Part 11

[Footnote 11: ANNA.]

[Footnote 12: MASHAM.]

[Footnote 13: Lady Masham's maiden name.]

[embedded footnote 1: She had red hair, _post_, 165. ]

[embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.]

CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD 1711-12

This day (the year I dare not tell) Apollo play'd the midwife's part; Into the world Corinna fell, And he endued her with his art.

But Cupid with a Satyr comes; Both softly to the cradle creep; Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums, While the poor child lay fast asleep.

Then Cupid thus: "This little maid Of love shall always speak and write;" "And I pronounce," the Satyr said, "The world shall feel her scratch and bite."

Her talent she display'd betimes; For in a few revolving moons, She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes, And all her gestures were lampoons.

At six years old, the subtle jade Stole to the pantry-door, and found The butler with my lady's maid: And you may swear the tale went round.

She made a song, how little miss Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad: And how, when master went to p--, Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.

At twelve, a wit and a coquette; Marries for love, half whore, half wife; Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt; Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.

Her common-place book all gallant is, Of scandal now a cornucopia; She pours it out in Atalantis Or memoirs of the New Utopia.

[Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la Rivière Manley, a political writer, who was born about 1672, and died in July, 1724. The work by which she became famous was "Secret memoirs and manners of several persons of quality of both sexes, from the New Atalantis." She was Swift's amanuensis and assistant in "The Examiner," and succeeded him as Editor. In his Journal to Stella, Jan. 26, 1711-12, he writes: "Poor Mrs. Manley, the author, is very ill of a dropsy and sore leg; the printer tells me he is afraid she cannot live long. I am heartily sorry for her. She has very generous principles for one of her sort; and a great deal of good sense and invention: She is about forty, very homely and very fat." Swift's subsequent severe attack upon her in these verses can only be accounted for, but cannot be excused by, some change in his political views. See "The Tatler," Nos. 35, 63, _edit. 1786.--W. E. B._]

THE FABLE OF MIDAS.[1] 1711-12

Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.

Midas, we are in story told,[2] Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold: He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: A codling, ere it went his lip in, Would straight become a golden pippin. He call'd for drink; you saw him sup Potable gold in golden cup: His empty paunch that he might fill, He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill. Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, Or't had been happy for gold-finders: He cock'd his hat, you would have said Mambrino's[3] helm adorn'd his head; Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay On magazines of corn or hay, Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead Of paltry provender and bread; Hence, we are by wise farmers told[4] Old hay is equal to old gold:[5] And hence a critic deep maintains We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains. This fool had got a lucky hit; And people fancied he had wit, Two gods their skill in music tried And both chose Midas to decide: He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed, And gave it for Pan's oaten reed: The god of wit, to show his grudge, Clapt asses' ears upon the judge, A goodly pair, erect and wide, Which he could neither gild nor hide. And now the virtue of his hands Was lost among Pactolus' sands, Against whose torrent while he swims The golden scurf peels off his limbs: Fame spreads the news, and people travel From far, to gather golden gravel; Midas, exposed to all their jeers, Had lost his art, and kept his ears. This tale inclines the gentle reader To think upon a certain leader; To whom, from Midas down, descends That virtue in the fingers' ends. What else by perquisites are meant, By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.? By places and commissions sold, And turning dung itself to gold? By starving in the midst of store, As t'other Midas did before? None e'er did modern Midas chuse Subject or patron of his muse, But found him thus their merit scan, That Phoebus must give place to Pan: He values not the poet's praise, Nor will exchange his plums [6] for bays. To Pan alone rich misers call; And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL. Here English wits will be to seek, Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek. Besides, it plainly now appears Our Midas, too, has ass's ears: Where every fool his mouth applies, And whispers in a thousand lies; Such gross delusions could not pass Thro' any ears but of an ass. But gold defiles with frequent touch, There's nothing fouls the hand so much; And scholars give it for the cause Of British Midas' dirty paws; Which, while the senate strove to scour, They wash'd away the chemic power.[7] While he his utmost strength applied, To swim against this popular tide, The golden spoils flew off apace, Here fell a pension, there a place: The torrent merciless imbibes Commissions, perquisites, and bribes, By their own weight sunk to the bottom; Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em! And Midas now neglected stands, With ass's ears, and dirty hands.

[Footnote 1: This cutting satire upon the Duke of Marlborough was written about the time when he was deprived of his employments. See Journal to Stella, Feb. 14, 1711-12, "Prose Works," ii, 337.]

[Footnote 2: Ovid, "Met.," lib. xi; Hyginus, "Fab." 191.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Almonte and Mambrino, two Saracens of great valour, had each a golden helmet. Orlando Furioso took Almonte's, and his friend Rinaldo that of Mambrino. "Orlando Furioso," Canto I, St. 28. And readers of "Don Quixote" may remember how the knight argued with Sancho Panza that the barber's bason was the helmet of Mambrino.--"Don Quixote," pt. I, book 3, ch. 7.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Stella.]

[Footnote 5: The Duke of Marlborough was accused of having received large sums, as perquisites, from the contractors, who furnished bread, forage, etc., to the army.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Scott prints this word "plumes," substituting a false meaning for the real point of the poem.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 7: The result of the investigations of the House of Commons was the removal of the Duke of Marlborough from his command, and all his employments.--_Scott_.]

TOLAND'S INVITATION TO DISMAL[1] TO DINE WITH THE CALVES’ HEAD CLUB

Written A.D. 1712.--_Stella._ Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5.

Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe "The sober Earl of Nottingham, Of sober sire descended."--HOR., _Odes_, ii, 4. From these points of his character, we may estimate the severity of the following satire, which represents this pillar of High-Church principles as invited by the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th January, by attending the Calves' Head Club.--_Scott_.

If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine Upon a single dish, and tavern wine, Toland to you this invitation sends, To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends. Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes, Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes. To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare, Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share: When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell, How by brave hands the royal traitor fell; The meat shall represent the tyrant's head, The wine, his blood our predecessors shed; Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings, We toast, Confusion to the race of kings! At monarchy we nobly show our spight, And talk, what fools call treason, all the night. Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk, Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk? Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face, And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place: By force of wine, ev'n Scarborough is brave, Hal[2] grows more pert, and Somers not so grave: Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense, Montague learning, Bolton eloquence: Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand; And Lincoln then imagines he has land. My province is, to see that all be right, Glasses and linen clean, and pewter bright; From our mysterious club to keep out spies, And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise. You shall be coupled as you best approve, Seated at table next the man you love. Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place; Wharton, unless prevented by a whore, Will hardly fail; and there is room for more; But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink; And honest Harry is too apt to stink. Let no pretence of bus'ness make you stay; Yet take one word of counsel[3] by the way. If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad; He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud, Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers; But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs, Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there; Then order Squash to call a hackney chair.

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_. See Journal to Stella, July 1, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, 375; and ix, 256, 287.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Scott prints "comfort."--_Forster_.]

PEACE AND DUNKIRK

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL 1712

To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."

Spite of Dutch friends and English foes, Poor Britain shall have peace at last: Holland got towns, and we got blows; But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast. We have got it in a string, And the Whigs may all go swing, For among good friends I love to be plain; All their false deluded hopes Will, or ought to end in ropes; "But the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

Sunderland’s run out of his wits, And Dismal double Dismal looks; Wharton can only swear by fits, And strutting Hal is off the hooks; Old Godolphin, full of spleen, Made false moves, and lost his Queen: Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane: But a Prince of high renown Swore he'd rather lose a crown, "Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."

Our merchant-ships may cut the line, And not be snapt by privateers. And commoners who love good wine Will drink it now as well as peers: Landed men shall have their rent, Yet our stocks rise _cent, per cent._ The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: We'll bring on us no more debts, Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes; "And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

The towns we took ne'er did us good: What signified the French to beat? We spent our money and our blood, To make the Dutchmen proud and great: But the Lord of Oxford swears, Dunkirk never shall be theirs. The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill A good health to General Hill: "For the Queen now enjoys her own again."

HORACE, EPIST. I, VII IMITATION OF HORACE TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]

Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall, Cheap'ning old authors on a stall. The priest was pretty well in case, And show'd some humour in his face; Look'd with an easy, careless mien, A perfect stranger to the spleen; Of size that might a pulpit fill, But more inclining to sit still. My lord, (who, if a man may say't, Loves mischief better than his meat), Was now disposed to crack a jest And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest. (This Lewis was a cunning shaver, And very much in Harley's favour)-- In quest who might this parson be, What was his name, of what degree; If possible, to learn his story, And whether he were Whig or Tory. Lewis his patron's humour knows; Away upon his errand goes, And quickly did the matter sift; Found out that it was Doctor Swift, A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat; Which made his brethren of the gown Take care betimes [3] to run him down: No libertine, nor over nice, Addicted to no sort of vice; Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought; Not rich, but owed no man a groat; In state opinions à la mode, He hated Wharton like a toad; Had given the faction many a wound, And libell'd all the junto round; Kept company with men of wit, Who often father'd what he writ: His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street, But seldom rose above a sheet: Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp Did very much his genius cramp; And, since he could not spend his fire, He now intended[4] to retire. Said Harley, "I desire to know From his own mouth, if this be so: Step to the doctor straight, and say, I'd have him dine with me to-day." Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant, Nor could believe my lord had sent; So never offer'd once to stir, But coldly said, "Your servant, sir!" "Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd: "He does; with insolence and pride." Some few days after, Harley spies The doctor fasten'd by the eyes At Charing-cross, among the rout, Where painted monsters are hung out: He pull'd the string, and stopt his[5] coach, Beck'ning the doctor to approach. Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide, Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side, And offer'd many a lame excuse: He never meant the least abuse-- "My lord--the honour you design'd-- Extremely proud--but I had dined-- I am sure I never should neglect-- No man alive has more respect"-- Well, I shall think of that no more, If you'll be sure to come at four." The doctor now obeys the summons, Likes both his company and commons; Displays his talent, sits till ten; Next day invited, comes again; Soon grows domestic, seldom fails, Either at morning or at meals; Came early, and departed late; In short, the gudgeon took the bait. My lord would carry on the jest, And down to Windsor takes his guest. Swift much admires the place and air, And longs to be a Canon there; In summer round the Park to ride, In winter--never to reside. A Canon!--that's a place too mean: No, doctor, you shall be a Dean; Two dozen canons round your stall, And you the tyrant o'er them all: You need but cross the Irish seas, To live in plenty, power, and ease. Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse, With borrow'd money in his purse, Travels at least a hundred leagues, And suffers numberless fatigues. Suppose him now a dean complete, Demurely[8] lolling in his seat, And silver verge, with decent pride, Stuck underneath his cushion side. Suppose him gone through all vexations, Patents, instalments, abjurations, First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats; Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats. (The wicked laity’s contriving To hinder clergymen from thriving.) Now all the doctor's money’s spent, His tenants wrong him in his rent, The farmers spitefully combine, Force him to take his tithes in kine, And Parvisol[9] discounts arrears By bills, for taxes and repairs. Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd, Not knowing where to turn him next, Above a thousand pounds in debt, Takes horse, and in a mighty fret Rides day and night at such a rate, He soon arrives at Harley's gate; But was so dirty, pale, and thin, Old Read[10] would hardly let him in. Said Harley, "Welcome, rev'rend dean! What makes your worship look so lean? Why, sure you won't appear in town In that old wig and rusty gown? I doubt your heart is set on pelf So much that you neglect yourself. What! I suppose, now stocks are high, You've some good purchase in your eye? Or is your money out at use?"-- "Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!" The doctor in a passion cry'd, "Your raillery is misapply'd; Experience I have[11] dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat: But you resolved to have your jest, And 'twas a folly to contest; Then, since you now have done your worst, Pray leave me where you found me first."

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer's secretary.]

[Footnote 3: By time.--_Stella_.]

[Footnote 4: Is now contented,--_Stella._]

[Footnote 5: The.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 6: Would.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 7: By.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 8: "Devoutly" is the word in Stella's transcript: but it must be admitted that "demurely" is more in keeping.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 9: The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.]

[Footnote 10: The lord treasurer's porter.]

[Footnote 11: I have experience.--_Stella_.]

THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF

1713

A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author's from London.--_Dublin Edition_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * By an old ---- pursued, A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2] By dull divines, who look with envious eyes On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise; And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod, Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God. So clowns on scholars as on wizards look, And take a folio for a conj'ring book. Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime: Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme; Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; He reconcil'd divinity and wit: He moved and bow'd, and talk'd with too much grace; Nor show'd the parson in his gait or face; Despised luxurious wines and costly meat; Yet still was at the tables of the great; Frequented lords; saw those that saw the queen; At Child's or Truby's,[3] never once had been; Where town and country vicars flock in tribes, Secured by numbers from the laymen's gibes; And deal in vices of the graver sort, Tobacco, censure, coffee, pride, and port. But, after sage monitions from his friends, His talents to employ for nobler ends; To better judgments willing to submit, He turns to politics his dang'rous wit. And now, the public Int'rest to support, By Harley Swift invited, comes to court; In favour grows with ministers of state; Admitted private, when superiors wait: And Harley, not ashamed his choice to own, Takes him to Windsor in his coach alone. At Windsor Swift no sooner can appear, But St. John comes, and whispers in his ear: The waiters stand in ranks: the yeomen cry, _Make room_, as if a duke were passing by. Now Finch[4] alarms the lords: he hears for certain This dang'rous priest is got behind the curtain. Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves That Swift oils many a spring which Harley moves. Walpole and Aislaby,[5] to clear the doubt, Inform the Commons, that the secret's out: "A certain doctor is observed of late To haunt a certain minister of state: From whence with half an eye we may discover The peace is made, and Perkin must come over." York is from Lambeth sent, to show the queen A dang'rous treatise[6] writ against the spleen; Which, by the style, the matter, and the drift, 'Tis thought could be the work of none but Swift. Poor York! the harmless tool of others' hate; He sues for pardon,[7] and repents too late. Now angry Somerset her vengeance vows On Swift's reproaches for her ******* spouse:[8] From her red locks her mouth with venom fills, And thence into the royal ear instils. The queen incensed, his services forgot, Leaves him a victim to the vengeful Scot.[9] Now through the realm a proclamation spread, To fix a price on his devoted head.[10] While innocent, he scorns ignoble flight; His watchful friends preserve him by a sleight. By Harley's favour once again he shines; Is now caress'd by candidate divines, Who change opinions with the changing scene: Lord! how were they mistaken in the dean! Now Delawar[11] again familiar grows; And in Swift's ear thrusts half his powder'd nose. The Scottish nation, whom he durst offend, Again apply that Swift would be their friend.[12] By faction tired, with grief he waits awhile, His great contending friends to reconcile; Performs what friendship, justice, truth require: What could he more, but decently retire?

[Footnote 1: Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the Deanery of Canterbury, to the Archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February 2, 1712-13. According to Dr. Swift's account, the archbishop had represented him to the queen as a person that was not a Christian; the great lady [the Duchess of Somerset] had supported the aspersion; and the queen, upon such assurances, had given away the bishopric contrary to her majesty's first intentions [which were in favour of Swift]. See Orrery's "Remarks on the Life of Swift," p. 48.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Queen Anne.]

[Footnote 3: Coffeehouses frequented by the clergy. In the preceding poem, Swift gives the same trait of his own character: "A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat." His feeling towards his order was exactly the reverse of his celebrated misanthropical expression of hating mankind, but loving individuals. On the contrary, he loved the church, but disliked associating with individual clergymen.--_Scott._ See his letter to Pope, Sept. 29, 1725, in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 53, and the unjust remarks of the commentators.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Daniel Finch, Earl of Nottingham, who made a speech in the House of Lords against the author.]

[Footnote 5: John Aislaby, then M.P. for Ripon. They both spoke against him in the House of Commons.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 6: The Tale of a Tub.]

[Footnote 7: He sent a message to the author to desire his pardon, and that he was very sorry for what he had said and done.]

[Footnote 8: Insert _murder'd_. The duchess's first husband, Thomas Thynne, Esq., was assassinated in Pall Mall by banditti, the emissaries of Count Königsmark. As the motive of this crime was the count's love to the lady, with whom Thynne had never cohabited, Swift seems to throw upon her the imputation of being privy to the crime. See the "Windsor Prophecy," _ante_, p. 150.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: The Duke of Argyle.]

[Footnote 10: For writing "The Public Spirit of the Whigs."]

[Footnote 11: Then lord-treasurer of the household, who cautiously avoided Swift while the proclamation was impending.]

[Footnote 12: He was visited by the Scots lords more than ever.]

THE FAGOT[1]

Written in the year 1713, when the Queen's ministers were quarrelling among themselves.