Part 16

_M_. I own, 'tis not my bread and butter, But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter? Why ever in these raging fits, Damning to hell the Jacobites? When if you search the kingdom round, There's hardly twenty to be found; No, not among the priests and friars---- _T_. 'Twixt you and me, G--d d--n the liars! _M_. The Tories are gone every man over To our illustrious house of Hanover; From all their conduct this is plain; And then---- _T_. G--d d--n the liars again! Did not an earl but lately vote, To bring in (I could cut his throat) Our whole accounts of public debts? _M_. Lord, how this frothy coxcomb frets! [_Aside._ _T_. Did not an able statesman bishop This dangerous horrid motion dish up As Popish craft? did he not rail on't? Show fire and fagot in the tail on't? Proving the earl a grand offender; And in a plot for the Pretender; Whose fleet, 'tis all our friends' opinion, Was then embarking at Avignon? _M_. These wrangling jars of Whig and Tory, Are stale and worn as Troy-town story: The wrong, 'tis certain, you were both in, And now you find you fought for nothing. Your faction, when their game was new, Might want such noisy fools as you; But you, when all the show is past, Resolve to stand it out the last; Like Martin Marall,[2] gaping on, Not minding when the song is done. When all the bees are gone to settle, You clatter still your brazen kettle. The leaders whom you listed under, Have dropt their arms, and seized the plunder; And when the war is past, you come To rattle in their ears your drum: And as that hateful hideous Grecian, Thersites,[3] (he was your relation,) Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those With whom he served, than by his foes; So thou art grown the detestation Of all thy party through the nation: Thy peevish and perpetual teasing With plots, and Jacobites, and treason, Thy busy never-meaning face, Thy screw'd-up front, thy state grimace, Thy formal nods, important sneers, Thy whisperings foisted in all ears, (Which are, whatever you may think, But nonsense wrapt up in a stink,) Have made thy presence, in a true sense, To thy own side, so d--n'd a nuisance, That, when they have you in their eye, As if the devil drove, they fly. _T_. My good friend Mullinix, forbear; I vow to G--, you're too severe: If it could ever yet be known I took advice, except my own, It should be yours; but, d--n my blood! I must pursue the public good: The faction (is it not notorious?) [4]Keck at the memory of Glorious:[5] 'Tis true; nor need I to be told, My _quondam_ friends are grown so cold, That scarce a creature can be found To prance with me his statue round. The public safety, I foresee, Henceforth depends alone on me; And while this vital breath I blow, Or from above or from below, I'll sputter, swagger, curse, and rail, The Tories' terror, scourge, and flail. _M_. Tim, you mistake the matter quite; The Tories! you are their delight; And should you act a different part, Be grave and wise, 'twould break their heart. Why, Tim, you have a taste you know, And often see a puppet-show: Observe the audience is in pain, While Punch is hid behind the scene: But, when they hear his rusty voice, With what impatience they rejoice! And then they value not two straws, How Solomon decides the cause, Which the true mother, which pretender Nor listen to the witch of Endor. Should Faustus with the devil behind him Enter the stage, they never mind him: If Punch, to stir their fancy, shows In at the door his monstrous nose, Then sudden draws it back again; O what a pleasure mixt with pain! You every moment think an age, Till he appears upon the stage: And first his bum you see him clap Upon the Queen of Sheba's lap: The Duke of Lorraine drew his sword; Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd, Reviled all people in his jargon, And sold the King of Spain a bargain; St. George himself he plays the wag on, And mounts astride upon the dragon; He gets a thousand thumps and kicks, Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks; In every action thrusts his nose; The reason why, no mortal knows: In doleful scenes that break our heart, Punch comes like you, and lets a fart. There's not a puppet made of wood, But what would hang him if they could; While, teasing all, by all he's teased, How well are the spectators pleased! Who in the motion[6] have no share, But purely come to hear and stare; Have no concern for Sabra's sake, Which gets the better, saint or snake, Provided Punch (for there's the jest) Be soundly maul'd, and plague the rest. Thus, Tim, philosophers suppose, The world consists of puppet-shows; Where petulant conceited fellows Perform the part of Punchinelloes: So at this booth which we call Dublin, Tim, thou'rt the Punch to stir up trouble in: You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout, Put all your brother puppets out, Run on in a perpetual round, To tease, perplex, disturb, confound: Intrude with monkey grin and clatter To interrupt all serious matter; Are grown the nuisance of your clan, Who hate and scorn you to a man: But then the lookers-on, the Tories, You still divert with merry stories, They would consent that all the crew Were hang'd before they'd part with you. But tell me, Tim, upon the spot, By all this toil what hast thou got? If Tories must have all the sport, I fear you'll be disgraced at court. _T_. Got? D--n my blood! I frank my letters, Walk to my place before my betters; And, simple as I now stand here, Expect in time to be a peer-- Got? D--n me! why I got my will! Ne'er hold my peace, and ne'er stand still: I fart with twenty ladies by; They call me beast; and what care I? I bravely call the Tories Jacks, And sons of whores--behind their backs. But could you bring me once to think, That when I strut, and stare, and stink, Revile and slander, fume and storm, Betray, make oath, impeach, inform, With such a constant loyal zeal To serve myself and commonweal, And fret the Tories' souls to death, I did but lose my precious breath; And, when I damn my soul to plague 'em, Am, as you tell me, but their May-game; Consume my vitals! they shall know, I am not to be treated so; I'd rather hang myself by half, Than give those rascals cause to laugh. But how, my friend, can I endure, Once so renown'd, to live obscure? No little boys and girls to cry, "There's nimble Tim a-passing by!" No more my dear delightful way tread Of keeping up a party hatred? Will none the Tory dogs pursue, When through the streets I cry halloo? Must all my d--n me's! bloods and wounds! Pass only now for empty sounds? Shall Tory rascals be elected, Although I swear them disaffected? And when I roar, "a plot, a plot!" Will our own party mind me not? So qualified to swear and lie, Will they not trust me for a spy? Dear Mullinix, your good advice I beg; you see the case is nice: O! were I equal in renown, Like thee to please this thankless town! Or blest with such engaging parts To win the truant schoolboys' hearts! Thy virtues meet their just reward, Attended by the sable guard. Charm'd by thy voice, the 'prentice drops The snow-ball destined at thy chops; Thy graceful steps, and colonel's air, Allure the cinder-picking fair. _M_. No more--in mark of true affection, I take thee under my protection; Your parts are good, 'tis not denied; I wish they had been well applied. But now observe my counsel, _(viz.)_ Adapt your habit to your phiz; You must no longer thus equip ye, As Horace says _optat ephippia;_ (There's Latin, too, that you may see How much improved by Dr.--) I have a coat at home, that you may try: 'Tis just like this, which hangs by geometry; My hat has much the nicer air; Your block will fit it to a hair; That wig, I would not for the world Have it so formal, and so curl'd; 'Twill be so oily and so sleek, When I have lain in it a week, You'll find it well prepared to take The figure of toupee and snake. Thus dress'd alike from top to toe, That which is which 'tis hard to know, When first in public we appear, I'll lead the van, keep you the rear: Be careful, as you walk behind; Use all the talents of your mind; Be studious well to imitate My portly motion, mien, and gait; Mark my address, and learn my style, When to look scornful, when to smile; Nor sputter out your oaths so fast, But keep your swearing to the last. Then at our leisure we'll be witty, And in the streets divert the city; The ladies from the windows gaping, The children all our motions aping. Your conversation to refine, I'll take you to some friends of mine, Choice spirits, who employ their parts To mend the world by useful arts; Some cleansing hollow tubes, to spy Direct the zenith of the sky; Some have the city in their care, From noxious steams to purge the air; Some teach us in these dangerous days How to walk upright in our ways; Some whose reforming hands engage To lash the lewdness of the age; Some for the public service go Perpetual envoys to and fro: Whose able heads support the weight Of twenty ministers of state. We scorn, for want of talk, to jabber Of parties o'er our bonnyclabber; Nor are we studious to inquire, Who votes for manors, who for hire: Our care is, to improve the mind With what concerns all human kind; The various scenes of mortal life; Who beats her husband, who his wife; Or how the bully at a stroke Knock'd down the boy, the lantern broke. One tells the rise of cheese and oatmeal; Another when he got a hot-meal; One gives advice in proverbs old, Instructs us how to tame a scold; One shows how bravely Audouin died, And at the gallows all denied; How by the almanack 'tis clear, That herrings will be cheap this year. _T_. Dear Mullinix, I now lament My precious time so long mispent, By nature meant for nobler ends: O, introduce me to your friends! For whom by birth I was design'd, Till politics debased my mind; I give myself entire to you; G---d d--n the Whigs and Tories too!

[Footnote 1: This is a severe satire upon Richard Tighe, Esq., whom the Dean regarded as the officious informer against Sheridan, in the matter of the choice of a text for the accession of George I, Swift had faithfully promised to revenge the cause of his friend, and has certainly fully redeemed his pledge, in this and the following pasquinades. Mad Mullinix, or Molyneux, was a sort of crazy beggar, a Tory politician in His madness, who haunted the streets of Dublin about this time. In a paper subscribed Dr. Anthony, apparently a mountebank of somewhat the same description, the doctor is made to vindicate his loyalty and regard for the present constitution in church and state, by declaring that he always acted contrary to the politics of Captain John Molyneux. The immediate occasion for publication is assigned in the Intelligencer, in which paper the dialogue first appeared.--_Scott_.

"Having lately had an account, that a certain person of some distinction swore in a public coffee-house, that party should never die while he lived, (although it has been the endeavour of the best and wisest among us, to abolish the ridiculous appellations of Whig and Tory, and entirely to turn our thoughts to the good of our prince and constitution in church and state,) I hope those who are well-wishers to our country, will think my labour not ill-bestowed, in giving this gentleman's principles the proper embellishments which they deserve; and since Mad Mullinix is the only Tory now remaining, who dares own himself to be so, I hope I may not be censured by those of his party, for making him hold a dialogue with one of less consequence on the other side. I shall not venture so far as to give the Christian nick-name of the person chiefly concerned, lest I should give offence, for which reason I shall call him Timothy, and leave the rest to the conjecture of the world."--_Intelligencer_, No. viii. See an account of this paper in "Prose Works," ix, 311.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: "Sir Martin Marall," one of Dryden's most successful comedies. See Malone's "Life of Dryden," p. 93.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: "Ilias," lib. ii, 211, _seq.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: To reach at vomiting.]

[Footnote 5: King William III.]

[Footnote 6: Old word for a puppet-show.--_Scott_.]

TIM AND THE FABLES

MY meaning will be best unravell'd, When I premise that Tim has travell'd. In Lucas's by chance there lay The Fables writ by Mr. Gay. Tim set the volume on a table, Read over here and there a fable: And found, as he the pages twirl'd, The monkey who had seen the world; (For Tonson had, to help the sale, Prefix'd a cut to every tale.) The monkey was completely drest, The beau in all his airs exprest. Tim, with surprise and pleasure staring, Ran to the glass, and then comparing His own sweet figure with the print, Distinguish'd every feature in't, The twist, the squeeze, the rump, the fidge in all, Just as they look'd in the original. "By --," says Tim, and let a f--t, "This graver understood his art. 'Tis a true copy, I'll say that for't; I well remember when I sat for't. My very face, at first I knew it; Just in this dress the painter drew it." Tim, with his likeness deeply smitten, Would read what underneath was written, The merry tale, with moral grave; He now began to storm and rave: "The cursed villain! now I see This was a libel meant at me: These scribblers grow so bold of late Against us ministers of state! Such Jacobites as he deserve-- D--n me! I say they ought to starve."

TOM AND DICK[1]

Tim[2] and Dick had equal fame, And both had equal knowledge; Tom could write and spell his name, But Dick had seen the college.

Dick a coxcomb, Tom was mad, And both alike diverting; Tom was held the merrier lad, But Dick the best at farting.

Dick would cock his nose in scorn, But Tom was kind and loving; Tom a footboy bred and born, But Dick was from an oven.[3]

Dick could neatly dance a jig, But Tom was best at borees; Tom would pray for every Whig, And Dick curse all the Tories.

Dick would make a woful noise, And scold at an election; Tom huzza'd the blackguard boys, And held them in subjection.

Tom could move with lordly grace, Dick nimbly skipt the gutter; Tom could talk with solemn face, But Dick could better sputter.

Dick was come to high renown Since he commenced physician; Tom was held by all the town The deeper politician.

Tom had the genteeler swing, His hat could nicely put on; Dick knew better how to swing His cane upon a button.

Dick for repartee was fit, And Tom for deep discerning; Dick was thought the brighter wit, But Tom had better learning.

Dick with zealous noes and ayes Could roar as loud as Stentor, In the house 'tis all he says; But Tom is eloquenter.

[Footnote 1: This satire is a parody on a song then fashionable.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Thomas Prendergast. See _post_, "The Legion Club."]

[Footnote 3: Tighe's ancestor was a contractor for furnishing the Parliament forces with bread during the civil wars. Hence Swift calls him Elsewhere Pistorides. See "Prose Works," vii, 233; and in "The Legion Club," Dick Fitzbaker.--_W.E.B_.]

DICK, A MAGGOT

As when, from rooting in a bin, All powder'd o'er from tail to chin, A lively maggot sallies out, You know him by his hazel snout: So when the grandson of his grandsire Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir, With powder'd rump and back and side, You cannot blanch his tawny hide; For 'tis beyond the power of meal The gipsy visage to conceal; For as he shakes his wainscot chops, Down every mealy atom drops, And leaves the tartar phiz in show, Like a fresh t--d just dropp'd on snow.

CLAD ALL IN BROWN

TO DICK[1]

Foulest brute that stinks below, Why in this brown dost thou appear? For wouldst thou make a fouler show, Thou must go naked all the year. Fresh from the mud, a wallowing sow Would then be not so brown as thou.

'Tis not the coat that looks so dun, His hide emits a foulness out; Not one jot better looks the sun Seen from behind a dirty clout. So t--ds within a glass enclose, The glass will seem as brown as those.

Thou now one heap of foulness art, All outward and within is foul; Condensed filth in every part, Thy body's clothed like thy soul: Thy soul, which through thy hide of buff Scarce glimmers like a dying snuff.

Old carted bawds such garments wear, When pelted all with dirt they shine; Such their exalted bodies are, As shrivell'd and as black as thine. If thou wert in a cart, I fear Thou wouldst be pelted worse than they're.

Yet, when we see thee thus array'd, The neighbours think it is but just, That thou shouldst take an honest trade, And weekly carry out the dust. Of cleanly houses who will doubt, When Dick cries "Dust to carry out!"

[Footnote 1: This is a parody on the tenth poem of Cowley's "Mistress," entitled, "Clad all in White."--_Scott_.]

DICK'S VARIETY

Dull uniformity in fools I hate, who gape and sneer by rules; You, Mullinix, and slobbering C---- Who every day and hour the same are That vulgar talent I despise Of pissing in the rabble's eyes. And when I listen to the noise Of idiots roaring to the boys; To better judgment still submitting, I own I see but little wit in: Such pastimes, when our taste is nice, Can please at most but once or twice. But then consider Dick, you'll find His genius of superior kind; He never muddles in the dirt, Nor scours the streets without a shirt; Though Dick, I dare presume to say, Could do such feats as well as they. Dick I could venture everywhere, Let the boys pelt him if they dare, He'd have them tried at the assizes For priests and jesuits in disguises; Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender, And listing troops for the Pretender. But Dick can f--t, and dance, and frisk, No other monkey half so brisk; Now has the speaker by his ears, Next moment in the House of Peers; Now scolding at my Lady Eustace, Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.[1] Presto! begone; with t'other hop He's powdering in a barber's shop; Now at the antichamber thrusting His nose, to get the circle just in; And damns his blood that in the rear He sees a single Tory there: Then woe be to my lord-lieutenant, Again he'll tell him, and again on't[2]

[Footnote 1: "Dick Tighe and his wife lodged over against us; and he has been seen, out of our upper windows, beating her two or three times; ... I am told she is the most urging, provoking devil that ever was born; and he a hot whiffling puppy, very apt to resent."--Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 229.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Farquhar, who inscribed his play of the "Inconstant" to Richard Tighe, has painted him in very different colours from those of the Dean's satirical pencil. Yet there may be discerned, even in that dedication, the oulines of a light mercurial character, capable of being represented as a coxcomb or fine gentleman, as should suit the purpose of the writer who was disposed to immortalize him.--_Scott_.]

TRAULUS. PART I

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN[1] 1730

_Tom_. Say, Robin, what can Traulus[2] mean By bellowing thus against the Dean? Why does he call him paltry scribbler, Papist, and Jacobite, and libeller, Yet cannot prove a single fact?

_Robin_. Forgive him, Tom: his head is crackt.

_T_. What mischief can the Dean have done him, That Traulus calls for vengeance on him? Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it In vain against the people's favourite? Revile that nation-saving paper, Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?

_R_. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain; Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.

_T_. Such friendship never man profess'd, The Dean was never so caress'd; For Traulus long his rancour nursed, Till, God knows why, at last it burst. That clumsy outside of a porter, How could it thus conceal a courtier?

_R_. I own, appearances are bad; Yet still insist the man is mad.

_T_. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows How to distinguish friends from foes; And though perhaps among the rout He wildly flings his filth about, He still has gratitude and sap'ence, To spare the folks that give him ha'pence; Nor in their eyes at random pisses, But turns aside, like mad Ulysses; While Traulus all his ordure scatters To foul the man he chiefly flatters. Whence comes these inconsistent fits?

_R_. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits.

_T_, Agreed: and yet, when Towzer snaps At people's heels, with frothy chaps, Hangs down his head, and drops his tail, To say he's mad will not avail; The neighbours all cry, "Shoot him dead, Hang, drown, or knock him on the head." So Traulus, when he first harangued, I wonder why he was not hang'd; For of the two, without dispute, Towzer's the less offensive brute.

_R_, Tom, you mistake the matter quite; Your barking curs will seldom bite And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter, He barks as fast as he can utter. He prates in spite of all impediment, While none believes that what he said he meant; Puts in his finger and his thumb To grope for words, and out they come. He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it, He fawns upon you in a minute: "Begs leave to rail, but, d--n his blood! He only meant it for your good: His friendship was exactly timed, He shot before your foes were primed: By this contrivance, Mr. Dean, By G--! I'll bring you off as clean--"[3] Then let him use you e'er so rough, "'Twas all for love," and that's enough. But, though he sputter through a session, It never makes the least impression: Whate'er he speaks for madness goes, With no effect on friends or foes.

_T_. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack Can set the mastiff on your back. I own, his madness is a jest, If that were all. But he's possest Incarnate with a thousand imps, To work whose ends his madness pimps; Who o'er each string and wire preside, Fill every pipe, each motion guide; Directing every vice we find In Scripture to the devil assign'd; Sent from the dark infernal region, In him they lodge, and make him legion. Of brethren he's a false accuser; A slanderer, traitor, and seducer; A fawning, base, trepanning liar; The marks peculiar of his sire. Or, grant him but a drone at best; A drone can raise a hornet's nest. The Dean had felt their stings before; And must their malice ne'er give o'er? Still swarm and buzz about his nose? But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes. A patriot is a dangerous post, When wanted by his country most; Perversely comes in evil times, Where virtues are imputed crimes. His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant; A traitor to the vices regnant. What spirit, since the world began, Could always bear to strive with man? Which God pronounced he never would, And soon convinced them by a flood. Yet still the Dean on freedom raves; His spirit always strives with slaves. 'Tis time at last to spare his ink, And let them rot, or hang, or sink.

[Footnote 1: Son of Dr. Charles Leslie.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 4: Joshua, Lord Allen. For particulars of the satire upon this individual, see "Advertisement by Swift in his defence against Joshua, Lord Allen," "Prose Works," vii, 168-175, and notes.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: This is the usual excuse of Traulus, when he abuses you to others without provocation.--_Swift_.]

TRAULUS. PART II