Chapter 6

'To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state. A wicked monster on the bench, Whose fury blood could never quench; As vile and profligate a villain, As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; Who long all justice had discarded, Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, And make him of his zeal repent: But Heaven his innocence defends, The grateful people stand his friends; Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, Prevail to bring him in convict.

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

'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope Was to be held a misanthrope. This into general odium drew him, Which if he liked, much good may't do him. His zeal was not to lash our crimes, But discontent against the times: For, had we made him timely offers To raise his post, or fill his coffers, Perhaps he might have truckled down, Like other brethren of his gown; For party he would scarce have bled:-- I say no more--because he's dead.-- What writings has he left behind?'

'I hear they're of a different kind: A few in verse; but most in prose--'

'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- All scribbled in the worst of times, To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, As never favouring the Pretender: Or libels yet concealed from sight, Against the court to show his spite: Perhaps his travels, part the third; A lie at every second word-- Offensive to a loyal ear:-- But--not one sermon, you may swear.'

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

'As for his works in verse or prose, I own myself no judge of those. Nor can I tell what critics thought them; But this I know, all people bought them, As with a moral view designed, To please and to reform mankind: And, if he often missed his aim, The world must own it to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; To show, by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. That kingdom he hath left his debtor, I wish it soon may have a better. And, since you dread no further lashes, Methinks you may forgive his ashes.'

A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION-CLUB. 1736.

As I stroll the city, oft I See a building large and lofty, Not a bow-shot from the college; Half the globe from sense and knowledge: By the prudent architect, Placed against the church direct, Making good thy grandame's jest, 'Near the church'--you know the rest.

Tell us what the pile contains? Many a head that holds no brains. These demoniacs let me dub With the name of Legion-Club. Such assemblies, you might swear, Meet when butchers bait a bear; Such a noise, and such haranguing, When a brother thief is hanging: Such a rout and such a rabble Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; Such a crowd their ordure throws On a far less villain's nose.

Could I from the building's top Hear the rattling thunder drop, While the devil upon the roof (If the devil be thunder-proof) Should with poker fiery red Crack the stones, and melt the lead; Drive them down on every skull, While the den of thieves is full; Quite destroy the harpies' nest; How might then our isle be blest! For divines allow that God Sometimes makes the devil his rod; And the gospel will inform us, He can punish sins enormous.

Yet should Swift endow the schools, For his lunatics and fools, With a rood or two of land, I allow the pile may stand. You perhaps will ask me, Why so? But it is with this proviso: Since the house is like to last, Let the royal grant be passed, That the club have right to dwell Each within his proper cell, With a passage left to creep in, And a hole above for peeping. Let them when they once get in, Sell the nation for a pin; While they sit a-picking straws, Let them rave at making laws; While they never hold their tongue, Let them dabble in their dung; Let them form a grand committee, How to plague and starve the city; Let them stare, and storm, and frown, When they see a clergy gown; Let them, ere they crack a louse, Call for the orders of the house; Let them, with their gosling quills, Scribble senseless heads of bills. We may, while they strain their throats, Wipe our a--s with their votes. Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, Stuff his guts with flax and grass; But, before the priest he fleeces, Tear the Bible all to pieces: At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, Footman, traitor, vile seducer, Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, Lay thy privilege aside, Sprung from Papist regicide; Fall a-working like a mole, Raise the dirt about your hole.

Come, assist me, muse obedient! Let us try some new expedient; Shift the scene for half an hour, Time and place are in thy power. Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; I shall ask, and you instruct me.

See the muse unbars the gate! Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!

All ye gods who rule the soul! Styx, through hell whose waters roll! Let me be allowed to tell What I heard in yonder cell.

Near the door an entrance gapes, Crowded round with antic shapes, Poverty, and Grief, and Care, Causeless Joy, and true Despair; Discord periwigged with snakes, See the dreadful strides she takes!

By this odious crew beset, I began to rage and fret, And resolved to break their pates, Ere we entered at the gates; Had not Clio in the nick Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' What, said I, is this the mad-house? These, she answered, are but shadows, Phantoms bodiless and vain, Empty visions of the brain.'

In the porch Briareus stands, Shows a bribe in all his hands; Briareus, the secretary, But we mortals call him Carey. When the rogues their country fleece, They may hope for pence a-piece.

Clio, who had been so wise To put on a fool's disguise, To bespeak some approbation, And be thought a near relation, When she saw three hundred brutes All involved in wild disputes, Roaring till their lungs were spent, 'Privilege of Parliament.' Now a new misfortune feels, Dreading to be laid by the heels. Never durst the muse before Enter that infernal door; Clio, stifled with the smell, Into spleen and vapours fell, By the Stygian steams that flew From the dire infectious crew. Not the stench of Lake Avernus Could have more offended her nose; Had she flown but o'er the top, She had felt her pinions drop, And by exhalations dire, Though a goddess, must expire. In a fright she crept away; Bravely I resolved to stay.

When I saw the keeper frown, Tipping him with half-a-crown, Now, said I, we are alone, Name your heroes one by one.

Who is that hell-featured brawler? Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. In what figure can a bard dress Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? Honest keeper, drive him further, In his looks are hell and murther; See the scowling visage drop, Just as when he murdered T----p. Keeper, show me where to fix On the puppy pair of Dicks; By their lantern jaws and leathern, You might swear they both are brethren: Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, Old acquaintance, are you there? Dear companions, hug and kiss, Toast Old Glorious in your piss: Tie them, keeper, in a tether, Let them starve and stink together; Both are apt to be unruly, Lash them daily, lash them duly; Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.

Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, Sweetly snoring in his cloak; Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, Half encompassed by his kin: There observe the tribe of Bingham, For he never fails to bring 'em; While he sleeps the whole debate, They submissive round him wait; Yet would gladly see the hunks In his grave, and search his trunks. See, they gently twitch his coat, Just to yawn and give his vote, Always firm in his vocation, For the court, against the nation.

Those are A----s Jack and Bob, First in every wicked job, Son and brother to a queer Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. We must give them better quarter, For their ancestor trod mortar, And at H----th, to boast his fame, On a chimney cut his name.

There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, How they swagger from their garrison! Such a triplet could you tell Where to find on this side hell? Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, Keeper, see they have their payments; Every mischief's in their hearts; If they fail, 'tis want of parts.

Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! Chairman to yon damned committee! Yet I look on thee with pity. Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? For thy horrid looks I own, Half convert me to a stone, Hast thou been so long at school, Now to turn a factious tool? Alma Mater was thy mother, Every young divine thy brother. Thou a disobedient varlet, Treat thy mother like a harlot! Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, Who are all grown reverend preachers! Morgan, would it not surprise one! Turn thy nourishment to poison! When you walk among your books, They reproach you with your looks. Bind them fast, or from their shelves They will come and right themselves; Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, All in arms prepare to back us. Soon repent, or put to slaughter Every Greek and Roman author. Will you, in your faction's phrase, Send the clergy all to graze, And, to make your project pass, Leave them not a blade of grass? How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, Were but you and I acquainted, Every monster should be painted: You should try your graving-tools On this odious group of fools: Draw the beasts as I describe them From their features, while I gibe them; Draw them like; for I assure you, You will need no _car'catura;_ Draw them so, that we may trace All the soul in every face. Keeper, I must now retire, You have done what I desire: But I feel my spirits spent With the noise, the sight, the scent.

'Pray be patient; you shall find Half the best are still behind: You have hardly seen a score; I can show two hundred more.' Keeper, I have seen enough.-- Taking then a pinch of snuff, I concluded, looking round them, 'May their god, the devil, confound them. Take them, Satan, as your due, All except the Fifty-two.'

[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor.

ISAAC WATTS.

We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part of his small income of L100 a-year, and writing for the other his inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the 25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and worthy man expired.

If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs, Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares.

2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains That thoughtless fly into thy chains, As custom leads the way: If there be bliss without design, Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, And be as blest as they.

3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, To dull embraces move: So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, And make a world of love.

4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires With wanton flames; those raging fires The purer bliss destroy: On Aetna's top let furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed, To improve the burning joy.

5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting passions warms Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like stoic souls, With osiers for their bands.

6 Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless: As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the bass.

7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between.

8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind, For love abhors the sight: Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid delight.

9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves.

THE SLUGGARD.

1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find He had took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.'

THE ROSE.

1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day.

2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field: When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; Time kills them as fast as he goes.

4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade: But gain a good name by well doing my duty; This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead.

A CRADLE HYMN.

1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied.

3 How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven he descended, And became a child like thee!

4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When his birthplace was a stable, And his softest bed was hay.

5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must he dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?

6 Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the heavenly Stranger! Did they thus affront their Lord?

7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, { nurse that } And her arms shall be thy guard.

8 Yet to read the shameful story, How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I sing.

9 See the kinder shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought him, where they found him, With his virgin mother by.

10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how he smiled! When he wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.

11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, Where the horned oxen fed: Peace, my darling, here's no danger, Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans, and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.

13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, Trust and love him, all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near him, See his face, and sing his praise!

14 I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.

[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend.

BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

The beauty of my native land Immortal love inspires; I burn, I burn with strong desires, And sigh and wait the high command. There glides the moon her shining way, And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. Upward my heart aspires: A thousand lamps of golden light, Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, Where all the happy minds resort! When will my Father's chariot come? Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, For ever see the mourner lie An exile of the sky, A prisoner of the ground? Descend, some shining servants from on high, Build me a hasty tomb; A grassy turf will raise my head; The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, And shed a sweet perfume. Here I put off the chains of death, My soul too long has worn: Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, Or tear to wet my urn. Raphael, behold me all undressed; Here gently lay this flesh to rest, Then mount and lead the path unknown. Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own.

TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE.

Great man, permit the muse to climb, And seat her at thy feet; Bid her attempt a thought sublime, And consecrate her wit. I feel, I feel the attractive force Of thy superior soul: My chariot flies her upward course, The wheels divinely roll. Now let me chide the mean affairs And mighty toil of men: How they grow gray in trifling cares, Or waste the motion of the spheres Upon delights as vain! A puff of honour fills the mind, And yellow dust is solid good;

Thus, like the ass of savage kind, We snuff the breezes of the wind, Or steal the serpent's food. Could all the choirs That charm the poles But strike one doleful sound, 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, In floods of folly drowned. Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; How they disclaim their heavenly birth, Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, And hate to be refined from that impure alloy.