book 3

, ch. 7.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Stella.]

[Footnote 5: The Duke of Marlborough was accused of having received large sums, as perquisites, from the contractors, who furnished bread, forage, etc., to the army.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Scott prints this word "plumes," substituting a false meaning for the real point of the poem.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 7: The result of the investigations of the House of Commons was the removal of the Duke of Marlborough from his command, and all his employments.--_Scott_.]

TOLAND'S INVITATION TO DISMAL[1] TO DINE WITH THE CALVES’ HEAD CLUB

Written A.D. 1712.--_Stella._ Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5.

Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe "The sober Earl of Nottingham, Of sober sire descended."--HOR., _Odes_, ii, 4. From these points of his character, we may estimate the severity of the following satire, which represents this pillar of High-Church principles as invited by the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th January, by attending the Calves' Head Club.--_Scott_.

If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine Upon a single dish, and tavern wine, Toland to you this invitation sends, To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends. Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes, Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes. To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare, Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share: When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell, How by brave hands the royal traitor fell; The meat shall represent the tyrant's head, The wine, his blood our predecessors shed; Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings, We toast, Confusion to the race of kings! At monarchy we nobly show our spight, And talk, what fools call treason, all the night. Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk, Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk? Wine can clear up Godolphin's cloudy face, And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place: By force of wine, ev'n Scarborough is brave, Hal[2] grows more pert, and Somers not so grave: Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense, Montague learning, Bolton eloquence: Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand; And Lincoln then imagines he has land. My province is, to see that all be right, Glasses and linen clean, and pewter bright; From our mysterious club to keep out spies, And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise. You shall be coupled as you best approve, Seated at table next the man you love. Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place; Wharton, unless prevented by a whore, Will hardly fail; and there is room for more; But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink; And honest Harry is too apt to stink. Let no pretence of bus'ness make you stay; Yet take one word of counsel[3] by the way. If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad; He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud, Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers; But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs, Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there; Then order Squash to call a hackney chair.

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_. See Journal to Stella, July 1, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, 375; and ix, 256, 287.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Scott prints "comfort."--_Forster_.]

PEACE AND DUNKIRK

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL 1712

To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."

Spite of Dutch friends and English foes, Poor Britain shall have peace at last: Holland got towns, and we got blows; But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast. We have got it in a string, And the Whigs may all go swing, For among good friends I love to be plain; All their false deluded hopes Will, or ought to end in ropes; "But the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

Sunderland’s run out of his wits, And Dismal double Dismal looks; Wharton can only swear by fits, And strutting Hal is off the hooks; Old Godolphin, full of spleen, Made false moves, and lost his Queen: Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane: But a Prince of high renown Swore he'd rather lose a crown, "Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."

Our merchant-ships may cut the line, And not be snapt by privateers. And commoners who love good wine Will drink it now as well as peers: Landed men shall have their rent, Yet our stocks rise _cent, per cent._ The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: We'll bring on us no more debts, Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes; "And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

The towns we took ne'er did us good: What signified the French to beat? We spent our money and our blood, To make the Dutchmen proud and great: But the Lord of Oxford swears, Dunkirk never shall be theirs. The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill A good health to General Hill: "For the Queen now enjoys her own again."

HORACE, EPIST. I, VII IMITATION OF HORACE TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]

Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall, Cheap'ning old authors on a stall. The priest was pretty well in case, And show'd some humour in his face; Look'd with an easy, careless mien, A perfect stranger to the spleen; Of size that might a pulpit fill, But more inclining to sit still. My lord, (who, if a man may say't, Loves mischief better than his meat), Was now disposed to crack a jest And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest. (This Lewis was a cunning shaver, And very much in Harley's favour)-- In quest who might this parson be, What was his name, of what degree; If possible, to learn his story, And whether he were Whig or Tory. Lewis his patron's humour knows; Away upon his errand goes, And quickly did the matter sift; Found out that it was Doctor Swift, A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat; Which made his brethren of the gown Take care betimes [3] to run him down: No libertine, nor over nice, Addicted to no sort of vice; Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought; Not rich, but owed no man a groat; In state opinions à la mode, He hated Wharton like a toad; Had given the faction many a wound, And libell'd all the junto round; Kept company with men of wit, Who often father'd what he writ: His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street, But seldom rose above a sheet: Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp Did very much his genius cramp; And, since he could not spend his fire, He now intended[4] to retire. Said Harley, "I desire to know From his own mouth, if this be so: Step to the doctor straight, and say, I'd have him dine with me to-day." Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant, Nor could believe my lord had sent; So never offer'd once to stir, But coldly said, "Your servant, sir!" "Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd: "He does; with insolence and pride." Some few days after, Harley spies The doctor fasten'd by the eyes At Charing-cross, among the rout, Where painted monsters are hung out: He pull'd the string, and stopt his[5] coach, Beck'ning the doctor to approach. Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide, Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side, And offer'd many a lame excuse: He never meant the least abuse-- "My lord--the honour you design'd-- Extremely proud--but I had dined-- I am sure I never should neglect-- No man alive has more respect"-- Well, I shall think of that no more, If you'll be sure to come at four." The doctor now obeys the summons, Likes both his company and commons; Displays his talent, sits till ten; Next day invited, comes again; Soon grows domestic, seldom fails, Either at morning or at meals; Came early, and departed late; In short, the gudgeon took the bait. My lord would carry on the jest, And down to Windsor takes his guest. Swift much admires the place and air, And longs to be a Canon there; In summer round the Park to ride, In winter--never to reside. A Canon!--that's a place too mean: No, doctor, you shall be a Dean; Two dozen canons round your stall, And you the tyrant o'er them all: You need but cross the Irish seas, To live in plenty, power, and ease. Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse, With borrow'd money in his purse, Travels at least a hundred leagues, And suffers numberless fatigues. Suppose him now a dean complete, Demurely[8] lolling in his seat, And silver verge, with decent pride, Stuck underneath his cushion side. Suppose him gone through all vexations, Patents, instalments, abjurations, First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats; Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats. (The wicked laity’s contriving To hinder clergymen from thriving.) Now all the doctor's money’s spent, His tenants wrong him in his rent, The farmers spitefully combine, Force him to take his tithes in kine, And Parvisol[9] discounts arrears By bills, for taxes and repairs. Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd, Not knowing where to turn him next, Above a thousand pounds in debt, Takes horse, and in a mighty fret Rides day and night at such a rate, He soon arrives at Harley's gate; But was so dirty, pale, and thin, Old Read[10] would hardly let him in. Said Harley, "Welcome, rev'rend dean! What makes your worship look so lean? Why, sure you won't appear in town In that old wig and rusty gown? I doubt your heart is set on pelf So much that you neglect yourself. What! I suppose, now stocks are high, You've some good purchase in your eye? Or is your money out at use?"-- "Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!" The doctor in a passion cry'd, "Your raillery is misapply'd; Experience I have[11] dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat: But you resolved to have your jest, And 'twas a folly to contest; Then, since you now have done your worst, Pray leave me where you found me first."

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer's secretary.]

[Footnote 3: By time.--_Stella_.]

[Footnote 4: Is now contented,--_Stella._]

[Footnote 5: The.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 6: Would.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 7: By.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 8: "Devoutly" is the word in Stella's transcript: but it must be admitted that "demurely" is more in keeping.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 9: The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.]

[Footnote 10: The lord treasurer's porter.]

[Footnote 11: I have experience.--_Stella_.]

THE AUTHOR UPON HIMSELF

1713

A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author's from London.--_Dublin Edition_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * By an old ---- pursued, A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2] By dull divines, who look with envious eyes On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise; And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod, Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God. So clowns on scholars as on wizards look, And take a folio for a conj'ring book. Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime: Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme; Humour and mirth had place in all he writ; He reconcil'd divinity and wit: He moved and bow'd, and talk'd with too much grace; Nor show'd the parson in his gait or face; Despised luxurious wines and costly meat; Yet still was at the tables of the great; Frequented lords; saw those that saw the queen; At Child's or Truby's,[3] never once had been; Where town and country vicars flock in tribes, Secured by numbers from the laymen's gibes; And deal in vices of the graver sort, Tobacco, censure, coffee, pride, and port. But, after sage monitions from his friends, His talents to employ for nobler ends; To better judgments willing to submit, He turns to politics his dang'rous wit. And now, the public Int'rest to support, By Harley Swift invited, comes to court; In favour grows with ministers of state; Admitted private, when superiors wait: And Harley, not ashamed his choice to own, Takes him to Windsor in his coach alone. At Windsor Swift no sooner can appear, But St. John comes, and whispers in his ear: The waiters stand in ranks: the yeomen cry, _Make room_, as if a duke were passing by. Now Finch[4] alarms the lords: he hears for certain This dang'rous priest is got behind the curtain. Finch, famed for tedious elocution, proves That Swift oils many a spring which Harley moves. Walpole and Aislaby,[5] to clear the doubt, Inform the Commons, that the secret's out: "A certain doctor is observed of late To haunt a certain minister of state: From whence with half an eye we may discover The peace is made, and Perkin must come over." York is from Lambeth sent, to show the queen A dang'rous treatise[6] writ against the spleen; Which, by the style, the matter, and the drift, 'Tis thought could be the work of none but Swift. Poor York! the harmless tool of others' hate; He sues for pardon,[7] and repents too late. Now angry Somerset her vengeance vows On Swift's reproaches for her ******* spouse:[8] From her red locks her mouth with venom fills, And thence into the royal ear instils. The queen incensed, his services forgot, Leaves him a victim to the vengeful Scot.[9] Now through the realm a proclamation spread, To fix a price on his devoted head.[10] While innocent, he scorns ignoble flight; His watchful friends preserve him by a sleight. By Harley's favour once again he shines; Is now caress'd by candidate divines, Who change opinions with the changing scene: Lord! how were they mistaken in the dean! Now Delawar[11] again familiar grows; And in Swift's ear thrusts half his powder'd nose. The Scottish nation, whom he durst offend, Again apply that Swift would be their friend.[12] By faction tired, with grief he waits awhile, His great contending friends to reconcile; Performs what friendship, justice, truth require: What could he more, but decently retire?

[Footnote 1: Dr. John Sharpe, who, for some unbecoming reflections in his sermons, had been suspended, May 14, 1686, was raised from the Deanery of Canterbury, to the Archbishopric of York, July 5, 1691; and died February 2, 1712-13. According to Dr. Swift's account, the archbishop had represented him to the queen as a person that was not a Christian; the great lady [the Duchess of Somerset] had supported the aspersion; and the queen, upon such assurances, had given away the bishopric contrary to her majesty's first intentions [which were in favour of Swift]. See Orrery's "Remarks on the Life of Swift," p. 48.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Queen Anne.]

[Footnote 3: Coffeehouses frequented by the clergy. In the preceding poem, Swift gives the same trait of his own character: "A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat." His feeling towards his order was exactly the reverse of his celebrated misanthropical expression of hating mankind, but loving individuals. On the contrary, he loved the church, but disliked associating with individual clergymen.--_Scott._ See his letter to Pope, Sept. 29, 1725, in Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, vii, 53, and the unjust remarks of the commentators.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Daniel Finch, Earl of Nottingham, who made a speech in the House of Lords against the author.]

[Footnote 5: John Aislaby, then M.P. for Ripon. They both spoke against him in the House of Commons.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 6: The Tale of a Tub.]

[Footnote 7: He sent a message to the author to desire his pardon, and that he was very sorry for what he had said and done.]

[Footnote 8: Insert _murder'd_. The duchess's first husband, Thomas Thynne, Esq., was assassinated in Pall Mall by banditti, the emissaries of Count Königsmark. As the motive of this crime was the count's love to the lady, with whom Thynne had never cohabited, Swift seems to throw upon her the imputation of being privy to the crime. See the "Windsor Prophecy," _ante_, p. 150.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 9: The Duke of Argyle.]

[Footnote 10: For writing "The Public Spirit of the Whigs."]

[Footnote 11: Then lord-treasurer of the household, who cautiously avoided Swift while the proclamation was impending.]

[Footnote 12: He was visited by the Scots lords more than ever.]

THE FAGOT[1]

Written in the year 1713, when the Queen's ministers were quarrelling among themselves.

Observe the dying father speak: Try, lads, can you this bundle break? Then bids the youngest of the six Take up a well-bound heap of sticks. They thought it was an old man's maggot; And strove, by turns, to break the fagot: In vain: the complicated wands Were much too strong for all their hands. See, said the sire, how soon 'tis done: Then took and broke them one by one. So strong you'll be, in friendship ty'd; So quickly broke, if you divide. Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel: Here ends the fable, and the moral. This tale may be applied in few words, To treasurers, comptrollers, stewards; And others, who, in solemn sort, Appear with slender wands at court; Not firmly join'd to keep their ground, But lashing one another round: While wise men think they ought to fight With quarterstaffs instead of white; Or constable, with staff of peace, Should come and make the clatt'ring cease; Which now disturbs the queen and court, And gives the Whigs and rabble sport. In history we never found The consul's fasces[2] were unbound: Those Romans were too wise to think on't, Except to lash some grand delinquent, How would they blush to hear it said, The praetor broke the consul's head! Or consul in his purple gown, Came up and knock'd the praetor down! Come, courtiers: every man his stick! Lord treasurer,[3] for once be quick: And that they may the closer cling, Take your blue ribbon for a string. Come, trimming Harcourt,[4] bring your mace; And squeeze it in, or quit your place: Dispatch, or else that rascal Northey[5] Will undertake to do it for thee: And be assured, the court will find him Prepared to leap o'er sticks, or bind them. To make the bundle strong and safe, Great Ormond, lend thy general's staff: And, if the crosier could be cramm'd in A fig for Lechmere, King, and Hambden! You'll then defy the strongest Whig With both his hands to bend a twig; Though with united strength they all pull, From Somers,[6] down to Craggs[7] and Walpole.

[Footnote 1: This fable is one of the vain remonstrances by which Swift strove to close the breach between Oxford and Bolingbroke, in the last period of their administration, which, to use Swift's own words, was "nothing else but a scene of murmuring and discontent, quarrel and misunderstanding, animosity and hatred;" so that these two great men had scarcely a common friend left, except the author himself, who laboured with unavailing zeal to reconcile their dissensions.--_Scott._ With this exception, the notes are from the Dublin Edition.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The bundle of rods carried before the Consuls at Rome.]

[Footnote 3: The dilatory Earl of Oxford.]

[Footnote 4: Lord Chancellor.]

[Footnote 5: Sir Edward Northey, attorney-general, brought in by Lord Harcourt; yet very desirous of the Great Seal.]

[Footnote 6: Who had been at different times Lord Chancellor and President of the Council.]

[Footnote 7: Afterwards Secretary of State].

IMITATION OF PART OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.[1] 1714

I often wish'd that I had clear, For life, six hundred pounds a-year, A handsome house to lodge a friend, A river at my garden's end, A terrace walk, and half a rood Of land, set out to plant a wood. Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;[2] But should be perfectly content, Could I but live on this side Trent;[3] Nor cross the channel twice a-year, To spend six months with statesmen here. I must by all means come to town, 'Tis for the service of the crown. "Lewis, the Dean will be of use; Send for him up, take no excuse." The toil, the danger of the seas, Great ministers ne'er think of these; Or let it cost a hundred pound, No matter where the money's found, It is but so much more in debt, And that they ne'er consider'd yet. "Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my lord know you're come to town." I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is levee-day; And find his honour in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green: How should I thrust myself between? Some wag observes me thus perplex'd, And, smiling, whispers to the next, "I thought the Dean had been too proud, To justle here among a crowd!" Another, in a surly fit, Tells me I have more zeal than wit. "So eager to express your love, You ne'er consider whom you shove, But rudely press before a duke." I own I'm pleased with this rebuke, And take it kindly meant, to show What I desire the world should know. I get a whisper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never saw Come with petitions fairly penn'd, Desiring I would stand their friend. This humbly offers me his case; That begs my interest for a place; A hundred other men's affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears. "To-morrow my appeal comes on; Without your help, the cause is gone--" "The duke expects my lord and you, About some great affair, at two--" "Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind, To get my warrant quickly sign'd: Consider, 'tis my first request."-- Be satisfied I'll do my best: Then presently he falls to tease, "You may for certain, if you please; I doubt not if his lordship knew--- And Mr. Dean, one word from you[4]----" 'Tis (let me see) three years and more, (October next it will be four,) Since Harley bid me first attend,[5] And chose me for an humble friend; Would take me in his coach to chat, And question me of this and that; As "What's o'clock?" And, "How's the wind?" "Whose chariot's that we left behind?" Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs;[6] And mark at Brentford how they spell Hear is good Eal and Bear to cell. Or, "Have you nothing new to-day To shew from Parnell, Pope and Gay?" Such tattle often entertains My lord and me as far as Staines, As once a-week we travel down To Windsor, and again to town; Where all that passes _inter nos_ Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross. Yet some I know with envy swell, Because they see me used so well: "How think you of our friend the Dean? I wonder what some people mean! My lord and he are grown so great, Always together, _tête-à-tête_; What! they admire him for his jokes?-- See but the fortune of some folks!" There flies about a strange report Of mighty news arrived at court: I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet, And catechised in every street. "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great: Inform us, will the emperor treat? Or do the prints and papers lie?" Faith, sir, you know as much as I. "Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! 'Tis now no secret"--I protest It's one to me--"Then tell us, pray, When are the troops to have their pay?" And, though I solemnly declare I know no more than my lord mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known. Thus in a sea of folly toss'd, My choicest[7] hours of life are lost: Yet always wishing to retreat, O, could I see my country-seat! There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; And there in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the court and town.[8]

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy in the Duke of Bedford's volume.--_Forster._]

[Footnote 2: Here followed twenty lines inserted by Pope when he published the Miscellanies. The version is here printed as written by Swift.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Swift was perpetually expressing his deep discontent at his Irish preferment, and forming schemes for exchanging it for a smaller in England, and courted Queen Caroline and Sir Robert Walpole to effect such a change. A negotiation had nearly taken place between the Dean and Mr. Talbot for the living of Burfield, in Berkshire. Mr. Talbot himself informed me of this negotiation. Burfield is in the neighbourhood of Bucklebury, Lord Bolingbroke's seat.--_Warton._]

[Footnote 4: Very happily turned from "Si vis, potes----."--_Warton._]

[Footnote 5: The rise and progress of Swift's intimacy with Lord Oxford is minutely detailed in his Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man, that served the ministry so effectually, was so tardily, and so difficultly, and so poorly rewarded, are explained in Sheridan's Life of Swift. See also Coxe's "Memoirs of Walpole." Both Gay and Swift conceived every thing was to be gained by the interest of Mrs. Howard, to whom they paid incessant court.--_Bowles._]

[Footnote 6: Another of their amusements in these excursions consisted in Lord Oxford and Swift's counting the poultry on the road, and whichever reckoned thirty-one first, or saw a cat, or an old woman, won the game. Bolingbroke, overtaking them one day in their road to Windsor, got into Lord Oxford's coach, and began some political conversation; Lord Oxford said, "Swift, I am up; there is a cat." Bolingbroke was disgusted with this levity, and went again into his own carriage. This was "Nugari et discincti ludere," [HORAT., _Sat._, ii, I, 73] with a witness.--_Warton._]

[Footnote 7: Stella's transcript, "sweetest."--_Forster._]

[Footnote 8: Thus far was translated by Dr. Swift in 1714. The remaining part of the satire was afterwards added by Pope, in whose works the whole is printed. See Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope.--_W. E. B._]

HORACE,