Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, And when it comes, the court see nothing in 't. You grow correct, that once with rapture writ, And are, besides, too moral for a wit. Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel— Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal? 'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye Said, "Tories called him Whig, and Whigs a Tory"; And taught his Romans, in much better metre, "To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter". But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice; Bubo observes, he lashed no sort of vice: Horace would say, Sir Billy served the crown, Blunt could do business, Huggins knew the town; In Sappho touch the failings of the sex, In reverend bishops note some small neglects, And own, the Spaniard did a waggish thing, Who cropped our ears, and sent them to the king. His sly, polite, insinuating style Could please at court, and make Augustus smile: An artful manager, that crept between His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen. But 'faith your very friends will soon be sore: Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more— And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought The great man never offered you a groat. Go see Sir Robert— P[ope]. See Sir Robert!—hum— And never laugh—for all my life to come? Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power; Seen him, uncumbered with the venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe. Would he oblige me? let me only find, He does not think me what he thinks mankind. Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt; The only difference is, I dare laugh out. F. Why yes: with Scripture still you may be free: A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty; A joke on Jekyl, or some odd old Whig Who never changed his principle or wig. A patriot is a fool in every age, Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage: These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still, And wear their strange old virtue, as they will. If any ask you, "Who's the man, so near His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?" Why, answer, Lyttleton, and I'll engage The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage; But were his verses vile, his whisper base, You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's case. Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury,[207] But well may put some statesmen in a fury. Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes; These you but anger, and you mend not those. Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore, So much the better, you may laugh the more. To vice and folly to confine the jest, Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest; Did not the sneer of more impartial men At sense and virtue, balance all again. Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule, And charitably comfort knave and fool. P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth! Come, harmless characters, that no one hit; Come, Henley's oratory, Osborne's wit! The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue, The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Yonge! The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence, And all the well-whipped cream of courtly sense, That first was H——vy's, F——'s next, and then The S——te's and then H——vy's once again.[208] O come, that easy Ciceronian style, So Latin, yet so English all the while, As, though the pride of Middleton[209] and Bland, All boys may read, and girls may understand! Then might I sing, without the least offence, And all I sung shall be the nation's sense; Or teach the melancholy muse to mourn, Hang the sad verse on Carolina's[210] urn, And hail her passage to the realms of rest, All parts performed, and all her children blest! So—satire is no more—I feel it die— No gazetteer more innocent than I— And let, a' God's name, every fool and knave Be graced through life, and flattered in his grave. F. Why so? if satire knows its time and place, You still may lash the greatest—in disgrace: For merit will by turns forsake them all; Would you know when? exactly when they fall. But let all satire in all changes spare Immortal Selkirk[211], and grave De——re. Silent and soft, as saints remove to heaven, All ties dissolved and every sin forgiven, These may some gentle ministerial wing Receive, and place for ever near a king! There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport, Lulled with the sweet nepenthe of a court; There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace Once break their rest, or stir them from their place: But passed the sense of human miseries, All tears are wiped for ever from all eyes; No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb, Save when they lose a question, or a job. P. Good heaven forbid, that I should blast their glory, Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory, And, when three sovereigns died, could scarce be vext, Considering what a gracious prince was next. Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings; And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret, Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt?[212] Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast; But shall the dignity of vice be lost? Ye gods! shall Gibber's son, without rebuke, Swear like a lord, or Rich out-whore a duke? A favourite's porter with his master vie, Be bribed as often, and as often lie? Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill? Or Japhet pocket, like his grace, a will? Is it for Bond, or Peter (paltry things), To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings? If Blount dispatched himself, he played the man, And so mayest thou, illustrious Passeran! But shall a printer, weary of his life, Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife? This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear; Vice thus abused, demands a nation's care; This calls the Church to deprecate our sin, And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin. Let modest Foster, if he will, excel Ten metropolitans in preaching well; A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife, Outdo Llandaff in doctrine,—yea in life: Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame, Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me; Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same, beloved, contented thing. Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore; Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more; Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess; Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless; In golden chains the willing world she draws, And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws, Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, And sees pale virtue carted in her stead. Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car, Old England's genius, rough with many a scar, Dragged in the dust! his arms hang idly round, His flag inverted trails along the ground! Our youth, all liveried o'er with foreign gold, Before her dance: behind her crawl the old! See thronging millions to the Pagod run, And offer country, parent, wife, or son! Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim, That not to be corrupted is the shame. In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power, 'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more! See, all our nobles begging to be slaves! See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves! The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore, Are what ten thousand envy and adore; All, all look up, with reverential awe, At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law; While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry— "Nothing is sacred now but villainy ". Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show, there was one who held it in disdain.

[Footnote 207: Cardinal: and Minister to Louis XV.]

[Footnote 208: This couplet alludes to the preachers of some recent Court Sermons of a florid panegyrical character; also to some speeches of a like kind, some parts of both of which were afterwards incorporated in an address to the monarch.]

[Footnote 209: Dr. Conyers Middleton, author of the Life of Cicero.]

[Footnote 210: Queen Consort to King George II. She died in 1737.]

[Footnote 211: A title given to Lord Selkirk by King James II. He was Gentleman of the Bed-chamber to William III., to George I., and to George II. He was proficient in all the forms of the House, in which he comported himself with great dignity.]

[Footnote 212: Referring to Lady M.W. Montagu and her sister, the Countess of Mar.]



SAMUEL JOHNSON.

(1709-1784.)

XXXIX. THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

Published in January, 1749, in order, as was reported, to excite interest in the author's tragedy of Irene. The poem is written in imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal.

Let observation, with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life; Then say, how hope and fear, desire and hate, O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, Where way'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride, To tread the dreary paths without a guide, As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good; How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice; How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd, When Vengeance listens to the fool's request. Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, Each gift of nature, and each grace of art; With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, With fatal sweetness elocution flows; Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath, And restless fire precipitates on death. But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold; Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfin'd, And crowds with crimes the records of mankind: For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws: Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, The dangers gather as the treasures rise. Let Hist'ry tell where rival kings command, And dubious title shakes the madded land. When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, How much more safe the vassal than the lord; Low skulks the hind beneath the rage of power, And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower, Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, Though Confiscation's vultures hover round. The needy traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy; Increase his riches, and his peace destroy; Now fears in dire vicissitude invade, The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade; Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief, One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief. Yet still one gen'ral cry the skies assails, And pain and grandeur load the tainted gales; Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care, Th' insidious rival and the gaping heir. Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth, See motley life in modern trappings dress'd, And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest: Thou who could'st laugh where want enchain'd caprice, Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece; Where wealth, unlov'd, without a mourner dy'd; And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride; Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state; Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws, And senates heard before they judg'd a cause; How would'st thou shake at Britain's modish tribe, Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe? Attentive truth and nature to descry, And pierce each scene with philosophic eye, To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe: All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, Whose joys are causeless, and whose griefs are vain. Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind, Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind; How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, Search ev'ry state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r: Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's gate, A thirst for wealth, and burning to be great; Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call, They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door Pours in the morning worshipper no more; For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, To growing wealth the dedicator flies, From ev'ry room descends the painted face, That hung the bright palladium of the place: And, smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold, To better features yields the frame of gold; For now no more we trace in ev'ry line Heroic worth, benevolence divine: The form distorted, justifies the fall, And detestation rides th' indignant wall. But will not Britain hear the last appeal, Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal? Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, Degrading nobles, and controlling kings; Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, And ask no questions but the price of votes; With weekly libels and septennial ale, Their wish is full to riot and to rail. In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign. Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, His smile alone security bestows: Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r, Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r: Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please, And rights submitted, left him none to seize. At length his sov'reign frowns—the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liv'ried army, and the menial lord. With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine? Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, The wisest justice on the banks of Trent? For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight? Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, With louder ruin to the gulfs below? What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife, And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life? What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde, By kings protected, and to kings ally'd? What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine, And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign? When first the college rolls receive his name, The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame; Resistless burns the fever of renown, Caught from the strong contagion of the gown: O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, And Bacon's mansion[213] trembles o'er his head. Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth, And Virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth! Yet, should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat Till captive Science yields her last retreat; Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray, And pour on misty Doubt resistless day; Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright; Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain, And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart; Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, Nor Melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade; Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee: Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from Letters, to be wise; There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just, To buried merit raise the tardy bust. If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. Nor deem, when Learning her last prize bestows, The glitt'ring eminence exempt from woes; See, when the vulgar 'scape, despis'd or aw'd, Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. From meaner minds though smaller fines content, The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd rent; Mark'd out by dang'rous parts, he meets the shock, And fatal Learning leads him to the block: Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep, But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep. The festal blazes, the triumphal show, The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, The senate's thanks, the Gazette's pompous tale, With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd, For such the steady Romans shook the world; For such in distant lands the Britons shine, And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine; This pow'r has praise that virtue scarce can warm, Till fame supplies the universal charm. Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal game, Where wasted nations raise a single name; And mortgag'd states their grandsires' wreaths regret, From age to age in everlasting debt; Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey, To rust on medals, or on stones decay. On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; "Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till nought remain, On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky". The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, And Winter barricades the realm of Frost; He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day: The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not Chance at length her error mend? Did no subverted empire mark his end? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destin'd to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale To point a moral, or adorn a tale. All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. In gay hostility and barb'rous pride, With half mankind embattled at his side, Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey And starves exhausted regions in his way; Attendant Flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er, Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more; Fresh praise is try'd till madness fires his mind, The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind, New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestow'd, Till rude Resistance lops the spreading god; The daring Greeks deride the martial show, And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe; Th' insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains, A single skiff to speed his flight remains; Th' incumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast, Through purple billows and a floating host. The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, Tries the dread summits of Caesarian pow'r, With unexpected legions bursts away, And sees defenceless realms receive his sway; Short sway! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms; From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise; The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, With all the sons of ravage crowd the war; The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom; His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame, And steals to death from anguish and from shame. Enlarge my life with multitude of days! In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, That life protracted is protracted woe. Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, And shuts up all the passages of joy: In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r; With listless eyes the dotard views the store, He views, and wonders that they please no more: Now pall the tasteless meats and joyless wines, And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing strain, Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain: No sounds, alas! would touch th' impervious ear, Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus near; Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs attend, Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend; But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue, Perversely grave, or positively wrong. The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest, Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest. While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring sneer, And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear; The watchful guests still hint the last offence; The daughter's petulance the son's expense, Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill, And mould his passions till they make his will. Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade; But unextinguish'd Av'rice still remains, And dreaded losses aggravate his pains; He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands; Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime; An age that melts in unperceiv'd decay, And glides in modest innocence away; Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers; The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend; Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune flings, To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; New sorrow rises as the day returns, A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear; Year chases year, decay pursues decay, Still drops some joy from with'ring life away; New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage, Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage, Till pitying Nature signs the last release, And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. But few there are whom hours like these await, Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate. From Lydia's monarch should the search descend, By Solon caution'd to regard his end, In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise! From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, And Swift expires a driv'ller and a show. The teeming mother, anxious for her race, Begs for each birth the fortune of a face; Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring; And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king. Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise; Whom joys with soft varieties invite, By day the frolic, and the dance by night; Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, And ask the latent fashion of the heart; What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save, Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave? Against your fame with fondness hate combines, The rival batters, and the lover mines. With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls; Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign, And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain. In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, The harmless freedom, and the private friend. The guardians yield, by force superior ply'd, To Int'rest, Prudence; and to Flatt'ry, Pride. Here Beauty falls betray'd, despis'd, distress'd, And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest. Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem Religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heav'n the measure and the choice. Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions and a will resigned; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: These goods for man the laws of Heav'n ordain, These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain; With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find.

[Footnote 213: There is a tradition, that the study of Friar Bacon, built on an arch over the bridge, will fall when a man greater than Bacon shall pass under it. To prevent so shocking an accident, it was pulled down many years since.]



XL. LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

Though perhaps scarcely a professedly satirical production in the proper sense of the word, there are few more pungent satires than the following letter. In Boswell's Life of Johnson we read, "When the Dictionary was on the eve of publication. Lord Chesterfield, who, it is said, had flattered himself with expectations that Johnson would dedicate the work to him, attempted in a courtly manner to soothe and insinuate himself with the sage, conscious, as it would seem, of the cold indifference with which he had treated its learned author, and further attempted to conciliate him by writing two papers in the World in recommendation of the work.... This courtly device failed of its effect. Johnson despised the honeyed words, and he states 'I wrote him a letter expressed in civil terms, but such as might show him that I did not mind what he said or wrote, and that I had done with him'."

February 7, 1755.

"MY LORD,

"I have been lately informed by the proprietor of The World that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

"When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre;—that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

"Seven years, my lord, have now past since I waited in your outward rooms or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before.

"The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks.

"Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

"Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation.

"MY LORD,

"Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant,

"SAM JOHNSON."



OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

(1728-1774.)

XLI. THE RETALIATION.

The origin of the following satire is told by Boswell (who was prejudiced against Goldsmith) in this wise: "At a meeting of a company of gentlemen who were well known to each other and diverting themselves among other things with the peculiar oddities of Dr. Goldsmith, who would never allow a superior in any art, from writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, Goldsmith, with great eagerness, insisted on matching his epigrammatic powers with Garrick's. It was determined that each should write the other's epitaph. Garrick immediately said his epitaph was finished, and spoke the following distich extempore:

"'Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll'.

"Goldsmith would not produce his at the time, but some weeks after, read to the company this satire in which the characteristics of them all were happily hit off."

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings a good dish: Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour; Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: Our Garrick a salad, for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: To make out the dinner, full certain I am That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; That Hickey's a capon; and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth; If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find them out; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them, That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind: Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home: Would you ask for his merits? alas, he had none! What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at, Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his, what wit and what whim, Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick, But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not what they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine; Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it, that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks. Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own: But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover: Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can? An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confessed without rival to shine; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art; Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting: 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting; With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick; He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, When he was be-Roscius'd and you were bepraised! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies! Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And Slander itself must allow him good-nature: He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper: Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! Then what was his failing? Come, tell it, and burn ye,— He was, could he help it? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind: His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand: His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.



XLII. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

This piece was first printed in The Busy Body in 1759, in direct imitation of the style of Swift. It was, therefore, improperly included in the Dublin edition of Swift's works, and in the edition of Swift edited by Sir Walter Scott.

Logicians have but ill defined As rational the human mind, Reason they say belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can, Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius By ratiocinations specious Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division, Homo est ratione preditum; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em. And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain: And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'em, Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute. Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd. No politics disturb the mind; They eat their meals, and take their sport, Nor know who's in or out at court; They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend, a foe; They never importune his Grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob: Fraught with invective they ne'er go To folks at Pater-Noster Row: No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds, No single brute his fellows leads. Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape. Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion; But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him humbly cringing wait Upon the minister of state; View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators, At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their master's manners still contract, And footmen, lords and dukes can act, Thus at the court both great and small Behave alike, for all ape all.



XLIII. BEAU TIBBS, HIS CHARACTER AND FAMILY.

Johnson always maintained that there was a great deal of Goldsmith's own nature and eccentricities portrayed in the character of Beau Tibbs. The following piece constitutes Letter 54 of the Citizen of the World.

I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance, whom it will be no easy matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.

As I knew him to be an harmless, amusing little thing, I could not return his smiles with any degree of severity: so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation.

The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company, with much importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator.

When we were got to the end of our procession, "Blast me," cries he, with an air of vivacity, "I never saw the park so thin in my life before; there's no company at all to-day; not a single face to be seen." "No company," interrupted I, peevishly; "no company where there is such a crowd! why man, there's too much. What are the thousands that have been laughing at us but company!" "Lard, my dear," returned he, with the utmost good-humour, "you seem immensely chagrined; but blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at all the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash, the Creolian, and I sometimes make a party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a thousand things for the joke. But I see you are grave, and if you are a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife to-day, I must insist on't; I'll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred, but that's between ourselves, under the inspection of the Countess of All-night. A charming body of voice, but no more of that, she will give us a song. You shall see my little girl too, Carolina Wilhelma Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature; I design her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son, but that's in friendship, let it go no farther; she's but six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first place I'll make her a scholar; I'll teach her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct her; but let that be a secret."

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm, and hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways; for, from some motives, to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air.

We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably open, and I began to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mounted to show me the way, he demanded whether I delighted in prospects, to which answering in the affirmative, "Then," says he, "I shall show you one of the most charming in the world out of my windows; we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such an one; but as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may see me the oftener."

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from within demanded, who's there? My conductor answered that it was him. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the demand: to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance.

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where was her lady? "Good troth," replied she, in a peculiar dialect, "she's washing your two shirts at the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub any longer." "My two shirts," cries he in a tone that faltered with confusion, "what does the idiot mean!" "I ken what I mean well enough," replied the other, "she's washing your two shirts at the next door, because—" "Fire and fury! no more of thy stupid explanations," cried he. "Go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag to be for ever in the family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and yet it is very surprising too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of mine, from the highlands, one of the politest men in the world; but that's a secret."

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs' arrival, during which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture; which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were his wife's embroidery; a square table that had been once japanned, a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarin without a head, were stuck over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry, unframed pictures, which, he observed, were all his own drawing. "What do you think, sir, of that head in a corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? There's the true keeping in it; it's my own face, and though there happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me an hundred for its fellow. I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know."

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night at the gardens with the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. "And, indeed, my dear," added she, turning to her husband, "his lordship drank your health in a bumper." "Poor Jack," cries he, "a dear good-natured creature, I know he loves me; but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us, something elegant, and little will do; a turbot, an ortolan, or a—" "Or what do you think, my dear," interrupts the wife, "of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce."—"The very thing," replies he, "it will eat best with some smart bottled beer: but be sure to let's have the sauce his grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life."

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase; the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mr. Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.



CHARLES CHURCHILL.

(1731-1764.)

XLIV. THE JOURNEY.

Churchill devoted himself principally to satirical attacks upon actors and the stage as a whole. His Rosciad created quite a panic among the disciples of Thespis, even the mighty Garrick courting this terrible censor morum. His own morals were but indifferent.

Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose All, who, not daring to appear my foes, Feign great good-will, and not more full of spite Than full of craft, under false colours fight) Some of my friends (so lavishly I print) As more in sorrow than in anger, hint (Tho' that indeed will scarce admit a doubt) That I shall run my stock of genius out, My no great stock, and, publishing so fast, Must needs become a bankrupt at the last. Recover'd from the vanity of youth, I feel, alas! this melancholy truth, Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend, And am, if not too late, resolv'd to mend, Resolv'd to give some respite to my pen, Apply myself once more to books and men, View what is present, what is past review, And my old stock exhausted, lay in new. For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear This oath to Heav'n), for twice six moons, I swear, No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay, Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way; Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend, Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend. It cannot be—Whether I will, or no, Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow. Convinc'd, determin'd, I in prose begin, But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in, And taints me thro' and thro': by this good light, In verse I talk by day, I dream by night; If now and then I curse, my curses chime, Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme, E'en now I err, in spite of common-sense, And my confession doubles my offence. Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force; Mean are the words, and such as come of course, The subject not less simple than the lay; A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day. Far from me now be ev'ry tuneful Maid, I neither ask, nor can receive their aid. Pegasus turn'd into a common hack, Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track, Nor would I have the Sisters of the Hill Behold their bard in such a dishabille. Absent, but only absent for a time, Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme; Let them, as far as decency permits, Without suspicion, play the fool with wits, 'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule, Wits are false things, there's danger in a fool. Let them, tho' modest, Gray more modest woo; Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo; Let them with Franklin, proud of some small Greek, Make Sophocles disguis'd, in English speak; Let them with Glover o'er Medea doze; Let them with Dodsley wail Cleone's woes, Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears, Melts, as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers; Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;[214] Let them with Browne contrive, to vulgar trick, To cure the dead, and make the living sick;[215] Let them in charity to Murphy give Some old French piece, that he may steal and live; Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get, And advertise a Summer-house of Wit. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed; I on my Journey all alone proceed. If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r, With hum'rous Scots let them disport their hour: Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb; Let them forge lies, and histories for Hume; Let them with Home, the very prince of verse, Make something like a Tragedy in Erse; Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale Of rueful length; Let them plain things obscure, Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth; With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth Born of false Taste, with Fancy (like a child Not knowing what it cries for) running wild, With bloated style, by affectation taught, With much false colouring, and little thought, With phrases strange, and dialect decreed By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed, With words which Nature meant each other's foe, Forc'd to compound whether they will or no; With such materials let them, if they will, To prove at once their pleasantry and skill, Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common-Sense, By way of compliment to Providence; Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of Sense, Read musty lectures on Benevolence, Or con the pages of his gaping Day, Where all his former fame was thrown away, Where all but barren labour was forgot, And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot; Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light, But not one hour of darkness; when the night Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes, When for our past misdoings Conscience takes A deep revenge, when by Reflection led, She draws his curtain, and looks Comfort dead, Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns, A more than Etna in his coward breast, And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest: Tho' soft as plumage from young zephyr's wing, His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring. Ingratitude hath planted daggers there, No good man can deserve, no brave man bear. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed I on my Journey all alone proceed.

[Footnote 214: See The School for Lovers, by Mr. Whitehead, taken from Fontenelle.]

[Footnote 215: See The Cure of Saul, by Dr. Browne.]



JUNIUS.

(1769-1770-1771.)

XLV. TO THE KING.

The following is the famous letter which appeared in the Public Advertiser for December 20th, 1769. This is also the one on which the advocates of the theory that George, Lord Sackville, was the writer of the Letters of Junius lay such stress.

To the Printer of the "Public Advertiser".

December 19, 1769.

SIR,

When the complaints of a brave and powerful people are observed to increase in proportion to the wrongs they have suffered, when, instead of sinking into submission, they are roused to resistance, the time will soon arrive at which every inferior consideration must yield to the security of the sovereign, and to the general safety of the state. There is a moment of difficulty and danger at which flattery and falsehood can no longer deceive, and simplicity itself can no longer be misled. Let us suppose it arrived; let us suppose a gracious, well-intentioned prince, made sensible at last of the great duty he owes to his people, and of his own disgraceful situation; that he looks round him for assistance, and asks for no advice but how to gratify the wishes and secure the happiness of his subjects. In these circumstances, it may be matter of curious speculation to consider, if an honest man were permitted to approach a king, in what terms he would address himself to his sovereign. Let it be imagined, no matter how improbable, that the first prejudice against his character is removed; that the ceremonious difficulties of an audience are surmounted; that he feels himself animated by the purest and most honourable affections to his king and country; and that the great person whom he addresses has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and understanding enough to listen to him with attention. Unacquainted with the vain impertinence of forms, he would deliver his sentiments with dignity and firmness, but not without respect.

Sir,

It is the misfortune of your life, and originally the cause of every reproach and distress which has attended your government, that you should never have been acquainted with the language of truth until you heard it in the complaints of your people. It is not, however, too late to correct the error of your education. We are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance for the pernicious lessons you received in your youth, and to form the most sanguine hopes from the natural benevolence of your disposition. We are far from thinking you capable of a direct, deliberate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects on which all their civil and political liberties depend. Had it been possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonourable to your character, we should long since have adopted a style of remonstrance very distant from the humility of complaint. The doctrine inculcated by our laws, That the king can do no-wrong, is admitted without reluctance. We separate the amiable, good-natured prince from the folly and treachery of his servants, and the private virtues of the man from the vices of his government. Were it not for this just distinction, I know not whether your Majesty's condition, or that of the English nation, would deserve most to be lamented. I would prepare your mind for a favourable reception of truth by removing every painful, offensive idea of personal reproach. Your subjects, Sir, wish for nothing but that, as they are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your person from your government, so you, in your turn, should distinguish between the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity of a king and that which serves only to promote the temporary interest and miserable ambition of a minister.

You ascended the throne with a declared—and, I doubt not, a sincere—resolution of giving universal satisfaction to your subjects. You found them pleased with the novelty of a young prince whose countenance promised even more than his words, and loyal to you, not only from principle, but passion. It was not a cold profession of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, animated attachment to a favourite prince, the native of their country. They did not wait to examine your conduct nor to be determined by experience, but gave you a generous credit for the future blessings of your reign, and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of their affections. Such, Sir, was once the disposition of a people who now surround your throne with reproaches and complaints.—Do justice to yourself. Banish from your mind those unworthy opinions with which some interested persons have laboured to possess you.—Distrust the men who tell you that the English are naturally light and inconstant; that they complain without a cause. Withdraw your confidence equally from all parties—from ministers, favourites, and relations; and let there be one moment in your life in which you have consulted your own understanding.

When you affectedly renounced the name of Englishman, believe me, Sir, you were persuaded to pay a very ill-judged compliment to one part of your subjects at the expense of another. While the natives of Scotland are not in actual rebellion, they are undoubtedly entitled to protection; nor do I mean to condemn the policy of giving some encouragement to the novelty of their affections for the House of Hanover. I am ready to hope for everything from their new-born zeal, and from the future steadiness of their allegiance, but hitherto they have no claim to your favour. To honour them with a determined predilection and confidence, in exclusion of your English subjects, who placed your family, and, in spite of treachery and rebellion, have supported it, upon the throne, is a mistake too gross even for the unsuspecting generosity of youth. In this error we see a capital violation of the most obvious rules of policy and prudence. We trace it, however, to an original bias in your education, and are ready to allow for your inexperience.

To the same early influence we attribute it that you have descended to take a share, not only in the narrow views and interests of particular persons, but in the fatal malignity of their passions. At your accession to the throne the whole system of government was altered, not from wisdom or deliberation, but because it had been adopted by your predecessor. A little personal motive of pique and resentment was sufficient to remove the ablest servants of the Crown; but it is not in this country, Sir, that such men can be dishonoured by the frowns of a king. They were dismissed, but could not be disgraced. Without entering into a minuter discussion of the merits of the peace, we may observe, in the imprudent hurry with which the first overtures from France were accepted, in the conduct of the negotiation, and terms of the treaty, the strongest marks of that precipitate spirit of concession with which a certain part of your subjects have been at all times ready to purchase a peace with the natural enemies of this country. On your part we are satisfied that everything was honourable and sincere; and, if England was sold to France, we doubt not that your Majesty was equally betrayed. The conditions of the peace were matter of grief and surprise to your subjects, but not the immediate cause of their present discontent.

Hitherto, Sir, you had been sacrificed to the prejudices and passions of others. With what firmness will you bear the mention of your own?

A man, not very honourably distinguished in the world, commences a formal attack upon your favourite, considering nothing but how he might best expose his person and principles to detestation, and the national character of his countrymen to contempt. The natives of that country, Sir, are as much distinguished by a peculiar character as by your Majesty's favour. Like another chosen people, they have been conducted into the land of plenty, where they find themselves effectually marked and divided from mankind. There is hardly a period at which the most irregular character may not be redeemed. The mistakes of one sex find a retreat in patriotism, those of the other in devotion. Mr. Wilkes brought with him into politics the same liberal sentiments by which his private conduct had been directed, and seemed to think that, as there are few excesses in which an English gentleman may not be permitted to indulge, the same latitude was allowed him in the choice of his political principles, and in the spirit of maintaining them. I mean to state, not entirely to defend, his conduct. In the earnestness of his zeal he suffered some unwarrantable insinuations to escape him. He said more than moderate men would justify, but not enough to entitle him to the honour of your Majesty's personal resentment. The rays of royal indignation, collected upon him, served only to illuminate, and could not consume. Animated by the favour of the people on the one side, and heated by persecution on the other, his views and sentiments changed with his situation. Hardly serious at first, he is now an enthusiast. The coldest bodies warm with opposition, the hardest sparkle in collision.—There is a holy, mistaken zeal in politics as well as religion. By persuading others, we convince ourselves. The passions are engaged, and create a material affection in the mind, which forces us to love the cause for which we suffer. Is this a contention worthy of a king? Are you not sensible how much the meanness of the cause gives an air of ridicule to the serious difficulties into which you have been betrayed? The destruction of one man has been now, for many years, the sole object of your government; and, if there can be anything still more disgraceful, we have seen, for such an object, the utmost influence of the executive power, and every ministerial artifice, exerted without success. Nor can you ever succeed, unless he should be imprudent enough to forfeit the protection of those laws to which you owe your crown, or unless your minister should persuade you to make it a question of force alone, and try the whole strength of government in opposition to the people. The lessons he has received from experience will probably guard him from such excess of folly, and in your Majesty's virtues we find an unquestionable assurance that no illegal violence will be attempted.

Far from suspecting you of so horrible a design, we would attribute his continued violation of the laws, and even the last enormous attack upon the vital principles of the constitution, to an ill-advised, unworthy, personal resentment. From one false step you have been betrayed into another, and, as the cause was unworthy of you, your ministers were determined that the prudence executed should correspond with the wisdom and dignity of the design. They have reduced you to the necessity of choosing out of a variety of difficulties; to a situation so unhappy that you can neither do wrong without ruin, nor right without affliction. These worthy servants have undoubtedly given you many singular proofs of their abilities. Not contented with making Mr. Wilkes a man of importance, they have judiciously transferred the question from the rights and interests of one man to the most important rights and interests of the people, and forced your subjects from wishing well to the cause of an individual to unite with him in their own. Let them proceed as they have begun, and your Majesty need not doubt that the catastrophe will do no dishonour to the conduct of the piece.

The circumstances to which you are reduced will not admit of a compromise with the English nation. Undecisive, qualifying measures will disgrace your government still more than open violence, and, without satisfying the people, will excite their contempt. They have too much understanding and spirit to accept of an indirect satisfaction for a direct injury. Nothing less than a repeal, as formal as the resolution itself, can heal the wound which has been given to the constitution, nor will anything less be accepted. I can readily believe that there is an influence sufficient to recall that pernicious vote. The House of Commons undoubtedly consider their duty to the Crown as paramount to all other obligations. To us they are only indebted for an accidental existence, and have justly transferred their gratitude from their parents to their benefactors, from those who gave them birth to the minister from whose benevolence they derive the comforts and pleasure of their political life, who has taken the tenderest care of their infancy and relieves their necessities without offending their delicacy. But if it were possible for their integrity to be degraded to a condition so vile and abject that, compared with it, the present estimation they stand in is a state of honour and respect, consider, Sir, in what manner you will afterwards proceed. Can you conceive that the people of this country will long submit to be governed by so flexible a House of Commons? It is not in the nature of human society that any form of government, in such circumstances, can long be preserved. In ours, the general contempt of the people is as fatal as their detestation. Such, I am persuaded, would be the necessary effect of any base concession made by the present House of Commons, and, as a qualifying measure would not be accepted, it remains for you to decide whether you will, at any hazard, support a set of men who have reduced you to this unhappy dilemma, or whether you will gratify the united wishes of the whole people of England by dissolving the Parliament.

Taking it for granted, as I do very sincerely, that you have personally no design against the constitution, nor any view inconsistent with the good of your subjects, I think you cannot hesitate long upon the choice which it equally concerns your interests and your honour to adopt. On one side you hazard the affection of all your English subjects, you relinquish every hope of repose to yourself, and you endanger the establishment of your family for ever. All this you venture for no object whatsoever, or for such an object as it would be an affront to you to name. Men of sense will examine your conduct with suspicion, while those who are incapable of comprehending to what degree they are injured afflict you with clamours equally insolent and unmeaning. Supposing it possible that no fatal struggle should ensue, you determine at once to be unhappy, without the hope of a compensation either from interest or ambition. If an English king be hated or despised, he must be unhappy; and this, perhaps, is the only political truth which he ought to be convinced of without experiment. But if the English people should no longer confine their resentment to a submissive representation of their wrongs; if, following the glorious example of their ancestors, they should no longer appeal to the creature of the constitution, but to that high Being who gave them the rights of humanity, whose gifts it were sacrilege to surrender, let me ask you, Sir, upon what part of your subjects would you rely for assistance?

The people of Ireland have been uniformly plundered and oppressed. In return they give you every day fresh marks of their resentment. They despise the miserable governor you have sent them, because he is the creature of Lord Bute, nor is it from any natural confusion in their ideas that they are so ready to confound the original of a king with the disgraceful representation of him.

The distance of the colonies would make it impossible for them to take an active concern in your affairs, if they were as well affected to your government as they once pretended to be to your person. They were ready enough to distinguish between you and your ministers. They complained of an act of the legislature, but traced the origin of it no higher than to the servants of the Crown; they pleased themselves with the hope that their sovereign, if not favourable to their cause, at least was impartial. The decisive personal part you took against them has effectually banished that first distinction from their minds. They consider you as united with your servants against America, and know how to distinguish the sovereign and a venal parliament on one side from the real sentiments of the English people on the other. Looking forward to independence, they might possibly receive you for their king; but, if ever you retire to America, be assured they will give you such a covenant to digest as the presbytery of Scotland would have been ashamed to offer to Charles the Second. They left their native land in search of freedom, and found it in a desert. Divided as they are into a thousand forms of policy and religion, there is one point in which they all agree: they equally detest the pageantry of a king and the supercilious hypocrisy of a bishop.

It is not, then, from the alienated affections of Ireland or America that you can reasonably look for assistance; still less from the people of England, who are actually contending for their rights, and in this great question are parties against you. You are not, however, destitute of every appearance of support: you have all the Jacobites, Non-jurors, Roman Catholics, and Tories of this country, and all Scotland, without exception. Considering from what family you are descended, the choice of your friends has been singularly directed; and truly, Sir, if you had not lost the Whig interest of England, I should admire your dexterity in turning the hearts of your enemies. Is it possible for you to place any confidence in men who, before they are faithful to you, must renounce every opinion and betray every principle, both in church and state, which they inherit from their ancestors and are confirmed in by their education; whose numbers are so inconsiderable that they have long since been obliged to give up the principles and language which distinguish them as a party, and to fight under the banners of their enemies? Their zeal begins with hypocrisy, and must conclude in treachery. At first they deceive, at last they betray.

As to the Scotch, I must suppose your heart and understanding so biassed from your earliest infancy in their favour that nothing less than your own misfortunes can undeceive you. You will not accept of the uniform experience of your ancestors; and, when once a man is determined to believe, the very absurdity of the doctrine confirms him in his faith. A bigoted understanding can draw a proof of attachment to the House of Hanover from a notorious zeal for the House of Stuart, and find an earnest of future loyalty in former rebellions. Appearances are, however, in their favour: so strongly, indeed, that one would think they had forgotten that you are their lawful king, and had mistaken you for a pretender to the crown. Let it be admitted, then, that the Scotch are as sincere in their present professions as if you were in reality, not an Englishman, but a Briton of the North. You would not be the first prince of their native country against whom they have rebelled, nor the first whom they have basely betrayed. Have you forgotten, Sir, or has your favourite concealed from you, that part of our history when the unhappy Charles (and he, too, had private virtues) fled from the open, avowed indignation of his English subjects, and surrendered himself at discretion to the good faith of his own countrymen? Without looking for support in their affections as subjects, he applied only to their honour as gentlemen for protection. They received him, as they would your Majesty, with bows and smiles and falsehood, and kept him until they had settled their bargain with the English parliament, then basely sold their native king to the vengeance of his enemies. This, Sir, was not the act of a few traitors, but the deliberate treachery of a Scotch parliament representing the nation. A wise prince might draw from it two lessons of equal utility to himself. On one side he might learn to dread the undisguised resentment of a generous people who dare openly assert their rights, and who in a just cause are ready to meet their sovereign in the field. On the other side he would be taught to apprehend something far more formidable: a fawning treachery against which no prudence can guard, no courage can defend. The insidious smile upon the cheek would warn him of the canker in the heart.

From the uses to which one part of the army has been too frequently applied, you have some reason to expect that there are no services they would refuse. Here, too, we trace the partiality of your understanding. You take the sense of the army from the conduct of the guards, with the same justice with which you collect the sense of the people from the representations of the ministry. Your marching regiments, Sir, will not make the guards their example either as soldiers or subjects. They feel and resent, as they ought to do, that invariable, undistinguishing favour with which the guards are treated, while those gallant troops, by whom every hazardous, every laborious service is performed, are left to perish in garrisons abroad, or pine in quarters at home, neglected and forgotten. If they had no sense of the great original duty they owe their country, their resentment would operate like patriotism, and leave your cause to be defended by those on whom you have lavished the rewards and honours of their profession. The Praetorian bands, enervated and debauched as they were, had still strength enough to awe the Roman populace, but when the distant legions took the alarm they marched to Rome and gave away the empire.

On this side, then, whichever way you turn your eyes, you see nothing but perplexity and distress. You may determine to support the very ministry who have reduced your affairs to this deplorable situation; you may shelter yourself under the forms of a parliament, and set the people at defiance; but be assured, Sir, that such a resolution would be as imprudent as it would be odious. If it did not immediately shake your establishment, it would rob you of your peace of mind for ever.

On the other, how different is the prospect! How easy, how safe and honourable, is the path before you! The English nation declare they are grossly injured by their representatives, and solicit your Majesty to exert your lawful prerogative, and give them an opportunity of recalling a trust which they find has been scandalously abused. You are not to be told that the power of the House of Commons is not original, but delegated to them for the welfare of the people, from whom they received it. A question of right arises between the constituent and the representative body. By what authority shall it be decided? Will your Majesty interfere in a question in which you have, properly, no immediate concern? It would be a step equally odious and unnecessary. Shall the Lords be called upon to determine the rights and privileges of the Commons? They cannot do it without a flagrant breach of the constitution. Or will you refer it to the judges? They have often told your ancestors that the law of parliament is above them. What part then remains but to leave it to the people to determine for themselves? They alone are injured, and since there is no superior power to which the cause can be referred, they alone ought to determine.

I do not mean to perplex you with a tedious argument upon a subject already so discussed that inspiration could hardly throw a new light upon it. There are, however, two points of view in which it particularly imports your Majesty to consider the late proceedings of the House of Commons. By depriving a subject of his birthright they have attributed to their own vote an authority equal to an act of the whole legislature, and, though perhaps not with the same motives, have strictly followed the example of the Long Parliament, which first declared the regal office useless, and soon after, with as little ceremony, dissolved the House of Lords. The same pretended power which robs an English subject of his birthright may rob an English king of his crown. In another view, the resolution of the House of Commons, apparently not so dangerous to your Majesty, is still more alarming to your people. Not contented with divesting one man of his right, they have arbitrarily conveyed that right to another. They have set aside a return as illegal, without daring to censure those officers who were particularly apprised of Mr. Wilkes' incapacity, not only by the declaration of the House, but expressly by the writ directed to them, and who, nevertheless, returned him as duly elected. They have rejected the majority of votes, the only criterion by which our laws judge of the sense of the people; they have transferred the right of election from the collective to the representative body; and by these acts, taken separately or together, they have essentially altered the original constitution of the House of Commons. Versed as your Majesty undoubtedly is in the English history, it cannot escape you how much it is your interest as well as your duty to prevent one of the three estates from encroaching upon the province of the other two, or assuming the authority of them all. When once they have departed from the great constitutional line by which all their proceedings should be directed, who will answer for their future moderation? Or what assurance will they give you that, when they have trampled upon their equals, they will submit to a superior? Your Majesty may learn hereafter how nearly the slave and tyrant are allied.

Some of your council, more candid than the rest, admit the abandoned profligacy of the present House of Commons, but oppose their dissolution, upon an opinion, I confess, not very unwarrantable, that their successors would be equally at the disposal of the treasury. I cannot persuade myself that the nation will have profited so little by experience. But if that opinion were well founded, you might then gratify our wishes at an easy rate, and appease the present clamour against your government, without offering any material injury to the favourite cause of corruption.

You have still an honourable part to act. The affections of your subjects may still be recovered. But before you subdue their hearts you must gain a noble victory over your own. Discard those little, personal resentments which have too long directed your public conduct. Pardon this man the remainder of his punishment; and, if resentment still prevails, make it what it should have been long since—an act, not of mercy, but of contempt. He will soon fall back into his natural station, a silent senator, and hardly supporting the weekly eloquence of a newspaper. The gentle breath of peace would leave him on the surface, neglected and unremoved. It is only the tempest that lifts him from his place.

Without consulting your minister, call together your whole council. Let it appear to the public that you can determine and act for yourself. Come forward to your people. Lay aside the wretched formalities of a king, and speak to your subjects with the spirit of a man and in the language of a gentleman. Tell them you have been fatally deceived. The acknowledgment will be no disgrace, but rather an honour, to your understanding. Tell them you are determined to remove every cause of complaint against your government, that you will give your confidence to no man who does not possess the confidence of your subjects, and leave it to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a future election, whether or no it be in reality the general sense of the nation that their rights have been arbitrarily invaded by the present House of Commons, and the constitution betrayed. They will then do justice to their representatives and to themselves.

These sentiments, Sir, and the style they are conveyed in, may be offensive, perhaps, because they are new to you. Accustomed to the language of courtiers, you measure their affections by the vehemence of their expressions, and when they only praise you indifferently, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to trifle with your fortune. They deceive you, Sir, who tell you that you have many friends, whose affections are founded upon a principle of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship is not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality with which they are received and may be returned. The fortune which made you a king forbade you to have a friend. It is a law of nature which cannot be violated with impunity. The mistaken prince who looks for friendship will find a favourite, and in that favourite the ruin of his affairs.

The people of England are loyal to the House of Hanover, not from a vain preference of one family to another, but from a conviction that the establishment of that family was necessary to the support of their civil and religious liberties. This, Sir, is a principle of allegiance equally solid and rational, fit for Englishmen to adopt, and well worthy of your Majesty's encouragement. We cannot long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of Stuart, of itself, is only contemptible; armed with the sovereign authority, their principles are formidable. The prince who imitates their conduct should be warned by their example, and, while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remember that, as it was acquired by one revolution, it may be lost by another.



ROBERT BURNS.

(1759-1796.)

XLVI. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither; The cleanest corn that ere was dight May ha'e some pyles o' caff in; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin'.—Solomon.—Eccles. vii. 16.

This undoubtedly ranks as one of the noblest satires in our literature. It was first published as a broadside, and afterwards incorporated in the Kilmarnock and Edinburgh editions.

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious an' sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark an' tell Your neebour's fauts an' folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun[216] mill, Supplied wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's[217] ebbing still, An' still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, For glaiket[218] Folly's portals; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie[219] tricks, their black mistakes Their failings an' mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, An' shudder at the niffer[220], But cast a moment's fair regard, What mak's the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gi'es now an' then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop. Wi' wind an' tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.

See social life an' glee sit down, All joyous an' unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown Debauchery an' drinking: Oh would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gi'e poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper i' your lug[221], Ye'er aiblins[222] nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: An' just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord—its various tone, Each spring—its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

[Footnote 216: well-going.]

[Footnote 217: hopper.]

[Footnote 218: idle.]

[Footnote 219: unlucky.]

[Footnote 220: exchange.]

[Footnote 221: ear.]

[Footnote 222: perhaps.]



XLVII. HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

The hero of this daring exposition of Calvinistic theology was William Fisher, a farmer in the neighbourhood of Mauchline, and an elder in Mr. Auld's session. He had signalized himself in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, elsewhere alluded to; and Burns appears to have written these verses in retribution of the rancour he had displayed on that occasion. Fisher was afterwards convicted of appropriating the money collected for the poor. Coming home one night from market in a state of intoxication, he fell into a ditch, where he was found dead next morning. The poem was first published in 1801, along with the "Jolly Beggars".

Oh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, an' ten to hell, A' for thy glory, An' no for ony guid or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless an' praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Thro' Adam's cause?

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might ha'e plunged me deep in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep an' wail, In burnin' lake, Whare damned devils roar an' yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great an' ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock.

But yet, oh Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd[223] wi' fleshly lust; An' sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in: But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin.

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en an' morn Lest he owre high an' proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted; If sae, Thy ban' maun e'en be borne, Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

Lord, mind Cawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes[224], Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' grit an' sma'[225], Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.

And whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore[226], As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us,— Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin', To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin', Held up his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare,

But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear[227] and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay Tak's up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some ither way, I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun', Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane[228] devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye ha'e nane; Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof[229] like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

[Footnote 223: troubled.]

[Footnote 224: cards.]

[Footnote 225: great and small.]

[Footnote 226: row.]

[Footnote 227: wealth.]

[Footnote 228: brimstone.]

[Footnote 229: fool.]



CHARLES LAMB.

(1775-1835.)

XLVIII. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

Published originally in 1811 in The Reflector, No. 4. As Lamb himself states, it was meditated for two years before it was committed to paper in 1805, but not published until six years afterwards.

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, Great Plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passions to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras— Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze. But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite— Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexed lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike, And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, Loving Foe,— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any title of her state, Though a widow or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the byplaces And the suburbs of thy graces, And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite.



THOMAS MOORE.

(1779-1852.)

XLIX. LINES ON LEIGH HUNT.

Suggested by Hunt's Byron and his Contemporaries.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage Of the late noble lion at Exeter 'Change.

Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad", 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how lions behave—among friends.

How that animal eats, how he moves, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the lion was no such great things after all.

Though he roar'd pretty well—this the puppy allows— It was all, he says, borrow'd—all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a cynic could ask, To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task, And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) With sops every day from the lion's own pan, He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcase, And—does all a dog, so diminutive, can.

However the book's a good book, being rich in Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, Who'll feed on them living, and foul them when dead.



GEORGE CANNING.

(1770-1827.)

L. EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE.

Published in Fugitive Verses, and thence included among Canning's works.

Oft you have ask'd me, Granville, why Of late I heave the frequent sigh? Why, moping, melancholy, low, From supper, commons, wine, I go? Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd, By day no peace, by night no rest? Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew A tale so tender, and so true— Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain, My pen with freedom shall explain. Say, Granville, do you not remember, About the middle of November, When Blenheim's hospitable lord Received us at his cheerful board; How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled, Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild? And mark'd you not, how many a glance Across the table, shot by chance From fair Eliza's graceful form, Assail'd and took my heart by storm? And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal, I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal? And how, when conversation's charms Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms, My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder, When talking to her at the winder? These facts premised, you can't but guess The cause of my uneasiness, For you have heard, as well as I, That she'll be married speedily; And then—my grief more plain to tell— Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,—farewell! But still, tho' false the fleeting dream, Indulge awhile the tender theme, And hear, had fortune yet been kind, How bright the prospect of the mind. O! had I had it in my power To wed her—with a suited dower— And proudly bear the beauteous maid To Saltrum's venerable shade,— Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em,— Then had I tasted bliss sincere, And happy been from year to year. How changed this scene! for now, my Granville, Another match is on the anvil. And I, a widow'd dove, complain, And feel no refuge from my pain— Save that of pitying Spencer's sister, Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister.