Part 23

In one assertion you're to blame, Where Dan and Sherry's made the same, Endeavouring to have your name refined, sir:

You'll see most grossly you mistook, If you consult your spelling-book, (The better half you say you took,) you'll find, sir,

S, H, E, she--and R, I, ri, Both put together make Sherry; D, A, N, Dan--makes up the three syllables;

Dan is but one, and Sherry two, Then, sir, your choice will never do; Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you the tables.

[Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens. Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., "Georg.", iv, 110-11. In India, the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is described by Horace--"ruber porrectus ab inguine palus"--and where he is worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.--_W. E. B._]

DR. DELANY'S REPLY

Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him. _Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem._ You look and you write with so different a grace, That I envy your verse, though I did not your face. And to him that thinks rightly, there's reason enough, 'Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough. But much I'm amazed you should think my design Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin, Which you yourself wonder the de'el should malign. And if 'tis so strange, that your monstership's crany Should be envied by him, much less by Delany; Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter, I envy the painter, although not the picture. And justly she's envied, since a fiend of Hell Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael. Next, as to the charge, which you tell us is true, That we were inspired by the subject we drew. Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it; Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it; Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne'er been inspired, Though perhaps it might justly 've been said we were fired, As to the division of words in your staves, Like my countryman's horn-comb, into three halves, I meddle not with 't, but presume to make merry, You call'd Dan one half, and t'other half Sherry: Now if Dan's a half, as you call't o'er and o'er, Then it can't be denied that Sherry's two more. For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you, That Sherry's at least of double the value. But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse; So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce) Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce. But be that as 'twill, you'll know more anon, sir, When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer.

SHERIDAN'S REPLY

Three merry lads you own we are; 'Tis very true, and free from care: But envious we cannot bear, believe, sir:

For, were all forms of beauty thine, Were you like Nereus soft and fine, We should not in the least repine, or grieve, sir.

Then know from us, most beauteous Dan, That roughness best becomes a man; 'Tis women should be pale, and wan, and taper;

And all your trifling beaux and fops, Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops, Are but the offspring of toy-shops, mere vapour.

We know your morning hours you pass To cull and gather out a face; Is this the way you take your glass? Forbear it:

Those loads of paint upon your toilet Will never mend your face, but spoil it, It looks as if you did parboil it: Drink claret.

Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean, That they're like Cynthia in the wane, Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean, or pullet:

See what by drinking you have done: You've made your phiz a skeleton, From the long distance of your crown, t' your gullet.

A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME

Wearied with saying grace and prayer, I hasten'd down to country air, To read your answer, and prepare reply to't:

But your fair lines so grossly flatter, Pray do they praise me or bespatter? I must suspect you mean the latter-- Ah! slyboot!

It must be so! what else, alas! Can mean by culling of a face, And all that stuff of toilet, glass, and box-comb?

But be't as 'twill, this you must grant, That you're a daub, whilst I but paint; Then which of us two is the quaint- er coxcomb?

I value not your jokes of noose, Your gibes and all your foul abuse, More than the dirt beneath my shoes, nor fear it.

Yet one thing vexes me, I own, Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone; To be called lean by a skeleton, who'd bear it?

'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends, You seem to praise, to make amends, And yet, before your stanza ends, you flout me,

'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes, For every one that knows me, knows That I have nothing like my nose about me:

I pass now where you fleer and laugh, 'Cause I call Dan my better half! O there you think you have me safe! But hold, sir;

Is not a penny often found To be much greater than a pound! By your good leave, my most profound and bold sir, Dan's noble metal, Sherry base; So Dan's the better, though the less, An ounce of gold’s worth ten of brass, dull pedant!

As to your spelling, let me see, If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry, Good spelling-master: your crany has lead in't.

ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME

Three days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose; But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1] Thy fame, thy genius, now declines, proud boaster.

I hear with some concern your roar And flying think to quit the score, By clapping billets on your door and posts, sir.

Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, I'm grieved to hear your banishment, But pleased to find you do relent and cry on.

I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, But now I'll secret keep your stuff; For know, prostration is enough to th' lion.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.--_F._]

SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN

Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae, Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1]

Poor Sherry, inglorious, To Dan the victorious, Presents, as 'tis fitting, Petition and greeting.

To you, victorious and brave, Your now subdued and suppliant slave Most humbly sues for pardon; Who when I fought still cut me down, And when I vanquish'd, fled the town Pursued and laid me hard on.

Now lowly crouch'd, I cry _peccavi_, And prostrate, supplicate _pour ma vie_; Your mercy I rely on; For you my conqueror and my king, In pardoning, as in punishing, Will show yourself a lion.

Alas! sir, I had no design, But was unwarily drawn in; For spite I ne'er had any; 'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name; The de'il too that owed me a shame, The devil and Delany;

They tempted me t' attack your highness, And then, with wonted wile and slyness, They left me in the lurch: Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween, I've nothing left to vent my spleen But ferula and birch:

And they, alas! yield small relief, Seem rather to renew my grief, My wounds bleed all anew: For every stroke goes to my heart And at each lash I feel the smart Of lash laid on by you.

[Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.--_W. E. B._]

THE PARDON

The suit which humbly you have made Is fully and maturely weigh'd; And as 'tis your petition, I do forgive, for well I know, Since you're so bruised, another blow Would break the head of Priscian.[1]

'Tis not my purpose or intent That you should suffer banishment; I pardon, now you've courted; And yet I fear this clemency Will come too late to profit thee, For you're with grief transported.

However, this I do command, That you your birch do take in hand, Read concord and syntax on; The bays, your own, are only mine, Do you then still your nouns decline, Since you've declined Dan Jackson.

[Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has left a work entitled "Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri xviii."--_W. E. B._]

THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON

MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,

--mediocribus esse poetis Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1]

To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense:

For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones, The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans.

I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was made:

You'll have a gosling, call it Dan, And do not make your goose a swan. 'Tis true, because the God of Wit To get him in that shape thought fit, He'll have some glowworm sparks of it. Venture you may to turn him loose, But let it be to another goose. The time will come, the fatal time, When he shall dare a swan to rhyme; The tow'ring swan comes sousing down, And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown. From that sad time, and sad disaster, He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster. At length for stealing rhymes and triplets, He'll be content to hang in giblets.

You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pass; for it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings, though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my Gradus ad Parnassum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works.

Then lo, I mount as slowly as I sung, And then I'll make a line for every rung;[2] There's nine, I see,--the Muses, too, are nine. Who would refuse to die a death like mine! 1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name; 2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same. 3. This rung, I see, Terpsichore's thy flute; 4. Erato, sing me to the Gods; ah, do't: 5. Thalia, don't make me a comedy; 6. Urania, raise me tow'rds the starry sky: 7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend, 8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend; 9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end. POOR DAN JACKSON.

[Footnote 1: A variation from: "mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae." _Epist. ad Pisones.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder; still used in every part of Ireland.--_Scott_.]

TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON, WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED. TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN

DEAR DAN,

Here I return my trust, nor ask One penny for remittance; If I have well perform'd my task, Pray send me an acquittance.

Too long I bore this weighty pack, As Hercules the sky; Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back, Let me be stander-by.

Not all the witty things you speak In compass of a day, Not half the puns you make a-week, Should bribe his longer stay.

With me you left him out at nurse, Yet are you not my debtor; For, as he hardly can be worse, I ne'er could make him better.

He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes, Just as he did before; And, when he's lash'd a hundred times, He rhymes and puns the more.

When rods are laid on school-boys' bums, The more they frisk and skip: The school-boys' top but louder hums The more they use the whip.

Thus, a lean beast beneath a load (A beast of Irish breed) Will, in a tedious dirty road, Outgo the prancing steed.

You knock him down and down in vain, And lay him flat before ye, For soon as he gets up again, He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!

At every stroke of mine, he fell, 'Tis true he roar'd and cried; But his impenetrable shell Could feel no harm beside.

The tortoise thus, with motion slow, Will clamber up a wall; Yet, senseless to the hardest blow, Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I, Attack his pericrany? And, since it is in vain to try, We'll send him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT

Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry, Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery, But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says, He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses, For omitting the first (where I make a comparison, With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison) Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise. So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal? And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit, (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate, The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target; Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could, But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood; While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him, While t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him, Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore, Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!" Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man, Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan; For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough, The devil himself can't get through his buff. Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard, Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard; And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar, Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore. Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it, You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet; With the din of which tube my head you so bother, That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.

You made me in your last a goose; I lay my life on't you are wrong, To raise me by such foul abuse; My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue; And slit, just like a bird will chatter, And like a bird do something more; When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter, I'll change you to a black-a-moor.

I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead. Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]

[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, To see you live, so often slain. My arrows fly and fly in vain, But still I try and try again. I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; I will not tell, because it's plain. Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; If so, from pen and ink refrain. Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain For her and you; your life's a scene Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, Enough to crack the strongest brain. Now to conclude, I do remain, Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN

Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer; Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer? If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury, I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk; I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding, I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723

Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head! You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred. I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole body: My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy. And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose: Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober: Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college. You say you will eat grass on his grave:[1] a Christian eat grass! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass: But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true story: And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I? And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil: I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year. And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking: Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;) My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school-- I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter; For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better. Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers: And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs; Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand; And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command, MARY.

[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 349.--_W.E.B_.]

A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE

Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw: In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw; A temper the devil himself could not bridle; Impertinent mixture of busy and idle; As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed; She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit; A housewife in bed, at table a slattern; For all an example, for no one a pattern. Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4] Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

[Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]

ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP

Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes, Like ghost I glide along your floor, And softly shut the parlour door: For, should I break your sweet repose, Who knows what money you might lose: Since oftentimes it has been found, A dream has given ten thousand pound? Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on, And all you get shall be your own; Provided you to this agree, That all you lose belongs to me.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

So, about twelve at night, the punk Steals from the cully when he's drunk: Nor is contented with a treat, Without her privilege to cheat: Nor can I the least difference find, But that you left no clap behind. But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye, My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny To eat my meat and drink my medlicot, And then to give me such a deadly cut-- But 'tis observed, that men in gowns Are most inclined to plunder crowns. Could you but change a crown as easy As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye! I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's Knew how to set you better patterns; For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3] And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.

Saturday night.

[Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem.--_Scott_.]

A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL. SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS

AS in a silent night a lonely swain, 'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain, To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes, And every look finds out a new surprise; So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view Our lower sphere made more serene by you. O! could such light in my dark bosom shine, What life, what vigour, should adorn each line! Beauty and virtue should be all my theme, And Venus brighten my poetic flame. The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun; Majestic light his feeble art defies, And for presuming, robs him of his eyes. Then blame your power, that my inferior lays Sink far below your too exalted praise: Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain; No, we're sincere,--to flatter you were vain. You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied, And all perfections but your beauties hide. Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind, Nor frown on those you see so well inclined To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.

THE EPILOGUE

Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell Have we not play'd our parts extremely well? We think we did, but if you do complain, We're all content to act the play again: 'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most, And time well spent in school cannot be lost. But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above? We guess'd long since you all desired to move: But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir, Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1] Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play; He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay. Though this new method may provoke your laughter, To act plays first, and understand them after; We do not care, for we will have our humour, And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more. Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; How much they've read, I leave you all to judge.

[Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here intended.--_W. E. B._]

THE SONG

A parody on the popular song beginning, "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."

My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent, When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went; For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest; Was ever a toper so merrily blest? But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown, Because I must go to my wife back to town; To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear," And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer. My daughter I ever was pleased to see Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee: My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said, Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head: But now out of humour, I with a sour look, Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book; And I'll give her another; for why should she play, Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away? Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become, That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum? Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile, While we sit carousing and drinking the while? Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done, Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone. Then since it is so, bring me here a supply; Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.