanimous in the poet to say so ? If his father had not left him an indepen- dence, he might have found even himself hard pushed sometimes for a meal. Pope was a little too fond of taking his pecuniary advantages for merits. He did not see (so blind respecting them- selves are the acutest satirists) that this inability to forego a false ground of superiority originated in an instinct of weakness. 8 Curii invites to dine. Curll was the chief scandalous bookseller of that time. 294 POPE. CHARACTERS AND RULING PASSIONS. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF WHARTON. Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times. Search then the Ruling Passion : there, alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known ; The fool consistent, and the false sincere ; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest. Wharton the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise : Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, Women and fools must like him, or he dies : Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke, The club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new ? He '11 shine a Tully and a Wilmot too. Then turns repentant, and his God adores, With the same spirit that he drinks and whores : 10 Enough if all around him but admire, And now the punk applaud, and now the friar. Thus with each gift of nature and of art And wanting nothing but an honest heart ; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt ; And most contemptible, to shun contempt ; His passion still to covet general praise ; His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways ; A constant bounty, which no friend has made ; An angel tongue, which no man can persuade ; > POPE. 295 A fool, with more of wit than half mankind ; Too rash for thought, for action too refin'd : A tyrant to the wife his heart approves ; A rebel to the very king he loves ; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still ! flagitious, yet not great. Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule ? 'T was all for fear that knaves should call him fool. 10 " 10 Then turns repentant, and his God adores With the same spirit that he drinks and whores. , The reader must bear in mind that all which is considered coarse language now, was not so con- sidered in Pope's time ; and that words, which cannot any longer be read out loud in mixed company, may still have the benefit of that re- collection, and be silently endured. 11 Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule ? ' Twos all for fear that knaves should call him fool. Perhaps, if it were required to select from all Pope's writings the passage most calculated to have a practical effect on readers in want of it, it would be this couplet. The address of it is exquisite. The obvious conclusion is, that it is better to be thought a fool by a knave than by a man of genius. 296 POPE. CHARACTER OF ADDISON. A man's true merit is not hard to find ; But each man's secret standard in his mind (That casting -weight pride adds to emptiness) This, who can gratify ? f r vho can guess ? n The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown ; I3 He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left ; And he who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning .- And he whose fustian 's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad; All these my modest satire bade translate, And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe, And swear not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such ! But were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease ; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne; View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering teach the rest to sneer ,- Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike ; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe and a suspicious friend ; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieg'd, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; POPE. 297 Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause ; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise Who but must laugh, tfsuch a man there be ? Who would not weep, \f 'Atticus were he? lt Each man's secret standard in his mind, (That casting -weight pride adds to emptiness) This, who can graiify ? for who can guess ? Exquisite discernment, as exquisitely expressed. This is the whole secret of arrogance, and (in ninety- nine cases out of a hundred) of ordinary sullenness and exaction. The standard is invisible, and no arbiter is allowed. 13 The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown. This was Ambrose Philips, a man of genius, whose half-jesting, half-serious poems in short verses were of a delicacy not sufficiently appre- ciated; and whose mistake in pastoral writing was, at all events, not so bad as Pope's, who never forgave the superiority awarded to him in that direction by Steele and others. What is meant by the pastorals being " pilfered," I forget ; if that they were imitated from Spenser and others, Pope's may be said to have been all pilfered from classical commonplaces. The accusation of the half-crown is, of course, not true ; and if it were, would be no o 5 298 POPE. disgrace but to the accuser and the bookseller. Suppose Philips had described Pope as the man Who turns a page of Greek for eighteen-pence ! The tales here alluded to were the delightful Persian Tales, translated from the French of Petit de la Croix. They are of genuine Eastern origin, and worthy brothers of the enchanting Arabian Nights. 14 Who would not weep, if Atticug were he. It is well known and obvious that this character of Atticus was meant for Addison. A doubt has existed whether Pope was right in supposing Addison to have been jealous ; and perhaps he was not : but the coldness, reserve, and management, in the disposition of the lord of Button's Coffee-house, not unnaturally gave rise to the suspicion : and the exquisite expression of the language in which it is conveyed has all the eloquence of belief. CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend, And see what comfort it affords our end. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung, 14 The floor of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flockbed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, POPE. 299 Great Villiers lies alas ! how chang'd from him, That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim ! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; Or just as gay at council, in a ring Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. No wit to natter, left of all his store ! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. 15 In the worst inn's worst room, &c. It is a pity that Pope wrote this character of Buckingham after Dryden's; for, though celebrated and worth re- peating, it is very inferior, and, in the details, of very questionable truth. In fact, the superlative way of talking throughout it (the " worst inn's worst room," the introduction of the " George and Gar- ter," &c.) is in a manifest spirit of exaggeration, and defeats the writer's object. A gentleman of the Fairfax connexion, who was a retainer of the Duke's, and wrote a memoir of him, says that he died in his own house. CHARACTER OF THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. But what are these to great Atossa's mind ? l Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind ! Who with herself, or others, from her birth Finds all her life one warfare upon earth ; Shines in exposing knaves, and painting fools, Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules : 300 POPE. No thought advances, but her eddy brain f Whisks it about, and down it goes again. Full sixty years the world has been her trade ; The wisest fool much time has ever made : From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratify'd, except her rage : So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit. Who breaks with her, provokes revenge from hell, But he 's a bolder man who dares be well. Her every turn with violence pursued, Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude : To that each passion turns, or soon, or late ; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate. Superiors ? death ! and equals ? what a curse ! But an inferior not dependant ? worse. Offend her, and she knows not to forgive ; Oblige her, and she '11 hate you while you live : But die, and she '11 adore you then the bust And temple rise then fall again to dust. Last night her lord was all that's good and great ; A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. Strange ! by the means defeated of the ends, By spirit robb'd of power, by warmth of friends, By wealth of followers ! without one distress Sick of herself, through very selfishness ! Atossa, curs'd with every granted prayer ; Childless with all her children, wants an heir. To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store, Or wanders, heaven-directed, to the poor. 16 Great Atossa's mind. The Duchess of Marlbo rough, widow of the great Duke, famous for her ambition and arbitrary temper, and the ascendency which she lost over Queen Anne. POPE. 301 CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF CHANDOS, AND DESCRIPTION OF HIS VILLA. At Timon's villa let us pass a day ; 17 Where all cry out, " What sums are thrown away !" So proud, so grand ; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness with Timon dwells, in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down : Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze ! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around ! The whole a labour'd quarry above ground. Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call; On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene ; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. The suffering eye inverted nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ; With here a fountain never to be play' d; And there a summer-house that knows no shade i Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers, There gladiators fight or die in flowers ; Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. My lord advances with majestic mien, Sniit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : 302 POPE. But soft by regular approach not yet First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat ; And when up ten steep slopes you 've dragg'd your thighs, Just at his study-door he '11 bless your eyes. His study ! with what authors is it stor'd ? In books, not authors, curious is my lord : To all their dated backs he turns you round j These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood ! For Locke or Milton 't is in vain to look ; These shelves admit not any modern book. And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, That summons you to all the pride of prayer : Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, 'And bring all paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite. Who never mentions hell to ears polite. But hark ! the chiming clocks to dinner call ; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall : The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner ? this a genial room ? No, 't is a temple, and a hecatomb. A solemn sacrifice perform' d in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you 'd swear S audio's dread doctor and his wand were there. Between each act the trembling salvers ring, From soup to sweet- wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantalized in state, And complaisantly help'd to all I hate, POPE. 303 Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve ; I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill. Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears. What his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity. supplies. Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. 17 At Timon's villa let us pass a day. The character of Timon (though Pope denied the application) was universally thought, and still is, to have been in- tended for that of James Brydges, First Duke of Chandos, whose princely buildings at Canons,, and equally princely style of living, with his chapel, his choir, and Handel for his composer, rendered the satire applicable to him alone. The prophecy at the conclusion was singularly borne out by the event ; and the pedestrian who now visits Edge- ware seldom suspects that he is on ground so famous. People in the neighbourhood are still said to talk of the " Grand Duke." His locks and hinges were of silver and gold. 304 POPE. CHARACTER OF NARCISSA. Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash would hardly stew a child ; 19 Has e'en been prov'd to grant a lover's prayer, And paid a tradesman once to make him stare ; Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim ; And made a widow happy, for a whim. Why then declare good nature is her scorn, When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ? Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name ? A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame : Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,- Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres ; Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns, And atheism and religion take their turns ; A very Heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad good Christian at her heart. 18 Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash would hardly stew a child. This is very ludicrous and outrageous. Can this Narcissa have been intended for Mrs. Oldfield the actress, who is understood, with great probability, to have been the Narcissa spoken of in a passage extracted further on ? If so, she does not appear to have deserved the character, at least not the worst part of it. The widow, whom she is described as making happy "for a whim," bore the most affectionate testimony to her generous qualities ; \ and she gave a pension to Savage. See her " Life,' by Maynwaring; which, though a catchpenny pub- POPE. 305 lication, easily shows what we are to believe in it, and what not. CHARACTER OF CHLOE. " Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot. 19 " Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. " With every pleasing, every prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want ?" She wants a heart. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought ; But never, never reach' d one generous thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour Content to dwell in decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmovM, As never yet to love or to be lov'd. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest ; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Forbid it, heaven ! a favour or a debt She e'er should cancel but she may forget. Safe is your secret still in Chloe' s ear ; But none of Chloe 's shall you ever hear. Of all her dears she never slandered one, But cares not if a thousand are undone. Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead ? She bids her footman put it in her head. Chloe is prudent would you too be wise ? Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. 19 Yet Chloe, sure, was formed without a spot. Chloe IS thought to have been Lady Suffolk, the supposed 306 POPE. mistress of George the Second. She had offended Pope by not doing something for Swift, which, according to the Dean and his friends, she had led him to believe she would. But Swift was full of fancies; and Lady Suffolk, by the consent of all that were in habits of intimacy with her, was a most amiable as well as even-tempered woman. THE RULING PASSION. In this one passion man can strength enjoy, As fits give vigour just when they destroy. Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, Yet tames not this ; it sticks to our last sand. Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest nature ends as she begins. Old politicians chew on wisdom past, And totter on in business to the last ; As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out, As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout. Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace Has made the father of a nameless race, Shov'd from the wall, perhaps, or rudely press'd By his own son, that passes by unbless'd ; Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees. A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate ; The doctor calTd, declares all help too late : " Mercy !" cries Helluo, " mercy on my soul ! Is there no help ? alas ! then bring the jowl." POPE. 307 The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. " Odious ! in woollen ! 'twould a saint provoke," (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke) " No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one 's dead And, Betty, give this cheek a little red." *> The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir : " If where I 'm going I could serve you, sir ?" " I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sigh'd) " my lands and tenements to Ned." " Your money, sir ?" " My money, sir ! what all ? Why, if I must (then wept) I give it PauL" " The manor, sir ?" " The manor ! hold !" he cried ; " Not that, I cannot part with that" and died. 70 And, Betty, give thi cheek a little red. The " little red" is a poetical addition; but it really appears, from the " Life " above mentioned, that Mrs. Old- field was handsomely dressed in her coffin, by her own direction. The charmer of the stage could not bear to fancy herself in mortal attire. SWIFT. BORN, 1667 DIED, 1745. FOR the qualities of sheer wit and humour, Swift had no superior, ancient or modern. He had not the poetry of Aristophanes, or the animal spirits of Rabelais ; he was not so incessantly witty as Butler ; nor did he possess the delicacy of Addison, or the good nature of Steele or Fielding, or the pathos and depth of Sterne ; but his wit was perfect, as such ; a sheer meeting of the extremes of difference and likeness ; and his knowledge of character was un- bounded. He knew the humour of great and small, from the king down to the cook-maid. Unfor- tunately, he was not a healthy man ; his entrance into the church put him into a false position ; mysterious circumstances in his personal history conspired with worldly disappointment to aggra- vate it ; and that hypochondriacal insight into things, which might have taught him a doubt of his conclusions and the wisdom of patience, ended SWIFT. 309 in making him the victim of a diseased blood and angry passions. Probably there was something morbid even in his excessive coarseness. Most of his contemporaries were coarse, but not so out- rageously as he. When Swift, however, was at his best, who was so lively, so entertaining, so original? He has been said to be indebted to this and that classic, and this and that Frenchman ; to Lucian, to Rabelais, and to Cyrano de Bergerac ; but though he was acquainted with all these writers, their thoughts had been evidently thought by himself; their quaint fancies of things had passed through his own mind ; and they ended in results quite masterly, and his own. A great fanciful wit like his wanted no helps to the discovery of Brobdignag and Laputa. The Big and Little Endians were close to him every day, at court and at church. Swift took his principal measure from Butler, and he emulated his rhymes ; yet his manner is his own. There is a mixture of care and precision in it, announcing at once power and fastidiousness, like Mr. Dean going with his verger before him, in flowing gown and five times washed face, with his nails pared to the quick. His long irregular prose verses with rhymes at the end, are an invention of his own ; and a similar mixture is discernible even in those, not excepting a feeling of musical propor- tion. Swift had more music in him than he loved 310 SWIFT. to let " fiddlers" suppose ; and throughout all his writings there may be observed a jealous sense of power, modifying the most familiar of his impulses. After all, however, Swift's verse, compared with Pope's or with Butler's, is but a kind of smart prose. It wants their pregnancy of expression. His greatest works are Gullivers Travels, and the Tale of a Tub. THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED. 1 WHETHER HAMILTON'S BAWN SHOULD BE TURNED INTO A BARRACK OR A MALT-HOUSE, 1729. Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care : " Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. This Hamilton's bawn, whilst it sticks on my hand, I lose by the house what I get by the land, But how to dispose of it to the best bidder, For a barrack or malt-house, we now must consider. First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house ; Here I have computed the profit will fall fug; There 's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain ; I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain ; A handsome addition to wine and good cheer, Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year. With a dozen large vessels my vaults shall be stor*d ; No little scrub joint shall come on my board ; And you and the dean no more shall combine To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ;. Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin A stone and a quarter of beef from my surloin. SWIFT. 311 If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant ; My dear, I have ponder 'd again and again on 't : In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent ; Whatever they give me, I must be content, Or join with the court in every debate ; And rather than that, I would lose my estate. " Thus ended the Knight : thus began his meek wife : " It must, and it shall be a barrack, my life. I 'm grown a mere mopus ; no company comes, But a rabble of tenants, and rusty dull rums.* With parsons what lady can keep herself clean ; I 'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean. But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, The captain, I* m sure, will always come here ; I then shall not value his deanship a straw, For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe ; Or should he pretend to be brisk and alert, Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert; That men of his coat should be minding their prayers, And not among ladies to give themselves air*." Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; The knight his opinion resolv'd to maintain. But Hannah, who listen 'd to all that was past, And could not endure so vulgar a taste, As soon as her ladyship call'd to be drest, Cry'd, " Madam, why surely my master's possest. Sir Arthur the maltster ! how fine it will sound ! I 'd rather the bawn were sunk under the ground. But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good, When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood.t And now my dream 's out ; for I was a-dream'd That I saw a huge rat dear, how I screamed! * A cant word in Ireland for poor country clergymen, f Two of Sir Arthur's managers. 312 SWIFT. And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes j And Molly, she said I should hear some ill-news. " Dear madam, had you but the spirit to tease, Yrtu might have a barrack whenever you please : And, madam, I always believed you so stout, That for twenty denials you would not give out. If I had a husband like him, I purtest, Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest ; And rather than come in the same pair of sheets With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets. But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent, And worry him out, till he gives his consent. Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink : For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain. I fancy already a barrack contriv'd At Hamilton's bawn, and the troop is arriv'd ; Of this to be sure Sir Arthur has warning, And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. Now see, when they meet, how their honours behave : ' Noble captain, your servant? ' Sir Arthur, your slave .' ' You honour me much ' ' The honour is mine.' ' 'Twos a sad rainy night 1 ' But the morning is fine.' ' Pray how does my lady ?' ' My wife's at your service. ' ' / think I have seen her picture by Jervas.' ' Good-morrow, good captain, I'll wait on you down.' 1 You sha'n't stir afoot.' ' You'll think me a clown ' For all the world, captain' ' Not half an inch farther.' 1 You must be obey'd ! ' ' Your servant, Sir Arthur ! My humble respects to my lady unknown.' 1 I hope you will use my house as your own.' " " Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate, Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate." SWIFT. 313 " Pray, madam, be quiet ; what was it I said ? You had like to have put it quite out of my head. Next day, to be sure, the captain will come, At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum. Now, madam, observe how he marches in state : The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate : Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, Tantara, tantara , while all the boys hollow. See now comes the captain all daub 'd with gold lace : la ! the sweet gentleman ! look in his face ; And see how he rides like a lord of the land, With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand; And his horse, the dear CRETER, it prances and rears. With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears; At last comes the troop, by the word of command, Drawn vp in the court ; when the captain cries, STAND ! Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen (For sure I had dizen'd you out like a queen.) The captain, to show he is proud of the favour, Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver ; (His beaver is cock'd, pray, madam, mark that ; For a captain of horse never takes off his hat, Because he has NEVER a hand that is idle ; FOR THE RIGHT HOLDS THE SWORD, AND THE LEFT HOLDS THE BRIDLE) Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air, As a compliment due to a lady so fair ; (How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt /) Then he lowers down the point and kisses the hilt. Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin : ' Pray, captain, be pleas'd to alight and walk in.' The captain salutes you with congee profound, And your ladyship curtsies half way to the ground. ' Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us ; 1 'm sure he '11 be proud of the honour you do us. P 314 SWIFT. And, captain, you '11 do us the favour to stay, And take a short dinner here with us to-day ; You 're heartily welcome ; but as for good cheer, You come in the very worst time in the year ; If I had expected so worthy a guest ' ' Lord, madam ! your ladyship sure is in jest : You banter me, madam ; the kingdom must grant ' ' You officers, captain, are so complaisant !' " " Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody coming ! " " No, madam ; 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story), The captain at dinner appears in his glory ; The dean and the doctor have humbled their pride, For the captain's entreated to sit by your side ; And because he 's their betters, you carve for him first ; The parsons for envy are ready to burst. The servants amaz'd are scarce ever able To keep off their eyes, as they wait at the table ; And Molly and I have thrust in our nose To peep at the captain in all his fine clo'es. Dear madam, be sure he 's a fine -spoken man ; Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran ; And ' madam,' says he, ' if such dinners you give, You '11 ne'er want for parsons as long as you live. I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose ; But the devil 's as welcome wherever he goes. G d n me ! they bid us reform and repent? But znds ! by their looks they never keep Lent. Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's ntaid : I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band.' (For the Dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny, The captain suppos'd he was curate to Jinny.)* * Dr. Jinny, a clergyman in the neighbourhood. SWIFT. 315 4 Whenever you see a cassock and gown, A hundred to one but it covers a clown. Observe how a parson comes into a room ; G d n me ! he hobbles as bad as my groom ; A scholard, when just from his college broke loose, Can hardly tell how to cry bo to a goose; Your NOVEDS, and BLUTURCKS, and OMURS, and stuff,* By G , they don't signify this pinch of snuff . To give a young gentleman right education, The army '* the only good school in the nation ; My schoolmaster calVd me a dunce and a fool, But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school : I never could take to my book for the BLOOD o' ME, And the puppy confessed he expected no GOOD o' ME. He caught me one morning coquetting his wife ; But he mauld me, I ne'er was so mauld in my life : So I took to the road, and, what 's very odd, The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G . Now, madam, you '11 think it a strange thing to say, But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day.' " Never since I was born did 1 hear so much wit, And, madam, / laugh' d till I thought I should split. So then you look scornful, and snift at the dean, As who should say, Now am I skinny and lean ? But he durst not so much as once open his lips, And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips." Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, Till she heard the Dean call, " Will your ladyship walk ?" Her ladyship answers, " I 'm just coming down :" Then turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, Although it was plain in her heart she was glad, Cry'd " Hussy, why sure the wench is gone mad ! * Ovids, Plutarchs, and Homers. 316 SWIFT. How could these chimeras get into your brains ? Come hither and take this old gown for your pains ; But the Dean, if this secret should come to his ears, Will never have done with his gibes and his jeers : For your life not a word of this matter I charge ye : Give me but a barrack, a Jig for the clergy." ' The Grand Question Debated. " Hamilton's Bawn " was a large old house belonging to Sir Arthur Acheson, Bart., ancestor of the Earls of Gosford. His lady was Anne Savage, daughter of an Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer. A merry war, per- haps not always pleasant, was in the habit of passing between her and Swift, in which he bantered her thinness, and Sir Arthur used to take his part. She is the heroine of the witty but coarse verses, beginning " Sure never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teas'd day and night By a Dean and a Knight ; To punish my sins Sir Arthur begins, And gives me a wipe With Skinny and Snipe : His malice is plain, Hallooing the Dean. The Dean never stops, When he opens his chops. I 'm quite over- run With rebus and pun." G dn me, they bid tut reform and repent, &c. I do not SWIFT. 317 apologize to the reader for repeating these oaths, because Swift's object in recording them was in- tended for anything but approbation of swearing a practice which, though accused of having been a swearer himself, he held in special contempt, and officers of the army (it must be added) along with it. He looked upon them as a set of ignorant coxcombs ; and, doubtless, too many such persons are to be found mixed with their betters in the service, especially in the regiments raised in the provinces. The reader would be surprised if he knew how much ignorance of common writing and reading was betrayed in communications of country- officers with head-quarters. Fielding seems to have had his eye on this passage when he introduced his Ensign Northerton in Tom Jones. It is one of the happiest in Swift's verses; exquisite for its ease, its straightforward- ness, its humour, its succession of pictures, its maid- servant tone of mind. MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 3 Well, {f ever I saw such another man since my mother bound my head! You a gentleman! marry come up ! I wonder where you were bred. I 'm sure such words do not become a man of your cloth ; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. 318 SWIFT. Yes, you call'd my master a knave : fie, Mr. Sheridan ! 't is a shame, For a parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan ! 't is both a shame and a sin ; And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your ton: He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body : My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindle-shank' d hoddy- doddy. And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my master one day, in anger, call'd you a goose ; Which, and / am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never call'd me worse than sweetheart, drunk or sober : Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your college. You say you will eat grass on his grave : a Christian eat grass ! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass : But that 's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye ; Well, well, that's as God pleases,- and I don't believe that 's a true story .- And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I ? And I don't care who knows it ; 't is all one to Mary ; Every one knows that I love to tell truth and shame the devil ; 1 am but a poor servant ; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here: I remember it was on a Tuesday of all days in the year. And Saunders the man says you are always jesting and mocking : Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking) My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school, I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. SWIFT. 319 And now I must go and get Saunders to direct this letter ; For I write but a sad scrawl ; but my sister Marget, she writes better. 4 Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers ; And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs ; Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand : And so I remain in a civil way, your servant to command, MARY. 3 Mary the Cook-maid" g Letter. Dr. Sheridan, one of Swift's friends and butts, was a schoolmaster of considerable wit and scholarship, and progenitor of a distinguished family, in which genius is hereditary. The closing words of the preceding note will apply still more characteristically to the present effusion. Swift delighted in showing his knowledge of ser- vants, their phraseology, and ways of thinking: or rather, perhaps, it should be said, that he delighted in showing up every species of ignorance and self-importance ; for he was equally au fait at the small talk of fine life, or what he called Polite Conversation ; of which he has left a record, singular for the quantity of it, and startling, nowadays, when we consider the quality of the speakers. But his satire helped to reform the mode, if it did not very much improve the matter, Common-minded- ness will be common-mindedness always, whether betrayed in the proverbial slang which he drove out of the drawing-room into the kitchen, or in the better-bred common-places of the chatterers of Mrs. Gore. 320 SWIFT. 4 For I write but a gad scrawl ; but my sister Marget, she writes better. This exquisite kind of irrelevancy, which I have no doubt is taken from the life, Swift was fond of. He had used it before with equal, if not greater felicity, in the masterly satire on Nunneries which he contributed to the Tatler (No. 32). See the passage in the Essay at the beginning of this volume, p. 20. ANCIENT DRAMATISTS. 5 TO DR. SHERIDAN. Whate'er your predecessor taught us, I have a great esteem for Plautus ; And think your boys may gather there-hence More wit and humour than from Terence. But as to comic Aristophanes, The rogue too vicious and too prbphane is. I went in vain to look for Eupolis Down in the Strand, just where the New Pole is ; * For I can tell you one thing, that I can (You will not find it in the Vatican). He and Cratinus us'd, as Horace says, To take his greatest grandees for asses. Poets, in those days, us'd to venture high ; But these are lost full many a century. Thus you may see, dear friend, ejc pede hence, My judgment of the old comedians. * The fact may be true, but the rhyme cost me some trouble. AUTHOR. SWIFT. 321 Proceed to tragics : first, Euripides (An author where I sometimes dip a-days) Is rightly censured by the Stagirite, Who says his numbers do uotfadge aright. A friend of mine that author despises So much, he swears the very best piece is, For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's ; And that a woman, in these tragedies, Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is. At least, I 'm well assur'd, that rib folk lays The weight on him they do on Sbphocles. But, above all, I prefer &schylus, Whose moving touches, when they please kill us. And now I find my muse but ill able, To hold out longer in trissyllable. I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty ; Will you return as hard ones \f I call t' ye ? 5 Ancient Dramatists. Swift is here emulating the rhymes of Butler. ABROAD AND AT HOME. As Thomas was cudgel'd one day by his wife, He took to the street, and fled for his life : Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And sav'd him at once from the shrew and the rabble Then ventur'd to give him some sober advice ; But Tom is a person of honour so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning : Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life ; Went home, and was cudgel'd again by his wife. p 5 322 SWIFT. VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. 6 As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true : They argue no corrupted mind In him ; the fault is in mankind. This maxim, more than' all the rest, Is thought too base for human breast : " In all distresses of our friends We first consult our private ends ; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us.' If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equals rais'd above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low ? I love my friend as well as you : But why should he obstruct my view T Then let me have the higher post ; Suppose it but an inch at most. If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won ; Rather than thus be over-topt, Would you not wish his laurels cropt ? Dear honest Ned is in the gout. Lies rack'd with pain, and you without : How patiently you hear him groan ! How glad the case is not your own ! What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he ? SWIFT. But, rather than they should excel, Would wish his rivals all in hell ! Her end when emulation misses, She turns to envy, stings, and hisses : The strongest friendship yields to pride, Unless the odds be on our side. Vain human -kind ! fantastic race ! Thy various follies who can trace ? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give otLjrs riches, power, and station, 'T is all to me an usurpation. I have no title to aspire ; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line. But with a sigh I wish it mine. When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six, It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, " Pox take him and his wit ! " I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own humorous biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my friend. Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use. 7 St. John, as well as Pulteney, know* That I had some repute for prose ; And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortified my pride, And made me throw my pen aside, If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em ? To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts ; but never to my friend : 323 324 SWIFT. I tamely can endure the first ; But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem Proceed we therefore to our poem. The time is not remote when I Must by the course of nature die ; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends ; And, though 't is hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : " See how the Dean begins to break ! Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he 's dead. Besides, his memory decays : He recollects not what he says ; He cannot call his friends to mind ; Forgets the place where last he din'd ; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy, we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter : In half the time he talks them round There must another set be found. " For poetry he 's past his prime ; He takes an hour to find a rhyme ; His fire is out, his wit decay'd, His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. I 'd have him throw away his pen : But there '* no talking to some men ! " SWIFT. And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years : " He 's older than he would be reckon'd, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach, too, begins to fail : Last year we thought him strong and hale ; But now he 's quite another thing ; I wish he may hold out till spring 1 " They hug themselves, and reason thus : ' It is not yet so bad with us!" In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match, a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'-ye's come of course, And servants answer, " Worse and tvorse!" Would please them better, than to tell That, " God be prais'd, the Dean is well." Then he who prophesy' d the best, Approves his foresight to the rest : II You know I always fear' d the worst, And often told you so at first." He 'd rather choose that I should die, Than his predictions prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover ; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain ; How many a message would he send I What hearty prayers that I should mend ! Inquire what regimen I kept ; What gave me ease, and how I slept ? 325 326 SWIFT. And more lament, when I was dead, Than all the snivellers round my bed. My good companions, never fear ; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verify'd at last. Behold the fatal day arrive ! " How is the Dean ? " " He 's just alive." Now the departing prayer is read ; He hardly breathes The Dean is dead. Before the passing-bell 's begun, The news through half the town is run. " Oh ! may we all for death prepare ! What has he left ? and who 's his heir ? I know no more than what the news is ; 'T is all bequeath'd to public uses. To public uses ! there 's a whim ! What had the public done for him ? Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He gave it all but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation ? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood !" Now Grub -street wits are all employ 'd j With elegies the town is cloy'd : Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Draper.* The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. " We must confess, bis case was nice ; But he would never take advice. Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, He might have liv'd these twenty years : * For the papers which he wrote on Irish affairs, under that title. SWIFT. 327 For, when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound." From Dublin soon to London spread, Tis told at court, " The Dean is dead;" And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, " Is he gone ! 't is time he should. He 's dead, you say ; then let him rot. / 'm glad the medals* were forgot. I promis'd him, I own ; but when ? I only was the princess then ; But now, as consort of the king, You know, 't is quite another thing." Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy : " Why, if he died without his shoes," Cries Bob, " I'm sorry for the news : Oh, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will ! f Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke were dead !" Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains : Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains ! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbald, Moore, and Cibber. He '11 treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters ; Revive the libels born to die : Which Pope must bear, as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. * "Which the Dean (he says) in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the Princess." f Sir Robert Walpole's antagonist, Pulteney. 328 SWIFT. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, " I 'm sorry but we all must die !" Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies : For how can stony bowels melt, In those who never pity felt ! When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God. The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear ; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd to stand between : The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : . " The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul ! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall : (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend. No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight ; And he 's engag'd to-morrow night : My Lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He lov'd the Dean (I lead a heart) But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come ; he ran his race ; We hope he 's in a better place." SWIFT. 329 Why do we grieve that friends should die ? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past ; a different scene ! No farther mention of the Dean, Who now, alas ! no more is miss'd, Than if he never did exist. Where 's now the favourite of Apollo ? Departed .-and his works must follow. o Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift. I give these verses (which comprise about half the original) as a true specimen of Swiftian wit and humour, but not at all (some obvious banter excepted) as agreeing with the spirit of them, or counting them among the evi- dences of his wisdom. The Dean's prodigious dis- covery, assisted by his brother wit Rochefoucault, just amounts to this : that Nature in her kindly wisdom has prevented mankind from feeling as much for the pangs of others as for their own ; and that when a misfortune happens to a neighbour, they cannot, in spite of their condolence, help con- gratulating themselves on having escaped it. There are exceptions, many, even to these conclusions ; and what do the conclusions prove ? Why, simply, that existence would be nothing but misery if human beings were otherwise constituted ; that the best people would have the power neither to receive nor to give enjoyment ; and that mean time (by the same kind providence of nature against worse con- sequences) they do suffer and sympathize greatly on occasion, often to a far greater degree than the 330 SWIFT. author chooses to think. The sick neighbour feel- ing for the dying man endures but half the anguish of many (I do not say of all) who are here called " snivellers round a bed," and who would sometimes gladly die instead of the sufferer ? What ? Have not millions of lives been thrown away for less things than love ; and are we to be told by a loveless misanthrope, girding his own friends, that affection never grieves for a death beyond a "month" or a "day?" Nonsense. I mourn with and admire Swift, who was a great man, notwith- standing what was little in him; but (wit excepted) he fell to the level of the vulgar when he " sunk in the spleen." Yet how handsome the opportunity he takes of complimenting Pope and others at his own expense, and how pleasantly it tells both against him and for him ! 7 Refin'd it first, and show' d its use. A bold claim, after But'er and all the other wits and poets who ex- celled in it! and, indeed, quite unfounded. GREEN. BORN, 1696 DIED, 1737. THE author of the Spleen, a poem admired by Pope, and quoted by Johnson, was a clerk in the custom- house, and had been bred a quaker. He was subject to low spirits, and warded them off by wit and good sense. Something of the quaker may be observable in the stiffness of his versification, and its excessive endeavours to be succinct. His style has also the fault of being occasionally obscure ; and his wit is sometimes more laboured than finished. But all that he says is worth attending to. His thoughts are the result of his own feeling and experience ; his opinions rational and cheerful, if not very lofty ; his warnings against meddling with superhuman mysteries admir- able ; and he is remarkable for the brevity and originality of his similes. He is of the school of Butler ; and it may be affirmed of him as a rare honour, that no man since Butler has put so much wit and reflection into the same compass of lines. 332 GREEN. There is an edition of Green's poems by Dr. Aikin, which deserves to be the companion of all who suffer as the author did, and who have sense enough to wish to relieve their sufferings by the like exercise of their reason. In printing the following extracts I have not adopted the asterisks commonly employed for the purpose of implying omission. I always use them unwillingly, on account of the fragmentary air they give to the passages ; and the paragraphs closed up so well together in the present instance, that I was tempted to waive them. But the circumstance is mentioned in order to prevent a false conclusion. REMEDIES FOR THE SPLEEN.' To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green ; Some hilly walks : all, exercise ; Fling but a stone, the giant dies. Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen ; And kittens, if the humour hit, Have harlequin' d away the fit. If spleen fogs rise at close of day, I clear my evening with a play, Or to some concert take my way. The company, the shine of lights. The scenes of humour, music's flights, Adjust, and set the soul to rights. GREEN. 333 In rainy days keep double guard, Or spleen will surely be too hard ; Which, like those fish by sailors met, Fly highest, while their wings are wet. In such dull weather so unfit To enterprise a work of wit, When clouds one yard of azure sky, That 's fit for simile, deny, I dress my face with studious looks, And shorten tedious hours with books. But when dull fogs invade the head, That mem'ry minds not what is read, I sit in window dry as ark, And on the drowning world remark ; Or to some coffee-house I stray For news, the manna of a day, And from the hipp'd discourses gather, That politics go by the weather. Then seek good-humour'd tavern chums, And play at cards, but for small sums ; Or with the merry fellows quaff, And laugh aloud with them that laugh ; Or drink a joco-serious cup With souls who 've took their freedom up ; And let my mind, beguil'd by talk, In Epicurus' garden walk, Who thought it heav'n to be serene ; Pain, hell ; and purgatory, spleen. Sometimes I dress, with women sit, And chat away the gloomy fit ; Quit the stiff garb of serious sense, And wear a gay impertinence. Permit, ye fair, your idol-form, Which e'en the coldest heart can warm, 334 GREEN. May with its beauties grace my line, While I bow down before its shrine, And your throng'd altars with my lays Perfume, and get by giving praise. With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien, You excommunicate the spleen, Which fiend-like, flies the magic ring You form with sound, when pleas' d to sing. Whate'er you say, howe'er you move, We look, we listen, and approve. Your touch, which gives to feeling bliss, Our nerves officious throng to kiss. By Celia's pat, on their report, The grave-air'd soul, inclin'd to sport, Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp, And loves the floral game, to romp. But who can view the pointed rays, That from black eyes scintillant blaze ? Love on his throne of glory seems Encompass'd with satellite beams. But when blue eyes, more softly bright, Diffuse benignly humid light, We gaze, and see the smiling loves, And Cytherea's gentle doves, And raptur'd fix in such a face Love's mercy-seat and throne of grace. Shine but on age, you melt its snow ; Again fires long-extinguish'd glow, And charm 'd by witchery of eyes, Blood long congealed liquefies ! True miracle, and fairly done By heads which are ador'd while on. 7 Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, I close examine by the light ; GREEN. 335 For who, though brib'd by gain to lie, Dare sunbeam-written truths deny, And execute plain common sense On faith's mere hearsay evidence ? That superstition mayn't create, And club its ills with those of fate, I many a notion take to task, Made dreadful by its visor mask. Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, Is cur'd, and certainty I find ; Since optic reason shows me plain, I dreaded spectres of the brain ; And legendary fears are gone, Though in tenacious childhood sown. Thus in opinions I commence Freeholder in the proper sense, And neither suit nor service do, Nor homage to pretenders show, Who boast themselves, by spurious roll, Lords of the manor of the soul; Preferring sense, from chin that 's bare, To nonsense thron'd in whisker' d hair. Thus, then, I steer my bark, and sail On even keel with gentle gale ; At helm I make my reason sit, My crew of passions all submit. If dark and blust'ring prove some nights, Philosophy puts forth her lights ; Experience holds the cautious glass, To shun the breakers, as I pass, And frequent throws the wary lead, To see what dangers may be hid ; And once in seven years I'm seen At Bath or Tunbridge to careen. 336 GREEN. Though pleas'd to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way. 3 With store sufficient for belief, And wisely still prepar'd to reef, Nor wanting the dispersive bowl Of cloudy weather in the soul, I make (may Heav'n propitious send Such wind and weather to the end) Neither becalm'd nor overblown, Life's voyage to the world unknown. 1 The disorder here called the Spleen, was of old called Melancholy, or Hypochondria ; then it became Vapours or the Hyp, then the Spleen, then the Nerves or Low Spirits. The designation now varies between Nerves and Biliousness. Melancholy sig- nifies Black Bile, as Hypochondria does a region of the stomach ; and there is no doubt that all the dis- orders, great and small, connected with low spirits, are traceable to the stomach and state of digestion, sometimes in consequence of anxiety or too much thought, oftener from excess, and want of exercise. Too much eating (sometimes wrongly exchanged for too little) is the unromantic cause of nine-tenths of the romantic melancholies in existence. Your pie- crust is a greater caster of shadows over this life, than all the platonical " prison houses" the poets talk of. 2 " By heads which are ador'd while on." A felicitous allusion to the imposture of St. Januarius, a cheat still practised at Naples. Clotted blood is brought GREEN. 337 forward in a vial ; and at the approach of the head of the saint it is pretended to liquefy. 3 This couplet was quoted by Johnson in the course of some excellent advice given to Boswell. See his Life, edit. 1839, vol. vii. p. 287. Boswell. By associating with you, sir, I am always getting an accession of wisdom. But perhaps a man, after knowing his own character the limited strength of his own mind should not be desirous of having too much wisdom, considering, quid valeant humeri, how little he can carry. Johnson. Sir, be as wise as you can ; let a man be a/it* lattu, sapiens sibi : 41 Though pleas' d to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way." You may be wise in your study in the morning, and gay in company at a tavern, in the evening. Every man is to take care of his own wisdom and his own virtue, without minding too much what others think. GOLDSMITH. BORN, 1729 DIED, 1774. GOLDSMITH is so delightful a writer, that the general impression on his readers is that of his having been a perfect sort of man, at least for amiableness and bon hommie, and the consequence is, that when they come to be thoroughly acquainted with his life and works, especially the critical portion, they are startled to find him partaking of the frailties of his species and the jealousies of his profession. So much good, however, and honesty, and simplicity, and such an abundance of personal kindness, still remain, and it seems likely that so much of what was weak in him originated in a painful sense of his want of personal address and attractiveness, that all harsh conclusions appear as ungracious as they are uncomfortable : we feel even wanting in gratitude to one who has so much instructed and entertained us ; and hasten, for the sake of what is weak as well as strong in ourselves, to give all the old praise and GOLDSMITH. 339 honour to the author of the Vicar of Wakefield and the Deserted Village. We are obliged to confess that the Vicar, artless and delightful as he is, is an inferior brother of Parson Adams ; and that there are great improbabilities in the story. But the family manners, and the Flamboroughs, and Moses, are all delicious ; and the style of writing perfect. Again, we are forced to admit, that the Traveller and Deserted Village are not of the highest or subtlest order of poetry ; yet they are charming of their kind, and as perfect in style as his prose. They are cabinets of exquisite workmanship, which will outlast hundreds of oracular shrines of oak ill put together. Goldsmith's most thoroughly original productions are his comedies and minor poems, par- ticularly She Stoops to Conquer, and the two pieces of wit and humour extracted into this volume. His comic writing is of the class which is perhaps as much preferred to that of a staider sort by people in general, as it is by the writer of these pages, comedy running into farce ; that is to say, truth richly coloured and overflowing with animal spirits. It is that of the prince of comic writers, Moliere (always bearing in mind that Moliere beats every one of them in expression, and is a great verse writer to boot). The English have no dramatists to compare in this respect with the Irish. Farquhar, Goldsmith, and Sheridan surpass them all ; and O'Keefe, as a farce-writer, stands alone. Q 2 340 GOLDSMITH. Goldsmith, with all his imprudences, never forgot the one thing needful to a good author, the " Porro inunn necessarium" style. Observe in the following poems how all the words fall in their right places, and what an absence there is of the unfit and superfluous. RETALIATION. 1 Of old, when Scarron 2 his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united, If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish : Our Dean 3 shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; Our Will 4 shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick 5 with his pepper shall heighten their savour ; Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain, And Douglas 6 is pudding substantial and plain ; Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; To make out the dinner full certain I am That Ridge 7 is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb, That Hickey 's 8 a capon, and by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who 'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here waiter, more wine, let me sit while I 'm able, Till all my companions fall under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, Who mirt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : GOLDSMITH. 341 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt ; At least in six weeks, I could not find 'em out; Yet some have declar'd, and it can 't be denied 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who born for the universe, narrow' d his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind ,- Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townsend 9 to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit : For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 10 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't ; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, His conduct still right, with his arguments wrong ; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at : Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! What wit and what whim ! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ! Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! /// short so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old Nick : But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 342 GOLDSMITH. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being go fine ; Like a Tragedy Queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather, like Tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud, And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, 10 and so drew from himself ? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks ; Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds 11 shall be pious, our Kenricks 12 shall lecture ; Macpherson 13 write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshends make speeches, and I shall compile ; . New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : GOLDSMITH. 343 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art ; Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twos only that when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He tura'd and he varied full ten times a day : Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, If they were not his own by finessing and trick, He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, for he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, Vnd the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 7W/ his relish grown callous almost to disease, Who pepper' d the highest, was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, " and Woodfalls 15 so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ? How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd : But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies ; Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakspeare, receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good-nature : He cherish'd his friends, and he relish'd a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser : Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can 't accuse him of that : 344 GOLDSMITH. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? ah no ! Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye,- He wot, could he help it ? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind : His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judo' d without skill, he was still out of hearing : When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 16 1 " First printed in 1774, after the author's death. Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends, occasionally dined at St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, at the next meeting, produced the poem." (Note in old edition.) 2 Scarron the famous French wit, who was so poor that his friends made a pic-nic of their dinners at his house. s Dr. Barnard, Dean of Deny in Ireland, after- wards Bishop of Limerick, and of Killaloe. 4 William Burke. 5 Richard Burke. 6 Dr. afterwards Bishop Douglas, who detected the forgeries of Lauder's pretended plagiarism, and Bower's History of the Popes. GOLDSMITH. 345 i A gentleman at the Irish bar. 8 An eminent attorney. 9 The once famous statesman. 10 Burke's digestion was delicate, and cold mutton his standing dish. 11 Dr. Dodd, the unhappy clergyman. 12 Dr. Kenrick, a petty author, and troublesome critic of that day. 13 The famous compiler of Ossian. 14 Hugh Kelly, author of some clever sentimental comedies, of the success of which Goldsmith conde- scended to be jealous. 15 William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 16 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE, 1765. Thanks, my lord, for your venison ; for finer or fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp I could scarce help regretting To spoil guch a delicate picture by eating ; I had thoughts in my chambers to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu : Q 5 346 GOLDSMITH. As in gome Irish hornet, where things are to, to, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: But for eating a rather in what you take pride in, They 'd at toon think of eating the pan it itfry'd in. But hold let me pause don't I hear you pronounce This tale of the bacon '& a damnable bounce ? Well, suppose it a bounce sure a poet may try By a bounce now and then to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it 's no bounce ; I protest in my turn, It 's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. 1 To go on with my tale: -as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose, 'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's. But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There 's H d, and C y, and H rth, and H i I think they love venison I know they love beef. There 's my countryman Higgins Oh ! let him alone For making a blunder or picking a bone : But hang it to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton 's a very good treat ; Such dainties to send them their health it might hurt, It '# like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated in reverie centr'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd ; An under-bred fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me. " What have we got here ? why this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose or is it hi waiting ? " " Why, whose should it be ?" cried I with a flounce, " I get these things often :" (but that was a bounce) GOLDSMITH. 347 " Some lords my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pit-as 'd to be kind ; but I hate ostentation." " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, " I 'in glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words I insist on 't precisely at three ; We '11 have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I 'd ask my Lord Clare. And now that I think on 't, as I am a sinner, We wanted this venison to make out the dinner ! What say you a pasty ; it shall, and it must ; And my wife, little Kitty, if famous for crust. Here, porter this venison with me to Mile-end ; No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear friend.' 1 Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And " nobody with me at sea but myself," a Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), My friend made me welcome, but struck me quite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; " For I knew it," he cried ; " both eternally fail, The one with his speeches and t'other with Thrale ; But no matter. I '11 warrant we '11 make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 348 GOLDSMITH. The one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew, They 're both of them merry, and authors like you. The one writes the ' Snarler, he other the Scourge ;' " Some thinks he writes ' Cinna he owns to ' Panurge.' While thus he described them by f -ade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty- t -s not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian : So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vex'd me most, was that d n'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue. And " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : Pray a slice of your liver ; though, may I be curst, But I 've eat of your tripe till I 'm ready to burst." " The tripe !" quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, " I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : / like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." " Oh, oh !" quoth my friend, " he '11 come on in a trice, He 's keeping a corner for something that 's nice : There 's a pasty" " A pasty !" repeated the Jew ; " I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too." " What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot; " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot." " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; " We 'II all keep a corner," was echo'd about. GOLDSMITH. 349 While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, eater'd the maid : A visage so sad, and so pale wf affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his c&rtains by night. But we quickly found out, ( /or who could mistake her ? That she came with some terribie news from the baker : And so it turn'd out ; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty ou shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus but let similes drop And now that I th'uk on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it 's but labour misplac'd, To send such goc r erses to one of your taste ; You 've got an odd something a kind of discerning A relish, a taste sicken 'd over by learning ; At least, it 's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of things all your own : So, perhaps, hi your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 1 Lord Clare's nephew. 2 A passage in the love-letters of the then Duke of Cumberland (George the Third's brother) to Lady Grosvenor, which were making a great noise at the time. W L C T, (PETER PINDAR.) BORN, 1738 DIED, 1819. WOLCOT was successively a clergyman, a physician, a pensioner on the booksellers, and, it is said, on government. He had a taste for painting ; intro- duced his countryman Opie to the world ; and lived to a hale old age, mirthful to the last in spite of blindness. He was a genuine man of his sort, though his sort was not of a very dignified species. There does not seem to have been any real malice in him. He had not the petty spite and peevishness of his antagonist Gifford ; nor, like him, could have constituted himself a snarler against his betters for the pay of greatness. He attacked greatness itself, because he thought it could afford the joke ; and he dared to express sympathies with the poor and outcast. His serious poems, however, are nothing but common-places about Delias and the Muse. Nor have his comic ones the grace and perfection WOLCOT. 351 which a sense of the serious only can bestow. Wolcot had an eye for little that was grave in life, except the face-makings of absurdity and pretension ; but these he could mimic admirably, putting on at one and the same time their most nonchalant and matter-of-course airs, while he fetched out into his countenance the secret nonsense. He echoes their words, with some little comment of approval, or change in their position; some classical inversion, or exaltation, which exposes the pretension in the very act of admitting it, and has an irresistibly ludicrous effect. But these points have been noticed in the Introductory Essay. Peter wrote a good deal of trash, even in his humorous pieces : for they were composed, like the razors in one of his stories, " to sell." But his best things are surpassed by no banter in the language. I am sorry its coarseness prevents my repeating the story of the Pilgrims and the Peas; the same objec- tion applies to passages of the Lousiad; and there are circumstances in the history of George the Third, which would render it unbecoming to extract even the once-harmless account of his Ma- jesty's Visit to Whiibread's Brewhouse. I have there- fore confined myself to Pindar's other very best thing, his versification of passages in Boswell and Thrale, masterly for its facility and straightfor- wardness, which doubles the effect of the occasional mock-heroic inversions. To compare great things 352 WOLCOT. with small, and show that I commend nothing strongly which has not had a strong effect on my- self, I can say, that Lear does not more surely move me to tears, or Spenser charm me, than I am thrown into fits of laughter when I hear these rhyming Johnsoniana. I can hardly, now this moment, while writing about them, and glancing at the copy which lies before me, help laughing to myself in private. This is not 'a good preface to a r joke ; but, if any body can afford it, I think it is Peter. CONVERSATION ON JOHNSON, BY MRS. PIOZZI (THRALE) AND MR. BOSWELL. Madame Piozzi. Dear Doctor Johnson was in size an or, And from his Uncle Andrew learn' d to box, A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear, Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year. The Doctor had an Uncle too, ador.'d By jumping gentry, call'd Cornelius Ford ; Who jump' d in boots, which jumpers never choose, Far as a famous jumper jump 1 d in shoes. Bozzy. When Foote his leg, by some misfortune, broke, Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke, " Sam, sir, in paragraph will soon be clever, And take off Peter better now than ever." 1 On which, says Johnson, without hesitation, " George 2 will rejoice at Foote's depeditation." WOLCOT. 353 On which, says I, a penetrating elf! " Doctor, I 'm sure you coin'd that word yourself." The Doctor own'd to me I had divin'd it, For, bond fide, he had really coin'd it. " And yet, of all the words I 've coin'd (says he), My Dictionary, sir, contains but three." Mad. Piozzi. The Doctor said, " In literary matter*, A Frenchman goes not deep he only smatters ;" Then ask'd, what could be hop'd for from the dogs, Fellows that liv'd eternally on frogs ? Bozzy. In grave procession to St. Leonard's College, Well stuffd with every sort of useful knowledge, We stately walk'd as soon as supper ended ; The landlord and the waiter both attended ; The landlord, skill' d apiece of grease to handle, Before us march'd, and held a tallow candle; A lantern (some fam'd Scotsman its creator) With equal grace was carried by the waiter. Next morning from our beds we took a leap, And found ourselves much better for our sleep. Mad. Piozzi. In Lincolnshire, a lady show'd our friend A grotto that she wish'd him to commend. Quoth she, " How cool in summer tWs abode ! " " Yes, madam (answered Johnson), for a toad." Bozzy. Between old Scalpa's rugged isle and Rasay's, The wind was vastly boisterous in our faces ; ' T was glorious Johnson's figure to set sight on High in the boat he look'd a noble Triton I But lo ! to damp our pleasure Fate concurs, For Joe, the blockhead, lost his master's spurs ; This for the Rambler's temper was a rubber, Who wonder* d Joseph could be such a lubber. 354 WOLCOT. Mad. Piozzi.l ask'd him if he knock'dTom Osborne down, 3 As such a tale was current through the town : Says I, " Do tell me, Doctor, what befell." 11 Why, dearest lady, there is nought to tell : I ponder* d on the properest mode to treat him The dog was impudent, and so I beat him ! Tom, like a fool, proclaim'd his fancied wrongs ; Others that I belabour' d, held their tongues. 11 Did any one that he was happy cry Johnson would tell him plumply, '/ was a lie. A lady told him she was really so ; On which he sternly answer'd, " Madam, no I Sickly you are, and ugly foolish, poor; And therefore can't be happy, I am sure. 'T would make a fellow hang himself, whose ear Were from such creatures forc'd such stuff to hear." Bozzy. I wonder 'd yesterday, that one John Hay, Who serv'd as Cicerone on the way, Should fly a man-of-war a spot so blest A fool ! nine months, too, after he was prest. Quoth Johnson, " No man, sir, would be a sailor, With sense to scrape acquaintance with a jailor. 11 Mad. Piozzi.l said I lik'd not goose, and mention'd why; One smells it roasting on the spit, quoth I. " You, Madam," cry'd the Doctor, with a frown, " Are always gorging stuffing something down. Madam, 't is very nat'ral to suppose, If in the pantry you will poke your nose, Your maw with ev'ry sort of victuals swelling, That you must want the bliss of dinner -smelling." Bozzy. Once at our house, amidst our Attic feasts, We liken 1 d our acquaintances to beasts; WOLCOT. 355 As, for example, some to calves and hogs, And some to bears and monkeys, cats and dogs ; We said, (which charm' d the Doctor much no doubt,) His mind was like of elephants the snout, That could pick pins up, yet possess % d the vigour For trimming well the jacket of a tiger. Mad. Piozzi. Dear Doctor Johnson left off drinks fermented, With quarts of chocolate and cream contented; Yet often down his throat's enormous gutter, Poor man ! he pour'd a flood of melted butter ! Bozzy. With glee the Doctor did my girl behold ; Her name Veronica, just four months old. This name Veronica, a name though quaint, Belong' d originally to a saint ; But to my old great grandam it was giv'n As fine a woman as e'er went to heav'n ; And what must add to her importance, much, This lady's genealogy was Dutch. The man who did espouse this dame divine Was Alexander, Earl of Kincardine ; Who pour'd along my body, like a sluice, The noble, noble, noble blood of Bruce ! And who that own'd this blood could well refuse To make the world acquainted with the news ? But to return unto my charming child About our Doctor Johnson she was wild ; And when he left off speaking, she would flutter, Squall for him to begin again, and sputter ; And to be near him a strong wish express 1 d, Which proves he was not such a horrid beast. Her fondness for the Doctor pleas'd me greatly, On which I loud exclaim'd, in language stately, 356 WOLCOT. Nay, \f I recollect aright, I SWORE, / 'd to her fortune add Jive hundred more. Mad. Piozzi.ln ghosts the Doctor strongly did believe, And pinn'd his faith on many a liar's sleeve. He said to Doctor Lawrence, " Sure I am, I heard my poor dear mother call out Sam. 1 I 'm sure," said he, " that I can trust my ears ; And yet, my mother had been dead for years." I Bozzy. When young, ('t was rather silly I allow Much was I pleas' d to imitate a cow. One time at Drury Lane with Doctor Blair, My imitations made the playhouse stare ! So very charming was I in my roar, That both the galleries clapp'd and cried " Encore." Blest by the general plaudit and the laugh, I tried to be a jack -ass and a calf; But who, alas ! in all things can be great ? In short, I met a terrible defeat ; So vile I bray'd and bellow'd, I was hiss'd ; Yet all who knew me wonder' d that I miss' d. Blair whispered me, " You've lost your credit now ; Stick, Boswell, for the future, to the Cow.' 1 1 Peter Garrick, who had a wooden leg. He was brother of the actor. 2 "George" was George Faulkner the printer, who prosecuted Foote for lampooning him. 3 Osborne the bookseller. Johnson, while in poor circumstances, had been employed by him. The melancholy author happened to be guilty of one of WOLCOT. 357 those delays, which are sometimes occasioned to conscientious men by the wish to do their best. Osborne, who had no understanding for such re- fined motives, broke out into a coarse strain of abuse, such as the trade would now be ashamed of; and Johnson was so provoked, that happening to have one of the man's folios in his hands at the moment, he knocked him down with it. In the Press, in 2 Voh., Post Svo. MEN, WOMEN, AND BOOKS; OR, ESSAYS, STORIES, CRITICAL MEMOIRS, AND TABLE-TALK, NOW FIRST COLLECTED. BY LEIGH HUNT. THE THIRD VOLUME OF THE SERIES OF SELECTIONS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS, BY LEIGH HUNT, ENTITLED ACTION AND PASSION, WILL BE PUBLISHED NEXT YEAR, PRINTED UNIFORMLY WITH " IMAGINATION AND FANCY," AND "WiT AND HUMOUR." London : Printed by STBWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. NOV 28 1941 9Dec'57f RECTD UO NOV 2 7 26Apr'60r fi ) 21-100m-9,'47(A57028l6)476 EC'D LD UL 3 1 1963 YB 74904 wi : UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY