Chapter 2
NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION
[1] For a survey of all Lloyd's work see Cecil J. L. Price, _A Man of Genius and a Welch Man_ (University of Swansea, Wales, 1963). Lloyd is the subject of an unpublished dissertation, _The Moral Beau_, by Paul E. Parnell (New York University, 1956). Two short passages from _The Methodist_ are included in _The Penguin Book of Satirical Verse_, ed. Edward Lucie-Smith (Baltimore, 1967).
[2] Most recently, Albert M. Lyles, _Methodism Mocked_ (London, 1960).
[3] Journal, 8 February 1753, quoted by A. R. Humphreys, _The Augustan World_ (New York, 1963), p. 20.
[4] The pseudonymous author, Peter Paragraph, is identified by Halkett and Laing, _Dictionary of Anonymous and Pseudonymous English Literature_, as James Makittrick Adair. Adair did write some works under that pseudonym but probably did not write _The Methodist and Mimic_. Lyles, _op. cit._, p. 129n., suggests that the author may be Samuel Foote, in whose play, _The Orators_, a character, Peter Paragraph, appears, probably representing George Faulkner. Robert Lloyd, in "The Cobbler of Cripplegate's Letter," hints that Peter Paragraph may be Bonnel Thornton.
[5] _The Critical Review_, XXIII (1766), pp. 75-77.
[6] _The Power of Satire_ (Princeton, 1960), p. 222 and _passim_.
[7] The Methodist was reviewed by _The Monthly Review_, XXV (1766), pp. 319-321, and _Gentleman's Magazine_, XXXVI (1766), p. 335. _Conversation_ was reviewed more favorably by _The Monthly Review_, XXXVII (1767), p. 394, and by _The Critical Review_ XXIV (1767), pp. 341-343. _The Critical Review_ compared him with Swift.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
This facsimile of _The Methodist_ (1766) is reproduced from a copy [840. k. 10. (18.)] in the British Museum by kind permission of the Trustees.
THE METHODIST.
A POEM.
BY E Lloyd [HW: Signature]
AUTHOR OF The Powers of the Pen, and The Curate.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR; And Sold by RICHARDSON and URQUHART, under the ROYAL-EXCHANGE, CORNHILL.
MDCCLXVI.
THE METHODIST.
Nothing, search all creation round, Nothing so _firmly good_ is found, Whose substance, with such closeness knit, _Corruption_'s _Touch_ will not admit; But, spite of all incroaching stains, Its native purity retains: Whose texture will nor warp, nor fade, Though moths and weather shou'd invade, Which _Time_'s sharp tooth cannot corrode, Proof against _Accident_ and _Mode_; And, maugre each assailing dart, Thrown by the hand of Force, or Art, Remains (let Fate do what it will) _Simple_ and _uncorrupted_ still.
_Virtue_, of constitution nice, Quickly degen'rates into _Vice_; Change but the _Person_, _Place_, and _Time_, And what was _Merit_ turns to _Crime_. _Wisdom_, which men with so much pain, With so much weariness attain, May in a little moment quit, And abdicate the throne of Wit, And leave, a vacant seat, the brain, For Folly to usurp and reign. Should you but discompose the tide, On which _Ideas_ wont to ride, _Ferment_ it with a _yeasty Storm_, Or with high _Floods of Wine_ deform; Altho' _Sir Oracle_ is he, Who is as wise, as wise can be, In one short minute we shall find The wise man gone, a fool behind. _Courage_, that is all nerve and heart, That dares confront Death's brandish'd dart, That dares to single Fight defy The stoutest Hector of the sky, Whose mettle ne'er was known to slack, Nor wou'd on thunder turn his back; How small a matter may controul, And sooth the fury of his soul! Shou'd this intrepid Mars, his clay Dilute with nerve-relaxing Tea, Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel, He is no longer fierce and cruel, But mild and gentle as a dove, The _Hero_'s melted down to _Love_. The _juices_ soften'd, (here we note More on the _juices_ than the _Coat_ Depends, to make a valiant Mars Rich in the heraldry of scars) The _Man_ is _soften'd_ too, and shews No fondness for a bloody nose. When _Georgy S--k----le shunn'd the Fray_, He'd swill'd a little too much Tea. _Chastity_ melts like sun-kiss'd snow, When Lust's hot wind begins to blow. Let but that _horrid Creature, Man_, Breathe on a lady thro' her fan, Her _Virtue_ thaws, and by and bye Will of the _falling Sickness_ die. Lo! _Beauty_, still more transitory, Fades in the mid-day of its glory! For _Nature_ in her kindness swore, That she who kills, shall kill no more; And in pure mercy does erase Each killing feature in the face; Plucks from the cheek the damask rose, E'en at the moment that it blows; Dims the bright lustre of those eyes To which the Gods wou'd sacrifice; Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue, And brushes off its honied dew; Flattens the proudly swelling chest, Furrows the round elastic breast, And all the Loves that on it play'd, Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid; Recalls those charms, which she design'd To _please_, and not _bewitch_ Mankind; But with too delicate a touch, Heightening the _Ornaments_ too much, She finds her daughters can convert Blessings to curses, good to hurt, Proof of parental love to give, She blots them out that Man may live.
The hour will come (which let not me Indulgent Nature, live to see!) The hour will come, when _Chloe_'s form Shall with its beauty feed the worm; That face where troops of Cupids throng, Whose charms first warm'd me into song, Shall wrinkle, wither, and decay, To Age, and to Disease, a prey! _Chloe_, in whom are so combin'd The charms of body and of mind, As might to Earth elicit _Jove_, Thinking his Heav'n well left for Love; Perfection as she is, the hour Will come, when she must feel the pow'r Of _Time_, and to his wither'd arms, Resign the rifling of her charms! Must veil her beauties in a cloud, A grave her bed, her robe a shroud! When all her glowing, vivid bloom, Must fade and wither in the tomb! When she who bears the ensigns now, Of Beauty's Priestess on her brow, Shall to th' abhorr'd embrace of Death Give up the sweetness of her breath! When worms--but stop, _Description_, there-- My heart cannot the picture bear-- Sickens to think there is a day, When _Chloe_ will be made a prey To Death, a piece-meal feast for him With rav'nous jaw to tear each limb, And feature after feature eat, While _Beauty_ only serves for _Meat_-- Wretched to know that this is true, Forbear t' anticipate the view! Hence, _Observation_!--take your leave!-- And kindly, _Memory_, deceive! And when some forty years are fled, And age has on her beauties fed, Dear _Self-Delusion_! lend thy skill To fancy she is _Chloe_ still!
_Cities_ and _Empires_ will decay, And to _Corruption_ fall a prey! _Athens_, of arts the native land, Cou'd not the stroke of Time withstand; There Serpents hiss, and ravens croak, Where _Socrates_ and _Plato_ spoke.
Proud _Troy_ herself (as all things must) Is crumbled into native dust; Is now a pasture, where the beast Strays for his vegetable feast, Old _Priam_'s royal palace now May couch the ox, the ass, the cow.--
_Rome_, city of imperial worth, The mighty mistress of the earth; _Rome_, that gave law to all the world, Is now to blank Destruction hurl'd!-- Is now a sepulchre, a tomb, To tell the stranger, "Here was _Rome_."--
View the _West Abbey_! there we see How frail a thing is royalty! Where crowns and sceptres worms supply, And kings and queens, like lumber lie. The _Tombs themselves_ are worn away, And own the empire of _Decay_, Mouldering like the royal dust, Which to preserve they have in trust. Nor has the _Marble_ more withstood The rage of _Time_, than _Flesh and Blood_! The _King of Stone_ is worn away, As well as is the _King of Clay_-- Here lies a _King without a Nose_, And there a _Prince without his Toes_; Here on her back a _Royal Fair_ Lies, but a little worse for wear; Those lips, whose touch cou'd almost turn Old age to youth, and make it burn; To which young kings were proud to kneel, Are kick'd by every Schoolboy's heel; Struck rudely by the _Showman's Wand_, And crush'd by every callous Hand: Here a _puissant Monarch_ frowns In menace high to rival Crowns; He threatens--but will do no harm-- Our _Monarch_ has not left an arm. Thus all _Things_ feel the gen'ral curse, _That all Things must with Time grow worse_.
But your Philosophers will say, _Best Things grow worst when they decay_. And many facts they have at hand To prove it, shou'd you proofs demand. As if _Corruption_ shut her jaw, And scorn'd to cram her filthy maw, With aught but dainties rich and rare, And morsels of the choicest fare; As garden Birds are led to bite, Where'er the fairest fruits invite. If _Phoebus'_ rays too fiercely burn, The _richest Wines_ to _sourest_ turn: And they who living _highly fed_, Will breed a _Pestilence when dead_. Thus _Aldermen_, who at each Feast, Cram Tons of Spices from the East, Whose leading wish, and only plan, Is to learn how to _pickle Man_; Who more than vie with _AEgypt_'s art, And make themselves a _human Tart_, A _walking Pastry-Shop_, a _Gut_, Shambles by Wholesale to inglut; And gorge each high-concocted Mess The art of Cookery can dress: Yet spite of all, when _Death_ thinks fit To take them off, lest t' other bit Shou'd burst these _living Mummies_, able Neither to eat, nor quit the Table; Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout, To fetch them by the Shoulders out; Tho' living they were _Salt_ and _Spice_, The carcase is not over nice; And all may find, who have a _Nose_, _Dead Aldermen_ are not a rose.
This reas'ning only serves to shew, The world call'd _Natural_, is so. But various instances proclaim, 'Tis in the _moral World_ the same. Thus _Woman_, Nature's _chastest_ work, _Lust-struck_, out-paramours the Turk; Tho' _gentle_ as the suckling Child, _Enrag'd_, than famish'd Wolves more wild; A more fell minister of _Death_-- _Rime_ gives the instance in _Mackbeth_.
_Reason herself_, that _sober Dame_, So mild, so temperate, so tame, Her head once turn'd, and giddy grown, Raving with phrenzy not her own, Plays madder pranks, more full of spleen Than any Hoyden of sixteen. Whether she burns with _Love_ or _Hate_, Or grows with _baseless Hopes_ elate, With _Desperation_ is forlorn, Or with imagin'd horrors torn, If on _Ambition_'s swelling tide, Her crazy bark from side to side, Reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost, Or in the _Gulph of Pride_ is lost; Whate'er the _leading Passion_ be, That works the Soul's anxiety, In each _Extreme_ th' effect is bad, _Sense_ grows diseas'd, and _Reason_ mad.
Why shou'd the Muse of _Angels_ tell Turn'd into _Devils_ when they fell? Why search the Chronicles of _Hell_, While _Earth_ examples it as well? Why talk of _Satan_, while we see Each day some new Apostacy? _Tories_ to _Whigs_ convert, and _Whigs_, _Mere Ministerial Whirlegigs_, Turn'd by the hand of _Int'rest_, take The _Tory-part_, for Lucre's sake. _Patriots_ turn _Placemen_, and support Against their Country's good the Court; Are bought with _Pensions_ to retire, When drooping Kingdoms most require Their aid----Tho' here the Muse wou'd fain _Except_ ONE of the _pension'd Train_, (_One_ meritorious 'bove the rest, A _patriot Minister_, confest) Yet strictest honour can't acquit That _Pensioner_, who once was _P----_. Instance on instance to my view Come rushing, of the changeling crew, That I could quarrel with my Nature, To think that Man is such a Creature-- And are we all a fickle tribe, Venal to ev'ry golden bribe? Is there not one of honour found, In all the List of _Placemen_ found? Yes--_one_ there is, in perils tried, Yet never known to _change his Side_, Or _Principles_--nor think it strange, He ne'er had _Principles_ to change, And for a _Side_ (the proof is new) He's _none_, because that _he has two_. Throw him from _Party_'s giddy heights, A _Cat in Politics_ he lights Ever upon his feet; his heart Clings both to _Whig_ and _Tory-part_; Is _this_, is _that_, is _both_, or _neither_, And still keeps shifting with the Weather. Who does not know that _T--s--d_'s he, That reads the _Book of Ministry_?
Thus let us turn where'er we will, _Each Machiavel_'s a _Changeling_ still. But tho' among all _Nature_'s works The seed of foul _Corruption_ lurks, Yet no where is it known to bear So vile a Crop on Ground so fair, As when upon _Religion_'s root _It raises Diabolic Fruit_.
When the Almighty Father's Love Call'd Things to Being, from above Millions of winged _Blessings_ flew, Sent from his right hand, to bedew The new-born Earth, and from their wings Shed good on all _created Things_. Precious and various tho' the store Which down to Earth these Legates bore, That _Heav'nly Spark_ we _Reason call_, Was far the richest boon of all.
By _this_ we find _th' Almighty Cause_ From whom the World its Being draws; _By whom Earth_'s plenteous Table's spread, At which each living Creature's fed; _Who_ gave the _Breath of Life_, and whence This fine _Variety_ of _Sense_; _Whose Hands_ unfold the azure sky, Sublimely pleasing to _the Eye_; _Who_ tun'd the feather'd Songster's throat, Giving such softness to his note, To fill the _Ear_ with dulcet sound, And pour sweet Music all around; Who on the teeming Branches plac'd Such various Fruit to please the _Taste_; What bounteous Hand perfum'd the _Rose_, And ev'ry scented Flow'r that blows, And wafts its fragrance thro' the Vale, Courting the _Smell_ in ev'ry gale, To _whom_ it is we owe so much Substantial pleasure in the _Touch_; And _whence_, superior to the whole, Those raptures that transport _the Soul_; _This_ gives our Gratitude to glow To him, from whom such Blessings flow; This teaches Man his _moral Part_, And grafts _Religion_ in the Heart.
_Glory to God, good Will to Man, And Peace on Earth_, compos'd the plan, For which _Religion_ first came down, And brought to Earth a _heav'nly Crown_. Better her Purpose to complete, And _Satan_'s Malice to defeat, A Troop of _holy Genii_ came, Co-workers in the glorious Scheme. To each a scroll the Goddess gave, On which these lines She did engrave: "Go, teach the sons of Men to raise Their voice unto their _Maker_'s praise. Go, call forth _Charity_ to meet Distress that seeks her in the Street; Bid her the lame with Legs supply, And be unto the blind an Eye; A Mantle o'er the naked throw, And reach a healing hand to Woe; Visit the bed where Sickness lies, And wipe the tears from Orphans eyes; Bid her Affliction's hour beguile, And teach the tear-worn Cheek to smile; Bid her send Comfort to expell Grief from the lonely Widow's Cell; Make blunt the arrows of Mischance, And ope the eyes of Ignorance; To those lost Pilgrims point the Way, Who in _Sin_'s tenfold Darkness stray, Recall them from _Hell_'s thickest night, And shew _Salvation_'s glorious Light; For thus the World that Peace shall find, For which it was by _God_ design'd."--
Such the commands _Religion_ gave, When first she came the World to save, Such the attendants in her Train, When She began her holy Reign. And when _Messiah_'s gracious Love Urg'd him to leave the _Realms_ above, Urg'd him to quit his _heav'nly Throne_, His People's Trespass to atone, And, tho' so long they had withstood His Will, to wash them with his Blood; The great Command he did renew, To _give to God, and Man his due_; Bade the bright _Sun of Faith_ arise, And open'd Heav'n to mortal eyes, Leaving _Religion_ on the Earth, More fair and pure than at her Birth.--
How mutilated now and marr'd, Deform'd, distorted, mangled, scarr'd! Thro' _modern Conventicles_ trace The Goddess, you'll not know her face: The _holy Genii_ all are fled, And _Sprites_ and _Dev'ls_ come in their stead. And now a counterfeiting Dame Usurps _Religion_'s sacred Name, But no more like in _Heart_ or _Face_, Than _F--x_'s deeds to deeds of Grace. Visit her at her _T-tt--m_ Seat, You'll find she is an errant Cheat. For _Satan_, Man's invet'rate foe, Whose greatest joy is human woe, Repining at the heav'nly Plan, That promis'd so much Good to Man, Us'd all his Malice, Wit, and Pow'r, The World's great Blessings to devour. Well the _malicious Spirit_ knew Whence _Man_ his chief resources drew Of Happiness, and saw confest, Where all was good, _Religion_ best; And at her unpolluted Heart He aim'd his most envenom'd Dart. He knew the Interest of _Hell_ Cou'd never on the _Earth_ go well, While _pure Religion_ did maintain O'er Man a sanctimonious reign. With her he wag'd malicious War, He might, if not destroy her, mar Her Face; might with false Lights misguide, And make her Combat on his side. Highly did his _Ambition_ burn Heav'n's Arms against itself to turn. Nor would his _Malice_ triumph less, To _damn_ where _God_ design'd to _bless_.
For this _the Fiend_ to Earth ascends, To try his Int'rest with his Friends. Long in his fiery Chariot hurl'd, He had explor'd the pendent World; Long had he search'd without avail, Each _Meeting_, _Dungeon_, _Court_, and _Jail_, Each _Mart of Villainy_, where _Vice_ Presides, and _Virtue_ bears no Price, Where _Fraud_, _Hypocrisy_, and _Lies_ Are selling while the Devil buys. Long had he search'd, but could not find An _Agent_ suited to his Mind, Who cou'd transact his Business well, And do on Earth the work of Hell; That he might at his leisure go, And manage his Affairs below.--
Tir'd and despairing of a Friend On whom he safely might depend, At _T-tt--m_ he alights from Air-- _Magus_, that _Sorcerer_, was there. Pleas'd _Satan_ somewhat nearer drew, Look'd thro' him at a single view, Bless'd his good Luck, and grinn'd aghast-- "'Tis well, for I have found at last, The Thing I long have sought, in _Thee_, _An Agent in Iniquity_. Thus let me mark Thee for my own, And from henceforth for _mine_ be known."
Then with out-stretched claws his Eyes He _twisted_ diff'rent ways--the _Skies_ Are watch'd by _one_, and (strange to tell!) The _other_ is the Guard of _Hell_. Then thus--"'Tis fit thy Eyes shou'd roll, _Cross_ as the purpose of thy Soul, Fit that they look a diff'rent way, Like what You _do_, and what You _say_; Thy _Eye-balls_ now are pois'd and hung, As even as thy _Heart_ and _Tongue_-- Prosper--to _me_, to _Hell_ (he cried) Be true, but false to all beside. _Riches are mine_--I will repay For ev'ry Soul you lead astray-- Give out thyself a Light to shew Which way 'tis best to Heav'n to go; But lead the Pilgrims wrong, and shine An _Ignis fatuus_ of mine-- Draw them thro' bog, thro' brake, thro' mire, I'll dry them at a _rousing Fire_."
_Magus_ complacent smil'd--his Eyes Twinkled with signs of Joy, one flies Upward, and t'other down, like Scales, Where this ascends, when that prevails-- Then _thrice_ he turn'd upon his heel, And swore Allegiance to the _De'el_--
Right faithfully his _Oath_ he kept, And might each Night before he slept Boast of his labours to maintain, And spread abroad his _Master_'s Reign; Might boast the magic of his Rod To whip away the _Love of God_, For all of _God_ he makes appear Has nought to _love_, but all to _fear_. That debt, which _Gratitude_ each day Paying, wou'd still own much to pay; Instead of _Duty_ freely paid, A _Tyrant_'s _hard Exaction_'s made. Fitted the simple to cajole, First of his Wits, and then his Soul, He urges fifty false Pretences, Preaching his Hearers from their Senses. He knows his _Master_'s Realm so well, His Sermons are a _Map of Hell_, An _Ollio_ made of _Conflagration_, Of _Gulphs of Brimstone_, and _Damnation_, _Eternal Torments_, _Furnace_, _Worm_, _Hell-Fire_, a _Whirlwind_, and a _Storm_, With _Mammon_, _Satan_, and _Perdition_, And _Beelzebub_ to help the Dish on; _Belial_ and _Lucifer_, and all The _nick-Names_ which _old Nick_ we call-- But he has ta'en especial care, To have nor _Sense_ nor _Reason_ there. A thousand scorching Words beside, Over his tongue as glibly slide, Familiar as a glass of wine, Or a Tobacco-pipe on mine; That You wou'd swear he was compleater, Than _Powell_, as a _Fire-Eater_.
Virgins he will seduce astray, Only to shew the shortest Way To _Heaven_, and because it lies Above the _Zodiac_ in the Skies, That they _may better see the Track_, He lays them down _upon their Back_. Domestic Peace he can destroy, And the confusion view with Joy, Children from Parents he can draw, What's _Conscience_?--he is safe from _Law_-- The closest Union can divide, Take Husbands from their Spouses' side, But it turns out to better Use, Wives from their Husbands to seduce; And as their Journey lies _up-Hill_, Ev'ry Incumbrance were an Ill; And lest their Speed shou'd be withstood, He takes their _Money_--_for their Good_.
Such is the Agent _Satan_ chose, _Religion_'s Progress to oppose-- Too great the Task for _one_ was thought, And _under-Agents_ must be sought-- On this high Enterprize intent, A troop of _evil Sprites_ he sent, Commission'd, wheresoe'er they found _Hearts hollow, rotten, and unsound_, Within those Breasts accurs'd to dwell, Teaching the Liturgy of _Hell_. Big with the Charge th' infernal Crew To their belov'd Appointment flew; With busy search thro' ev'ry Class, Thro' ev'ry Rank of Men they pass, In ev'ry Class of Men they find Some _Hearts_ corrupted to their Mind, Ev'ry Profession they explore, Ev'ry Profession gives them more; The higher Functions ransack'd, now Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty Brow Is search'd, and in them all were found, _Some hollow, rotten, and unsound_. In each depraved Bosom dwell These _Sprites_, nor miss their native _Hell_. Hence ev'ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce, Start into Preachers all at once. Hence Ignorance of ev'ry size, Of ev'ry shape Wit can devise, Altho' so dull it hardly knows, Which are its Fingers, which its Toes, Which is the left Hand, which the Right, When it is Day, or when 'tis Night, Shall yet pretend to keep the Key Of _God_'s dark Secrets, and display His _hidden Mysteries_, as free As if _God_'s _privy Council_ He, Shall to his Presence rush, and dare To raise a _pious Riot_ there.