Part 22

[Footnote 2: Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: A phrase used in Ireland for a specious appearance of kindness without sincerity.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: A name used in Ireland for the English quartern.--_F._]

DR. SHERIDAN'S ANSWER

I'd have you to know, as sure as you're Dean, On Thursday my cask of Obrien I'll drain; If my wife is not willing, I say she's a quean; And my right to the cellar, egad, I'll maintain As bravely as any that fought at Dunblain: Go tell her it over and over again. I hope, as I ride to the town, it won't rain; For, should it, I fear it will cool my hot brain, Entirely extinguish my poetic vein; And then I should be as stupid as Kain, Who preach'd on three heads, though he mention'd but twain. Now Wardel's in haste, and begins to complain; Your most humble servant, dear Sir, I remain, T. S.--N.

Get Helsham, Walmsley, Delany, And some Grattans, if there be any:[1] Take care you do not bid too many.

[Footnote 1: _I.e._ in Dublin, for they were country clergy.--_F._]

DR. SWIFT'S REPLY

The verses you sent on the bottling your wine Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine; And I must confess, as a dean and divine, I think you inspired by the Muses all nine. I nicely examined them every line, And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine; O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine! With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine. I know they have many a wicked design; And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine. However, I wish, honest comrade of mine, You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine,[1] Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a swine; With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine, Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine; So I wish you were toothless, like Lord Masserine. But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,[2] I wish you would tell me which way you incline. If when you return your road you don't line, On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine, Wherever you bend, wherever you twine, In square, or in opposite, circle, or trine. Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine; I hope you have swill'd with new milk from the kine, As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine; And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline. If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyne; Or may your gown never be good Lutherine. The beef you have got I hear is a chine; But if too many come, your madam will whine; And then you may kiss the low end of her spine. But enough of this poetry Alexandrine; I hope you will not think this a pasquine.

[Footnote 1: The seat of Lady Mountcashel, near Dublin.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), an Italian poet noted for his satirical and licentious verse,--_W. E. B._]

A COPY OF A COPY OF VERSES FROM THOMAS SHERIDAN, CLERK, TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.[1]

Written July 15, 1721, at night.

I'd have you t' know, George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, That I've learned how verse t' compose trim, Much better b'half th'n you, n'r you, n'r him, And that I'd rid'cule their'nd your flam-flim. Ay b't then, p'rhaps, says you, t's a merry whim, With 'bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim, So th't I ought n't for t' be morose 'nd t' look grim, Think n't your 'p'stle put m' in a megrim; Though 'n rep't't'on day, I 'ppear ver' slim, Th' last bowl't Helsham's did m' head t' swim, So th't I h'd man' aches 'n v'ry scrubb'd limb, Cause th' top of th' bowl I h'd oft us'd t' skim; And b'sides D'lan' swears th't I h'd swall'w'd s'v'r'l brim- Mers, 'nd that my vis'ge's cov'r'd o'er with r'd pim- Ples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were ('s 'tis n't) 's strong's tim- Ber, 't must have ach'd. Th' clans of th' c'llege Sanh'drim, Pres'nt the'r humbl' and 'fect'nate respects; that’s t' say, D'ln', 'chlin, P. Ludl', Dic' St'wart, H'lsham, Capt'n P'rr' Walmsl', 'nd Long sh'nks Timm.[2]

[Footnote 1: For the persons here alluded to see "The Country Life," vol. i, p. 137.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Dr. James Stopford, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER

Dear Sheridan! a gentle pair Of Gaulstown lads (for such they are) Besides a brace of grave divines, Adore the smoothness of thy lines: Smooth as our basin's silver flood, Ere George had robb'd it of its mud; Smoother than Pegasus' old shoe, Ere Vulcan comes to make him new. The board on which we set our a--s, Is not so smooth as are thy verses; Compared with which (and that's enough) A smoothing-iron itself is rough. Nor praise I less that circumcision, By modern poets call'd elision, With which, in proper station placed, Thy polish'd lines are firmly braced.[1] Thus a wise tailor is not pinching, But turns at every seam an inch in: Or else, be sure, your broad-cloth breeches Will ne'er be smooth, nor hold their stitches. Thy verse, like bricks, defy the weather, When smooth'd by rubbing them together; Thy words so closely wedged and short are, Like walls, more lasting without mortar; By leaving out the needless vowels, You save the charge of lime and trowels. One letter still another locks, Each grooved and dovetail'd like a box; Thy muse is tuckt up and succinct; In chains thy syllables are linkt; Thy words together tied in small hanks, Close as the Macedonian phalanx;[2] Or like the _umbo_[3] of the Romans, Which fiercest foes could break by no means. The critic, to his grief will find, How firmly these indentures bind. So, in the kindred painter's art, The shortening is the nicest part. Philologers of future ages, How will they pore upon thy pages! Nor will they dare to break the joints, But help thee to be read with points: Or else, to show their learned labour, you May backward be perused like Hebrew, In which they need not lose a bit Or of thy harmony or wit. To make a work completely fine, Number and weight and measure join; Then all must grant your lines are weighty Where thirty weigh as much as eighty; All must allow your numbers more, Where twenty lines exceed fourscore; Nor can we think your measure short, Where less than forty fill a quart, With Alexandrian in the close, Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long nose.[4]

[Footnote 1: In the Dublin edition: "Makes thy verse smooth, and makes them last."]

[Footnote 2: For a clear description of the phalanx, see Smith's "Greek and Roman Antiquities," p. 488.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The projection in the centre of the shield, which caused the missiles of the enemy to glance off. See Smith, as above, p. 298.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: See _post_, the poems on Dan Jackson's Picture.--_W. E. B._]

GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S INVITATION TO THOMAS SHERIDAN

Gaulstown, Aug. 2, 1721.

Dear Tom, this verse, which however the beginning may appear, yet in the end's good metre, Is sent to desire that, when your August vacation comes, your friends you'd meet here. For why should you stay in that filthy hole, I mean the city so smoky, When you have not one friend left in town, or at least not one that's witty, to joke w' ye? For as for honest John,[1] though I'm not sure on't, yet I'll be hang'd, lest he Be gone down to the county of Wexford with that great peer the Lord Anglesey.[2] O! but I forgot; perhaps, by this time, you may have one come to town, but I don't know whether he be friend or foe, Delany: But, however, if he be come, bring him down, and you shall go back in a fortnight, for I know there's no delaying ye. O! I forgot too: I believe there may be one more, I mean that great fat joker, friend Helsham, he That wrote the prologue,[3] and if you stay with him, depend on't, in the end, he'll sham ye. Bring down Longshanks Jim[4] too; but, now I think on't, he's not yet come from Courtown,[5] I fancy; For I heard, a month ago, that he was down there a-courting sly Nancy. However, bring down yourself, and you bring down all; for, to say it we may venture, In thee Delany's spleen, John's mirth, Helsham's jokes, and the soft soul of amorous Jemmy, centre.

POSTSCRIPT

I had forgot to desire you to bring down what I say you have, and you'll believe me as sure as a gun, and own it; I mean, what no other mortal in the universe can boast of, your own spirit of pun, and own wit. And now I hope you'll excuse this rhyming, which I must say is (though written somewhat at large) trim and clean; And so I conclude, with humble respects as usual Your most dutiful and obedient GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN.

[Footnote 1: Supposed to mean Dr. Walmsley.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Arthur, Earl of Anglesey.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 3: It was customary with Dr. Sheridan to have a Greek play acted by his head class, just before they entered the university; and, accordingly, in the year 1720, the Doctor having fixed on Hippolytus, writ a prologue in English, to be spoken by Master Thom. Putland, one of the youngest children he had in his school. The prologue was very neat and elegant, but extremely puerile, and quite adapted to the childhood of the speaker, who as regularly was taught and rehearsed his part as any of the upper lads did theirs. However, it unfortunately happened that Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, had promised Sheridan that he would go and see his lads perform the tragedy. Upon which Dr. Helsham writ another prologue, wherein he laughed egregiously at Sheridan's; and privately instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan. When the play was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and Master Putland began Helsham's prologue, and went through it to the amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was indeed highly complimented in Helsham's performance. When the play was over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan's prologue; but all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child's father, and Sheridan, could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said, promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and therefore insisted that he would keep his word.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.--_F._]

[Footnote 5: The seat of ---- Hussay, Esq., in the county of Kildare.--_F._]

TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.

UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES. BY DR. DELANY IN SHERIDAN'S NAME[1]

Hail, human compound quadrifarious, Invincible as wight Briareus![2] Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one, Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3] O may your vastness deign t' excuse The praises of a puny Muse, Unable, in her utmost flight, To reach thy huge colossian height! T' attempt to write like thee were frantic, Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic. Yet let me bless, in humbler strain, Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein, Pour'd out t' enrich thy native isle, As Egypt wont to be with Nile. O, how I joy to see thee wander, In many a winding loose meander, In circling mazes, smooth and supple, And ending in a clink quadruple; Loud, yet agreeable withal, Like rivers rattling in their fall! Thine, sure, is poetry divine, Where wit and majesty combine; Where every line, as huge as seven, If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven: Here all comparing would be slandering, The least is more than Alexandrine. Against thy verse Time sees with pain, He whets his envious scythe in vain; For though from thee he much may pare, Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. Thou hast alone the skill to feast With Roman elegance of taste, Who hast of rhymes as vast resources As Pompey's caterer of courses. O thou, of all the Nine inspired! My languid soul, with teaching tired, How is it raptured, when it thinks Of thy harmonious set of chinks; Each answering each in various rhymes, Like echo to St. Patrick's chimes! Thy Muse, majestic in her rage, Moves like Statira[5] on the stage; And scarcely can one page sustain The length of such a flowing train: Her train of variegated dye Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky; Alike they glow, alike they please, Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays. Thy verse--(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) To what, to what shall I compare it? 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, The famous statue of Laocoon. 'Tis like,--O yes, 'tis very like it, The long, long string, with which you fly kite. 'Tis like what you, and one or two more, Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour; And every couplet thou hast writ Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8]

[Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, "centumgeminus Briareus," Virg., "Aen.," vi, 287; also called Aegaeon, "centum cui brachia dicunt," Virg., "Aen.," x, 565; see Heyne's notes.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: A mythic king, having three bodies, whose arms were carried off by Hercules.--Lucr., v, 28, and Munro's note; Virg. "Aen.," vii, 662, and viii, 202:

"maxumus ultor Tergemini nece Geryonae spoliisque superbus Alcides aderat taurosque hac victor agebat Ingentis, vallemque boves amnemque tenebant."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Cambyses, the warrior king of Persia, whose name is the emblem of bravado.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Represented as the perfection of female beauty in "Cassandra," a romance by La Calprenède, romancier et auteur dramatique, 1610-1663,--_Larousse.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Iris, daughter of Thaumas, and the messenger of Juno, descending and returning on the rainbow.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: At Gaulstown there is so famous an echo, that if you repeat two lines of Virgil out of a speaking-trumpet, you may hear the nymph return them to your ear with great propriety and clearness.--_F._]

[Footnote 8: These words allude to their amusements with the echo, having no other signification but to express the sound of stones when beaten one against the other, returned by the echo.--_F._]

TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN IN CIRCLES BY DR. SWIFT

It never was known that circular letters, By humble companions were sent to their betters, And, as to the subject, our judgment, _meherc'le_, Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle. But now for your verses; we tell you, _imprimis_, The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is, That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound, And, before we find either, our noddles turn round. Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant, To give us your measures of line by a quadrant. But we took our dividers, and found your d--n'd metre, In each single verse, took up a diameter. But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre?[1] 'Twill appear to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd, For the chord of your circle is now in their hand. The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether, By which your jade Pegasus, fix'd in a tether, As his betters are used, shall be lash'd round the ring, Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string. Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass, To encroach on his art by writing of bombast; And has taken just now a firm resolution To answer your style without circumlocution. Lady Betty[2] presents you her service most humble, And is not afraid your worship will grumble, That she make of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam.[3] Which is all at present; and so I remain--

[Footnote 1: There were four human figures in the centre of the circular verses.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Miss Thomason, Lady Betty's daughter, then, perhaps, about a year old; afterwards married to Gustavus Lambert, Esq., of Paynstown, in the county of Meath.--_Scott._]

ON DR. SHERIDAN'S CIRCULAR VERSES BY MR. GEORGE ROCHFORT

With music and poetry equally blest, A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest: "Great author of harmony, verses, and light! Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write. Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day, My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away. Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains; Thy manual signet refuses to put To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut. Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want. Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine, O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine! With them I'm content thou shouldst make thy abode; But visit thy servant in jig or in ode; Make one work immortal: 'tis all I request." Apollo look'd pleased; and, resolving to jest, Replied, "Honest friend, I've consider'd thy case; Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face. Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great; Thy works shall continue; and here's the receipt. On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend: Write verses in circles: they never shall end."

ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND PAPER[1]

To fair Lady Betty Dan sat for his picture, And defied her to draw him so oft as he piqued her, He knew she'd no pencil or colouring by her, And therefore he thought he might safely defy her. Come sit, says my lady; then whips up her scissar, And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, sir. Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprise How she lengthen'd his chin, how she hollow'd his eyes; But flatter'd himself with a secret conceit, That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat. Lady Betty observed it, then pulls out a pin, And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin: And, to make roasted silk to resemble his raw-bone, She raised up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone; Till at length in exactest proportion he rose, From the crown of his head to the arch of his nose; And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all, 'Tis certain the copy had outdone the original. Well, that's but my outside, says Dan, with a vapour; Say you so? says my lady; I've lined it with paper.

PATR. DELANY _sculpsit_.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 96. Dan Jackson's nose seems to have been a favourite subject for raillery, as in this and some following pieces.--_W. E. B._]

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Clarissa draws her scissars from the case To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson's face; One sloping cut made forehead, nose, and chin, A nick produced a mouth, and made him grin, Such as in tailor's measure you have seen. But still were wanting his grimalkin eyes, For which gray worsted stocking paint supplies. Th' unravell'd thread through needle's eye convey'd, Transferr'd itself into his pasteboard head. How came the scissars to be thus outdone? The needle had an eye, and they had none. O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan-- You'll swear the pasteboard was the better man. "The devil!" says he, "the head is not so full!" Indeed it is--behold the paper skull.

THO. SHERIDAN _sculp._

ON THE SAME

If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.

THO. SHERIDAN _sculp._

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Dan's evil genius in a trice Had stripp'd him of his coin at dice. Chloe, observing this disgrace, On Pam cut out his rueful face. By G--, says Dan, 'tis very hard, Cut out at dice, cut out at card!

G. ROCHFORT _sculp._

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Whilst you three merry poets traffic To give us a description graphic Of Dan's large nose in modern sapphic;

I spend my time in making sermons, Or writing libels on the Germans, Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments.

But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort, And look in English, French, and Scotch for't, At last I'm fairly forced to botch for't.

Bid Lady Betty recollect her, And tell, who was it could direct her To draw the face of such a spectre?

I must confess, that as to me, sirs, Though I ne'er saw her hold the scissars, I now could safely swear it is hers.

'Tis true, no nose could come in better; 'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter, Which all may handle, none can flatter.

Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows, That not the wisest mortal knows What fortune may befall his nose.

Show me the brightest Irish toast, Who from her lover e'er could boast Above a song or two at most:

For thee three poets now are drudging all, To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all, Both of the picture and original.

Thy nose's length and fame extend So far, dear Dan, that every friend Tries who shall have it by the end.

And future poets, as they rise, Shall read with envy and surprise Thy nose outshining Celia's eyes.

JON. SWIFT.

DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE

My verse little better you'll find than my face is; A word to the wise--_ut pictura poesis_.

Three merry lads, with envy stung, Because Dan's face is better hung, Combined in verse to rhyme it down, And in its place set up their own; As if they'd run it down much better By number of their feet in metre. Or that its red did cause their spite, Which made them draw in black and white. Be that as 'twill, this is most true, They were inspired by what they drew. Let then such critics know, my face Gives them their comeliness and grace: While every line of face does bring A line of grace to what they sing. But yet, methinks, though with disgrace Both to the picture and the face, I should name them who do rehearse The story of the picture farce; The squire, in French as hard as stone, Or strong as rock, that's all as one, On face on cards is very brisk, sirs, Because on them you play at whisk, sirs. But much I wonder, why my crany Should envied be by De-el-any: And yet much more, that half-namesake Should join a party in the freak. For sure I am it was not safe Thus to abuse his better half, As I shall prove you, Dan, to be, Divisim and conjunctively. For if Dan love not Sherry, can Sherry be anything to Dan? This is the case whene'er you see Dan makes nothing of Sherry; Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en Then Dan would be poor Sherridane 'Tis hard then he should be decried By Dan, with Sherry by his side. But, if the case must be so hard, That faces suffer by a card, Let critics censure, what care I? Backbiters only we defy, Faces are free from injury.

MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY

You say your face is better hung Than ours--by what? by nose or tongue? In not explaining you are wrong to us, sir.

Because we thus must state the case, That you have got a hanging face, Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace of noose, sir.

But yet be not cast down: I see A weaver will your hangman be: You'll only hang in tapestry with many;

And then the ladies, I suppose, Will praise your longitude of nose, For latent charms within your clothes, dear Danny.

Thus will the fair of every age From all parts make their pilgrimage, Worship thy nose with pious rage of love, sir:

All their religion will be spent About thy woven monument, And not one orison be sent to Jove, sir.

You the famed idol will become, As gardens graced in ancient Rome, By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom of night.[1]

O happy Dan! thrice happy sure! Thy fame for ever shall endure, Who after death can love secure at sight.

So far I thought it was my duty To dwell upon thy boasted beauty; Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye in answer

To that part where you carry on This paradox, that rock and stone In your opinion, are all one: How can, sir,

A man of reasoning so profound So stupidly be run a-ground, As things so different to confound t'our senses?

Except you judged them by the knock Of near an equal hardy block; Such an experimental stroke convinces.

Then might you be, by dint of reason, A proper judge on this occasion; 'Gainst feeling there's no disputation, is granted:

Therefore to thy superior wit, Who made the trial, we submit; Thy head to prove the truth of it we wanted.