Part 19

WITH singing of ballads, and crying of news, With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes, Did Hartley set out, both shoeless and shirtless, And moneyless too, but not very dirtless; Two pence he had gotten by begging, that's all; One bought him a brush, and one a black ball; For clouts at a loss he could not be much, The clothes on his back as being but such; Thus vamp'd and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and brush, He gallantly ventured his fortune to push: Vespasian[2] thus, being bespatter'd with dirt, Was omen'd to be Rome's emperor for't. But as a wise fiddler is noted, you know, To have a good couple of strings to one bow; So Hartley[3] judiciously thought it too little, To live by the sweat of his hands and his spittle: He finds out another profession as fit, And straight he becomes a retailer of wit. One day he cried--"Murders, and songs, and great news!" Another as loudly--"Here blacken your shoes!" At Domvile's[4] full often he fed upon bits, For winding of jacks up, and turning of spits; Lick'd all the plates round, had many a grubbing, And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing; Such bastings effect upon him could have none: The dog will be patient that's struck with a bone. Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal So expert and so active at brushes and ball, Was moved with compassion, and thought it a pity A youth should be lost, that had been so witty: Without more ado, he vamps up my spark, And now we'll suppose him an eminent clerk! Suppose him an adept in all the degrees Of scribbling _cum dasho_, and hooking of fees; Suppose him a miser, attorney, _per_ bill, Suppose him a courtier--suppose what you will-- Yet, would you believe, though I swore by the Bible, That he took up two news-boys for crying the libel?

[Footnote 1: Variation from Ovid, "Met.," ii, 541: "Qui color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: So in _Hudibras_, Pt. II, Canto II: "_Vespasian_ being dawb'd with Durt, Was destin'd to the Empire for't And from a Scavinger did come To be a mighty Prince in _Rome_."]

[Footnote 3: Squire Hartley Hutcheson, "that zealous prosecutor of hawkers and libels," who signed Faulkner's committal to prison. See "Prose Works," vii, 234.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Sir T. Domvile, patentee of the Hanaper office.--_F._]

A FRIENDLY APOLOGY FOR A CERTAIN JUSTICE OF PEACE BY WAY OF DEFENCE OF HARTLEY HUTCHESON, ESQ. BY JAMES BLACK-WELL, OPERATOR FOR THE FEET

But he by bawling news about, And aptly using brush and clout, A justice of the peace became, To punish rogues who do the same.

I sing the man of courage tried, O'errun with ignorance and pride, Who boldly hunted out disgrace With canker'd mind, and hideous face; The first who made (let none deny it) The libel-vending rogues be quiet. The fact was glorious, we must own, For Hartley was before unknown, Contemn'd I mean;--for who would chuse So vile a subject for the Muse? 'Twas once the noblest of his wishes To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes, For which he'd parch before the grate, Or wind the jack's slow-rising weight, (Such toils as best his talents fit,) Or polish shoes, or turn the spit; But, unexpectedly grown rich in Squire Domvile's family and kitchen, He pants to eternize his name, And takes the dirty road to fame; Believes that persecuting wit Will prove the surest way to it; So with a colonel[1] at his back, The Libel feels his first attack; He calls it a seditious paper, Writ by another patriot Drapier; Then raves and blunders nonsense thicker Than alderman o'ercharged with liquor: And all this with design, no doubt, To hear his praises hawk'd about; To send his name through every street, Which erst he roam'd with dirty feet; Well pleased to live in future times, Though but in keen satiric rhymes. So, Ajax, who, for aught we know, Was justice many years ago, And minding then no earthly things, But killing libellers of kings; Or if he wanted work to do, To run a bawling news-boy through; Yet he, when wrapp'd up in a cloud, Entreated father Jove aloud, Only in light to show his face, Though it might tend to his disgrace. And so the Ephesian villain [2] fired The temple which the world admired, Contemning death, despising shame, To gain an ever-odious name.

[Footnote 1: Colonel Ker, a Scotchman, lieutenant-colonel to Lord Harrington's regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against The printer.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: Herostratus, who set fire to the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, 356 B.C.--_W. E. B._]

AY AND NO

A TALE FROM DUBLIN.[1] WRITTEN IN 1737

At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean, Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean: Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold." "Ay, ay," quoth the Dean, "the cause is old gold." "No, no," quoth the Primate, "if causes we sift, This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift." The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case; And nothing of that ever troubled your grace. Though with your state sieve your own notions you split, A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit. It's matter of weight, and a mere money job; But the lower the coin the higher the mob. Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk, That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke. The Irish dear joys have enough common sense, To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence. It is a pity a prelate should die without law; But if I say the word--take care of Armagh!"

[Footnote 1: In 1737, the gold coin had sunk in current value to the amount of 6_d._ in each guinea, which made it the interest of the Irish dealers to send over their balances in silver. To bring the value of the precious metals nearer to a par, the Primate, Boulter, who was chiefly trusted by the British Government in the administration of Ireland, published a proclamation reducing the value of the gold coin threepence in each guinea. This scheme was keenly opposed by Swift; and such was the clamour excited against the archbishop, that his house was obliged to be guarded by soldiers. The two following poems relate to this controversy, which was, for the time it lasted, nearly as warm as that about Wood's halfpence. The first is said to be the paraphrase of a conversation which actually passed between Swift and the archbishop. The latter charged the Dean with inflaming the mob, "I inflame them?" retorted Swift, "were I to lift but a finger, they would tear you to pieces."--_Scott_.]

A BALLAD

Patrick astore,[1] what news upon the town? By my soul there's bad news, for the gold she was pull'd down, The gold she was pull'd down, of that I'm very sure, For I saw'd them reading upon the towlsel[2] _doore_. Sing, och, och, hoh, hoh.[3]

Arrah! who was him reading? 'twas _jauntleman_ in ruffles, And Patrick's bell she was ringing all in muffles; She was ringing very sorry, her tongue tied up with rag, Lorsha! and out of her shteeple there was hung a black flag.[4] Sing, och, &c.

Patrick astore, who was him made this law? Some they do say, 'twas the big man of straw;[5] But others they do say, that it was Jug-Joulter,[6] The devil he may take her into hell and _Boult-her!_ Sing, och, &c.

Musha! Why Parliament wouldn't you maul, Those _carters_, and paviours, and footmen, and all;[7] Those rascally paviours who did us undermine, Och ma ceade millia mollighart[8] on the feeders of swine! Sing, och, &c.

[Footnote 1: Astore, means my dear, my heart.]

[Footnote 2: The Tholsel, where criminals for the city were tried, and where proclamations, etc., were posted. It was invariably called the Touls'el by the lower class.]

[Footnote 3: It would appear that the chorus here introduced, was intended to chime with the howl, the _ululatus_, or funeral cry, of the Irish.]

[Footnote 4: Swift, it is said, caused a muffled peal to be rung from the steeple of St. Patrick's, on the day of the proclamation, and a black flag to be displayed from its battlements.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: The big man of straw, means the Duke of Dorset, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; he had only the name of authority, the essential power being vested in the primate.]

[Footnote 6: Jug-Joulter means Primate _Boulter_, whose name is played upon in the succeeding line. In consequence of the public dissatisfaction expressed at the lowering the gold coin, the primate became very unpopular.]

[Footnote 7: "Footmen" alludes to a supporter of the measure, said to have been the son or grandson of a servant.]

[Footnote 8: Means _"my hundred thousand hearty curses_ on the feeders of swine."]

A WICKED TREASONABLE LIBEL[1]

While the king and his ministers keep such a pother, And all about changing one whore for another, Think I to myself, what need all this strife, His majesty first had a whore of a wife, And surely the difference mounts to no more Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore. Now give me your judgment a very nice case on; Each queen has a son, say which is the base one? Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales, To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails; Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines To unite these two Protestant parallel lines, From a left-handed wife, and one turn'd out of doors, Two reputed king's sons, both true sons of whores; No law can determine it, which is first oars. But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master'd; For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard.

[Footnote 1: So the following very remarkable verses are entitled, in a copy which exists in the Dean's hand-writing bearing the following characteristic memorandum on the back: "A traitorous libel, writ several years ago. It is inconsistent with itself. Copied September 9, 1735. I wish I knew the author, that I might hang him." And at the bottom of the paper is subjoined this postscript. "I copied out this wicked paper many years ago, in hopes to discover the traitor of an author, that I might inform against him." For the foundation of the scandals current during the reign of George I, to which the lines allude, see Walpole's Reminiscences of the Courts of George the first and second, chap, ii, at p. cii, Walpole's Letters, edit. Cunningham.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAMS AGAINST CARTHY BY SWIFT AND OTHERS

CHARLES CARTHY, a schoolmaster in the city of Dublin, was publisher of a translation of Horace, in which the Latin was printed on the one side, and the English on the other, whence he acquired the name of Mezentius, alluding to the practice of that tyrant, who chained the dead to the living. Carthy was almost continually involved in satirical skirmishes with Dunkin, for whom Swift had a particular friendship, and there is no doubt that the Dean himself engaged in the warfare.--_Scott_.

ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE

Containing, on one side, the original Latin, on the other, his own version.

This I may boast, which few e'er could, Half of my book at least is good.

ON CARTHY MINOTAURUS

How monstrous Carthy looks with Flaccus braced, For here we see the man and there the beast.

ON THE SAME

Once Horace fancied from a man, He was transformed to a swan;[1] But Carthy, as from him thou learnest, Has made the man a goose in earnest.

[Footnote 1: "Jam jam residunt cruribus asperae Pelles, et album mutor in alitem Superne, nascunturque leves Per digitos humerosque plumae." Lib. ii, Carm. xx.]

ON THE SAME

Talis erat quondam Tithoni splendida conjux, Effulsit misero sic Dea juncta viro; Hunc tandem imminuit sensim longaeva senectus, Te vero extinxit, Carole, prima dies.

IMITATED

So blush'd Aurora with celestial charms, So bloom'd the goddess in a mortal's arms; He sunk at length to wasting age a prey, But thy book perish'd on its natal day.

AD HORATIUM CUM CARTHIO CONSTRICTUM

Lectores ridere jubes dum Carthius astat? Iste procul depellit olens tibi Maevius omnes: Sic triviis veneranda diu, Jovis inclyta proles Terruit, assumpto, mortales, Gorgonis ore.

IMITATED

Could Horace give so sad a monster birth? Why then in vain he would excite our mirth; His humour well our laughter might command, But who can bear the death's head in his hand?

AN IRISH EPIGRAM ON THE SAME

While with the fustian of thy book, The witty ancient you enrobe, You make the graceful Horace look As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1] Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount, And Helicon, for if this log Should stumble once into the fount, He'll make it muddy as a bog.

[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become proverbial.--_Scott._]

ON CARTHY'S TRANSLATION OF LONGINUS

High as Longinus to the stars ascends, So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.

RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA

Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras, Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.

ON THE SAME

What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then, Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.

CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY

For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy's works, as they did not sell.

I must confess that I was somewhat warm, I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm? My work he said could ne'er afford him meat, And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat!

TO CARTHY On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his Longinus.

Thus vagrant beggars, to extort By charity a mean support, Their sores and putrid ulcers show, And shock our sense till we bestow.

TO CARTHY On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems.

How different from thine is Dunkin's lot! Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not.

ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS

So witches bent on bad pursuits, Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.

TO CARTHY

Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light, Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight, But forced from their retirement into day, The tender embryos half unknown decay; Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare, Expire when first exposed to open air.

TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN

From the Gentleman's London Magazine for January.

My lines to him you give; to speak your due, 'Tis what no man alive will say of you. Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats, Known by the verse, yet better by the notes. Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass, But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass; So green in different lights may pass for blue, But what's dyed black will take no other hue.

UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR

You have undone Horace,--what should hinder Thy Muse from falling upon Pindar? But ere you mount his fiery steed, Beware, O Bard, how you proceed:-- For should you give him once the reins, High up in air he'll turn your brains; And if you should his fury check, 'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.

DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM

On one Delacourt's complimenting Carthy on his Poetry

Carthy, you say, writes well--his genius true, You pawn your word for him--he'll vouch for you. So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other's bail.

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN

Some ancient authors wisely write, That he who drinks will wake at night, Will never fail to lose his rest, And feel a streightness in his chest; A streightness in a double sense, A streightness both of breath and pence: Physicians say, it is but reasonable, He that comes home at hour unseasonable, (Besides a fall and broken shins, Those smaller judgments for his sins;) If, when he goes to bed, he meets A teasing wife between the sheets, 'Tis six to five he'll never sleep, But rave and toss till morning peep. Yet harmless Betty must be blamed Because you feel your lungs inflamed But if you would not get a fever, You never must one moment leave her. This comes of all your drunken tricks, Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks; Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery But like the prelate who lives yonder-a, And always cries he is like Cassandra; I always told you, Mr. Sheridan, If once this company you were rid on, Frequented honest folk, and very few, You'd live till all your friends were weary of you. But if rack punch you still would swallow, I then forewarn'd you what would follow. Are the Deanery sober hours? Be witness for me all ye powers. The cloth is laid at eight, and then We sit till half an hour past ten; One bottle well might serve for three If Mrs. Robinson drank like me. Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd To Robert to bring up a second; I hate to have it in my sight, And drink my share in perfect spite. If Robin brings the ladies word, The coach is come, I 'scape a third; If not, why then I fall a-talking How sweet a night it is for walking; For in all conscience, were my treasure able, I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable; It strikes eleven,--get out of doors.-- This is my constant farewell Yours, J. S.

October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.

You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the provost.

LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE

Resolve me this, ye happy dead, Who've lain some hundred years in bed, From every persecution free That in this wretched life we see; Would ye resume a second birth, And choose once more to live on earth?

[Footnote 1: Soon after Swift's acquaintance with Dr. Sheridan, they passed some days together at the episcopal palace in the diocess of Kilmore. When Swift was gone, it was discovered that he had written the following lines on one of the windows which look into the church-yard. In the year 1780, the late Archdeacon Caulfield wrote some lines in answer to both. The pane was taken down by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Kilmore, but it has been since restored.--_Scott._]

DR. SHERIDAN WROTE UNDERNEATH THE FOLLOWING LINES

Thus spoke great Bedel[1] from his tomb: "Mortal, I would not change my doom, To live in such a restless state, To be unfortunately great; To flatter fools, and spurn at knaves, To shine amidst a race of slaves; To learn from wise men to complain And only rise to fall again: No! let my dusty relics rest, Until I rise among the blest."

[Footnote 1: Bishop Bedel's tomb lies within view of the window.]

THE UPSTART

The following lines occur in the Swiftiana, and are by Mr. Wilson, the editor, ascribed to Swift.--_Scott._

"---- The rascal! that's too mild a name; Does he forget from whence he came? Has he forgot from whence he sprung? A mushroom in a bed of dung; A maggot in a cake of fat, The offspring of a beggar's brat; As eels delight to creep in mud, To eels we may compare his blood; His blood delights in mud to run, Witness his lazy, lousy son! Puff'd up with pride and insolence, Without a grain of common sense. See with what consequence he stalks! With what pomposity he talks! See how the gaping crowd admire The stupid blockhead and the liar! How long shall vice triumphant reign? How long shall mortals bend to gain? How long shall virtue hide her face, And leave her votaries in disgrace? --Let indignation fire my strains, Another villain yet remains-- Let purse-proud C----n next approach; With what an air he mounts his coach! A cart would best become the knave, A dirty parasite and slave! His heart in poison deeply dipt, His tongue with oily accents tipt, A smile still ready at command, The pliant bow, the forehead bland--" * * * * * * * * * *

ON THE ARMS OF THE TOWN OF WATERFORD[1]

--URBS INTACTA MANET--semper intacta manebit, Tangere crabrones quis bene sanus amat?

[Footnote 1: While viewing this town, the Dean observed a stone bearing the city arms, with the motto, URBS INTACTA MANET. The approach to this monument was covered with filth. The Dean, on returning to the inn, wrote the Latin epigram and added the English paraphrase, for the benefit, he said, of the ladies.--_Scott._]

TRANSLATION

A thistle is the Scottish arms, Which to the toucher threatens harms, What are the arms of Waterford, That no man touches--but a ----?

VERSES ON BLENHEIM[1]

Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas! MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.

See, here's the grand approach, That way is for his grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and there the clock, Observe the lion and the cock;[2] The spacious court, the colonnade, And mind how wide the hall is made; The chimneys are so well design'd, They never smoke in any wind: The galleries contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in; The council-chamber to debate, And all the rest are rooms of state. Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? I find, by all you have been telling, That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.

[Footnote 1: Built by Sir John Vanbrugh for the Duke of Marlborough. See vol. i, p. 74.--W.E..B_]

[Footnote 2: A monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock was placed over two of the portals of Blenheim House; "for the better understanding of which device," says Addison, "I must acquaint my English reader that a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the English nation," and compares it to a pun in an heroic poem. The "Spectator," No. 59.--_W. E. B._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] UPON THE LATE GRAND JURY

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year, Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near; To whom did he lose it?--A judge or a peer.[2] Which nobody can deny.

This very same conscience was sold in a closet, Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset, But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset. Which nobody can deny.

O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense, For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since, But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience. Which nobody can deny.

So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed, Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead, Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned. Which nobody can deny.

But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collogue, Since selling de contre be now all de vogue, You be but von fool after seventeen rogue. Which nobody can deny.

Some sell it for profit, 'tis very well known, And some but for sitting in sight of the throne, And other some sell what is none of their own. Which nobody can deny.

But Philpot, and Corker, and Burrus, and Hayze, And Rayner, and Nicholson, challenge our praise, With six other worthies as glorious as these. Which nobody can deny.

There's Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood, And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good, All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood. Which nobody can deny.

But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on't in time, Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme, We'll paint 'em in colours as black as their crime. Which nobody can deny.

But P----r and copper L----h we'll excuse, The commands of your betters you dare not refuse, Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes. Which nobody can deny.

[Footnote 1: This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer. It would seem they had not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of England, appear on the face of the verdict. The dissenters seem to have been of French extraction. The ballad has every mark of being written by Swift.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Whitshed or Carteret.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by his opposition to Wood's coinage.

BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL