Part 8

I will not build on yonder mount; And, should you call me to account, Consulting with myself, I find It was no levity of mind. Whate'er I promised or intended, No fault of mine, the scheme is ended; Nor can you tax me as unsteady, I have a hundred causes ready; All risen since that flattering time, When Drapier's-Hill appear'd in rhyme. I am, as now too late I find, The greatest cully of mankind; The lowest boy in Martin's school May turn and wind me like a fool. How could I form so wild a vision, To seek, in deserts, Fields Elysian? To live in fear, suspicion, variance, With thieves, fanatics, and barbarians? But here my lady will object; Your deanship ought to recollect, That, near the knight of Gosford[1] placed, Whom you allow a man of taste, Your intervals of time to spend With so conversable a friend, It would not signify a pin Whatever climate you were in. 'Tis true, but what advantage comes To me from all a usurer's plums; Though I should see him twice a-day, And am his neighbour 'cross the way: If all my rhetoric must fail To strike him for a pot of ale? Thus, when the learned and the wise Conceal their talents from our eyes, And from deserving friends withhold Their gifts, as misers do their gold; Their knowledge to themselves confined Is the same avarice of mind; Nor makes their conversation better, Than if they never knew a letter. Such is the fate of Gosford's knight, Who keeps his wisdom out of sight; Whose uncommunicative heart Will scarce one precious word impart: Still rapt in speculations deep, His outward senses fast asleep; Who, while I talk, a song will hum, Or with his fingers beat the drum; Beyond the skies transports his mind, And leaves a lifeless corpse behind. But, as for me, who ne'er could clamber high, To understand Malebranche or Cambray; Who send my mind (as I believe) less Than others do, on errands sleeveless; Can listen to a tale humdrum, And with attention read Tom Thumb; My spirits with my body progging, Both hand in hand together jogging; Sunk over head and ears in matter. Nor can of metaphysics smatter; Am more diverted with a quibble Than dream of words intelligible; And think all notions too abstracted Are like the ravings of a crackt head; What intercourse of minds can be Betwixt the knight sublime and me, If when I talk, as talk I must, It is but prating to a bust? Where friendship is by Fate design'd, It forms a union in the mind: But here I differ from the knight In every point, like black and white: For none can say that ever yet We both in one opinion met: Not in philosophy, or ale; In state affairs, or planting kale; In rhetoric, or picking straws; In roasting larks, or making laws; In public schemes, or catching flies; In parliaments, or pudding pies. The neighbours wonder why the knight Should in a country life delight, Who not one pleasure entertains To cheer the solitary scenes: His guests are few, his visits rare; Nor uses time, nor time will spare; Nor rides, nor walks, nor hunts, nor fowls, Nor plays at cards, or dice, or bowls; But seated in an easy-chair, Despises exercise and air. His rural walks he ne'er adorns; Here poor Pomona sits on thorns: And there neglected Flora settles Her bum upon a bed of nettles. Those thankless and officious cares I used to take in friends' affairs, From which I never could refrain, And have been often chid in vain; From these I am recover'd quite, At least in what regards the knight. Preserve his health, his store increase; May nothing interrupt his peace! But now let all his tenants round First milk his cows, and after, pound; Let every cottager conspire To cut his hedges down for fire; The naughty boys about the village His crabs and sloes may freely pillage; He still may keep a pack of knaves To spoil his work, and work by halves; His meadows may be dug by swine, It shall be no concern of mine; For why should I continue still To serve a friend against his will?

[Footnote 1: Sir Arthur Acheson's great-grandfather was Sir Archibald, of Gosford, in Scotland.]

THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL 1730

From distant regions Fortune sends An odd triumvirate of friends; Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend, Where never yet a codling ripen'd: Hither the frantic goddess draws Three sufferers in a ruin'd cause: By faction banish'd, here unite, A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3] Unite, but on conditions cruel; The Dean and Spaniard find it too well, Condemn'd to live in service hard; On either side his honour's guard: The Dean to guard his honour's back, Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4] The Spaniard, sore against his will, Must raise a fort at Market-Hill. And thus the pair of humble gentry At north and south are posted sentry; While in his lordly castle fixt, The knight triumphant reigns betwixt: And, what the wretches most resent, To be his slaves, must pay him rent; Attend him daily as their chief, Decant his wine, and carve his beef. O Fortune! 'tis a scandal for thee To smile on those who are least worthy: Weigh but the merits of the three, His slaves have ten times more than he. Proud baronet of Nova Scotia! The Dean and Spaniard must reproach ye: Of their two fames the world enough rings: Where are thy services and sufferings? What if for nothing once you kiss'd, Against the grain, a monarch's fist? What if, among the courtly tribe, You lost a place and saved a bribe? And then in surly mood came here, To fifteen hundred pounds a-year, And fierce against the Whigs harangu'd? You never ventured to be hang'd. How dare you treat your betters thus? Are you to be compared with us? Come, Spaniard, let us from our farms Call forth our cottagers to arms: Our forces let us both unite, Attack the foe at left and right; From Market-Hill's[5] exalted head, Full northward let your troops be led; While I from Drapier's-Mount descend, And to the south my squadrons bend. New-River Walk, with friendly shade, Shall keep my host in ambuscade; While you, from where the basin stands, Shall scale the rampart with your bands. Nor need we doubt the fort to win; I hold intelligence within. True, Lady Anne no danger fears, Brave as the Upton fan she wears;[6] Then, lest upon our first attack Her valiant arm should force us back, And we of all our hopes deprived; I have a stratagem contrived. By these embroider'd high-heel shoes She shall be caught as in a noose: So well contriv'd her toes to pinch, She'll not have power to stir an inch: These gaudy shoes must Hannah [7] place Direct before her lady's face; The shoes put on, our faithful portress Admits us in, to storm the fortress, While tortured madam bound remains, Like Montezume,[8] in golden chains; Or like a cat with walnuts shod, Stumbling at every step she trod. Sly hunters thus, in Borneo's isle, To catch a monkey by a wile, The mimic animal amuse; They place before him gloves and shoes; Which, when the brute puts awkward on: All his agility is gone; In vain to frisk or climb he tries; The huntsmen seize the grinning prize. But let us on our first assault Secure the larder and the vault; The valiant Dennis,[9] you must fix on, And I'll engage with Peggy Dixon:[10] Then, if we once can seize the key And chest that keeps my lady's tea, They must surrender at discretion! And, soon as we have gain'd possession, We'll act as other conquerors do, Divide the realm between us two; Then, (let me see,) we'll make the knight Our clerk, for he can read and write. But must not think, I tell him that, Like Lorimer [11] to wear his hat; Yet, when we dine without a friend, We'll place him at the lower end. Madam, whose skill does all in dress lie, May serve to wait on Mrs. Leslie; But, lest it might not be so proper That her own maid should over-top her, To mortify the creature more, We'll take her heels five inches lower. For Hannah, when we have no need of her, 'Twill be our interest to get rid of her; And when we execute our plot, 'Tis best to hang her on the spot; As all your politicians wise, Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.

[Footnote 1: Dr. Swift.]

[Footnote 2: Colonel Henry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 3: Sir Arthur Acheson.]

[Footnote 4: The Irish name of a farm the Dean took of Sir Arthur Acheson, and was to build on, but changed his mind, and called it Drapier's Hill. See the poem so named, and "The Dean's Reasons for not building at Drapier's-Hill," _ante_, p.107. _--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's.]

[Footnote 6: A parody on the phrase, "As brave as his sword."--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: My lady's waiting-maid.]

[Footnote 8: Montezuma or Mutezuma, the last Emperor of Mexico and the richest, taken prisoner by Hernando Cortes, about 1511, who also obtained possession of the whole empire. Hakluyt's "Navigations," etc., vols. viii, ix.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: The butler.]

[Footnote 10: The housekeeper.]

[Footnote 11: The agent.]

ROBIN AND HARRY.[1] 1730

Robin to beggars with a curse, Throws the last shilling in his purse; And when the coachman comes for pay, The rogue must call another day. Grave Harry, when the poor are pressing Gives them a penny and God's blessing; But always careful of the main, With twopence left, walks home in rain. Robin from noon to night will prate, Run out in tongue, as in estate; And, ere a twelvemonth and a day, Will not have one new thing to say. Much talking is not Harry's vice; He need not tell a story twice: And, if he always be so thrifty, His fund may last to five-and-fifty. It so fell out that cautious Harry, As soldiers use, for love must marry, And, with his dame, the ocean cross'd; (All for Love, or the World well Lost!) [2] Repairs a cabin gone to ruin, Just big enough to shelter two in; And in his house, if anybody come, Will make them welcome to his modicum Where Goody Julia milks the cows, And boils potatoes for her spouse; Or darns his hose, or mends his breeches, While Harry's fencing up his ditches. Robin, who ne'er his mind could fix, To live without a coach-and-six, To patch his broken fortunes, found A mistress worth five thousand pound; Swears he could get her in an hour, If gaffer Harry would endow her; And sell, to pacify his wrath, A birth-right for a mess of broth. Young Harry, as all Europe knows, Was long the quintessence of beaux; But, when espoused, he ran the fate That must attend the married state; From gold brocade and shining armour, Was metamorphosed to a farmer; His grazier's coat with dirt besmear'd; Nor twice a-week will shave his beard. Old Robin, all his youth a sloven, At fifty-two, when he grew loving, Clad in a coat of paduasoy, A flaxen wig, and waistcoat gay, Powder'd from shoulder down to flank, In courtly style addresses Frank; Twice ten years older than his wife, Is doom'd to be a beau for life; Supplying those defects by dress, Which I must leave the world to guess.

[Footnote 1: A lively account of these two gentlemen occurs in Dr. King's Anecdotes of his Own Times, p. 137 _et seq_., who confirms the peculiarities which Swift has enumerated in the text.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: The title of Dryden's Play, founded on the story of Antony and Cleopatra.--_W. E. B._]

A PANEGYRIC ON THE DEAN

IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730

Resolved my gratitude to show, Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe, Too long I have my thanks delay'd; Your favours left too long unpaid; But now, in all our sex's name, My artless Muse shall sing your fame. Indulgent you to female kind, To all their weaker sides are blind: Nine more such champions as the Dean Would soon restore our ancient reign; How well to win the ladies' hearts, You celebrate their wit and parts! How have I felt my spirits raised, By you so oft, so highly praised! Transform'd by your convincing tongue To witty, beautiful, and young, I hope to quit that awkward shame, Affected by each vulgar dame, To modesty a weak pretence; And soon grow pert on men of sense; To show my face with scornful air; Let others match it if they dare. Impatient to be out of debt, O, may I never once forget The bard who humbly deigns to chuse Me for the subject of his Muse! Behind my back, before my nose, He sounds my praise in verse and prose. My heart with emulation burns, To make you suitable returns; My gratitude the world shall know; And see, the printer's boy below; Ye hawkers all, your voices lift; "A Panegyric on Dean Swift!" And then, to mend the matter still, "By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!"[2] I thus begin: My grateful Muse Salutes the Dean in different views; Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor; Robert and Darby's[3] coadjutor; And, as you in commission sit, To rule the dairy next to Kit;[4] In each capacity I mean To sing your praise. And first as Dean: Envy must own, you understand your Precedence, and support your grandeur: Nor of your rank will bate an ace, Except to give Dean Daniel[5] place. In you such dignity appears, So suited to your state and years! With ladies what a strict decorum! With what devotion you adore 'em! Treat me with so much complaisance, As fits a princess in romance! By your example and assistance, The fellows learn to know their distance. Sir Arthur, since you set the pattern, No longer calls me snipe and slattern, Nor dares he, though he were a duke, Offend me with the least rebuke. Proceed we to your preaching [5] next! How nice you split the hardest text! How your superior learning shines Above our neighbouring dull divines! At Beggar's Opera not so full pit Is seen as when you mount our pulpit. Consider now your conversation: Regardful of your age and station, You ne'er were known by passion stirr'd To give the least offensive word: But still, whene'er you silence break, Watch every syllable you speak: Your style so clear, and so concise, We never ask to hear you twice. But then a parson so genteel, So nicely clad from head to heel; So fine a gown, a band so clean, As well become St. Patrick's Dean, Such reverential awe express, That cowboys know you by your dress! Then, if our neighbouring friends come here How proud are we when you appear, With such address and graceful port, As clearly shows you bred at court! Now raise your spirits, Mr. Dean, I lead you to a nobler scene. When to the vault you walk in state, In quality of butler's [6] mate; You next to Dennis [7] bear the sway: To you we often trust the key: Nor can he judge with all his art So well, what bottle holds a quart: What pints may best for bottles pass Just to give every man his glass: When proper to produce the best; And what may serve a common guest. With Dennis you did ne'er combine, Not you, to steal your master's wine, Except a bottle now and then, To welcome brother serving-men; But that is with a good design, To drink Sir Arthur's health and mine, Your master's honour to maintain: And get the like returns again. Your usher's[8] post must next be handled: How blest am I by such a man led! Under whose wise and careful guardship I now despise fatigue and hardship, Familiar grown to dirt and wet, Though draggled round, I scorn to fret: From you my chamber damsels learn My broken hose to patch and darn. Now as a jester I accost you; Which never yet one friend has lost you. You judge so nicely to a hair, How far to go, and when to spare; By long experience grown so wise, Of every taste to know the size; There's none so ignorant or weak To take offence at what you speak.[9] Whene'er you joke, 'tis all a case Whether with Dermot, or his grace; With Teague O'Murphy, or an earl; A duchess, or a kitchen girl. With such dexterity you fit Their several talents with your wit, That Moll the chambermaid can smoke, And Gahagan[10] take every joke. I now become your humble suitor To let me praise you as my tutor.[11] Poor I, a savage[12] bred and born, By you instructed every morn, Already have improved so well, That I have almost learnt to spell: The neighbours who come here to dine, Admire to hear me speak so fine. How enviously the ladies look, When they surprise me at my book! And sure as they're alive at night, As soon as gone will show their spight: Good lord! what can my lady mean, Conversing with that rusty Dean! She's grown so nice, and so penurious,[13] With Socrates and Epicurius! How could she sit the livelong day, Yet never ask us once to play? But I admire your patience most; That when I'm duller than a post, Nor can the plainest word pronounce, You neither fume, nor fret, nor flounce; Are so indulgent, and so mild, As if I were a darling child. So gentle is your whole proceeding, That I could spend my life in reading. You merit new employments daily: Our thatcher, ditcher, gardener, baily. And to a genius so extensive No work is grievous or offensive: Whether your fruitful fancy lies To make for pigs convenient styes; Or ponder long with anxious thought To banish rats that haunt our vault: Nor have you grumbled, reverend Dean, To keep our poultry sweet and clean; To sweep the mansion-house they dwell in, And cure the rank unsavoury smelling. Now enter as the dairy handmaid: Such charming butter [14] never man made. Let others with fanatic face Talk of their milk for babes of grace; From tubs their snuffling nonsense utter; Thy milk shall make us tubs of butter. The bishop with his foot may burn it,[15] But with his hand the Dean can churn it. How are the servants overjoy'd To see thy deanship thus employ'd! Instead of poring on a book, Providing butter for the cook! Three morning hours you toss and shake The bottle till your fingers ache; Hard is the toil, nor small the art, The butter from the whey to part: Behold a frothy substance rise; Be cautious or your bottle flies. The butter comes, our fears are ceased; And out you squeeze an ounce at least. Your reverence thus, with like success, (Nor is your skill or labour less,) When bent upon some smart lampoon, Will toss and turn your brain till noon; Which in its jumblings round the skull, Dilates and makes the vessel full: While nothing comes but froth at first, You think your giddy head will burst; But squeezing out four lines in rhyme, Are largely paid for all your time. But you have raised your generous mind To works of more exalted kind. Palladio was not half so skill'd in The grandeur or the art of building. Two temples of magnific size Attract the curious traveller's eyes, That might be envied by the Greeks; Raised up by you in twenty weeks: Here gentle goddess Cloacine Receives all offerings at her shrine. In separate cells, the he's and she's, Here pay their vows on bended knees: For 'tis profane when sexes mingle, And every nymph must enter single; And when she feels an inward motion, Come fill'd with reverence and devotion. The bashful maid, to hide her blush, Shall creep no more behind a bush; Here unobserved she boldly goes, As who should say, to pluck a rose,[16] Ye, who frequent this hallow'd scene, Be not ungrateful to the Dean; But duly, ere you leave your station, Offer to him a pure libation, Or of his own or Smedley's lay, Or billet-doux, or lock of hay: And, O! may all who hither come, Return with unpolluted thumb! Yet, when your lofty domes I praise I sigh to think of ancient days. Permit me then to raise my style, And sweetly moralize a-while. Thee, bounteous goddess Cloacine, To temples why do we confine? Forbid in open air to breathe, Why are thine altars fix'd beneath? When Saturn ruled the skies alone, (That golden age to gold unknown,) This earthly globe, to thee assign'd, Received the gifts of all mankind. Ten thousand altars smoking round, Were built to thee with offerings crown'd; And here thy daily votaries placed Their sacrifice with zeal and haste: The margin of a purling stream Sent up to thee a grateful steam; Though sometimes thou wert pleased to wink, If Naiads swept them from the brink: Or where appointing lovers rove, The shelter of a shady grove; Or offer'd in some flowery vale, Were wafted by a gentle gale, There many a flower abstersive grew, Thy favourite flowers of yellow hue; The crocus and the daffodil, The cowslip soft, and sweet jonquil. But when at last usurping Jove Old Saturn from his empire drove, Then gluttony, with greasy paws Her napkin pinn'd up to her jaws, With watery chops, and wagging chin, Braced like a drum her oily skin; Wedged in a spacious elbow-chair, And on her plate a treble share, As if she ne'er could have enough, Taught harmless man to cram and stuff. She sent her priests in wooden shoes From haughty Gaul to make ragouts; Instead of wholesome bread and cheese, To dress their soups and fricassees; And, for our home-bred British cheer, Botargo, catsup, and caviare. This bloated harpy, sprung from hell, Confined thee, goddess, to a cell: Sprung from her womb that impious line, Contemners of thy rites divine. First, lolling Sloth, in woollen cap, Taking her after-dinner nap: Pale Dropsy, with a sallow face, Her belly burst, and slow her pace: And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur, And wheezing Asthma, loth to stir: Voluptuous Ease, the child of wealth, Infecting thus our hearts by stealth. None seek thee now in open air, To thee no verdant altars rear; But, in their cells and vaults obscene, Present a sacrifice unclean; From whence unsavoury vapours rose, Offensive to thy nicer nose. Ah! who, in our degenerate days, As nature prompts, his offering pays? Here nature never difference made Between the sceptre and the spade. Ye great ones, why will ye disdain To pay your tribute on the plain? Why will you place in lazy pride Your altars near your couches' side: When from the homeliest earthen ware Are sent up offerings more sincere, Than where the haughty duchess locks Her silver vase in cedar box? Yet some devotion still remains Among our harmless northern swains, Whose offerings, placed in golden ranks, Adorn our crystal rivers' banks; Nor seldom grace the flowery downs, With spiral tops and copple [27] crowns; Or gilding in a sunny morn The humble branches of a thorn. So poets sing, with golden bough The Trojan hero paid his vow.[28] Hither, by luckless error led, The crude consistence oft I tread; Here when my shoes are out of case, Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace; Here, by the sacred bramble tinged, My petticoat is doubly fringed. Be witness for me, nymph divine, I never robb'd thee with design; Nor will the zealous Hannah pout To wash thy injured offering out. But stop, ambitious Muse, in time, Nor dwell on subjects too sublime. In vain on lofty heels I tread, Aspiring to exalt my head; With hoop expanded wide and light, In vain I 'tempt too high a flight. Me Phoebus [29] in a midnight dream [30] Accosting, said, "Go shake your cream [31] Be humbly-minded, know your post; Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast. Thee best befits a lowly style; Teach Dennis how to stir the guile;[32] With Peggy Dixon[33] thoughtful sit, Contriving for the pot and spit. Take down thy proudly swelling sails, And rub thy teeth and pare thy nails; At nicely carving show thy wit; But ne'er presume to eat a bit: Turn every way thy watchful eye, And every guest be sure to ply: Let never at your board be known An empty plate, except your own. Be these thy arts;[34] nor higher aim Than what befits a rural dame. "But Cloacina, goddess bright, Sleek----claims her as his right; And Smedley,[35] flower of all divines, Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's lines."

[Footnote 1: The Lady of Sir Arthur Acheson.]

[Footnote 2: A village near Sir Arthur Acheson's house where the author passed two summers.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 3: The names of two overseers.]

[Footnote 4: My lady's footman.]

[Footnote 4: Dr. Daniel, Dean of Down, who wrote several poems.]

[Footnote 5: The author preached but once while he was there.]

[Footnote 6: He sometimes used to direct the butler.]

[Footnote 7: The butler.]

[Footnote 8: He sometimes used to walk with the lady. See _ante_, p. 96.]

[Footnote 9: The neighbouring ladies were no great understanders of raillery.]