BOOK I

, EP. V

JOHN DENNIS, THE SHELTERING POET'S INVITATION TO RICHARD STEELE, THE SECLUDED PARTY-WRITER AND MEMBER, TO COME AND LIVE WITH HIM, IN THE MINT 1714

Fit to be bound up with "The Crisis"

If thou canst lay aside a spendthrift's air, And condescend to feed on homely fare, Such as we minters, with ragouts unstored, Will, in defiance of the law, afford: Quit thy patrols with Toby's Christmas box,[1] And come to me at The Two Fighting Cocks; Since printing by subscription now is grown The stalest, idlest cheat about the town; And ev'n Charles Gildon, who, a Papist bred, Has an alarm against that worship spread, Is practising those beaten paths of cruising, And for new levies on proposals musing. 'Tis true, that Bloomsbury-square’s a noble place: But what are lofty buildings in thy case? What's a fine house embellish'd to profusion, Where shoulder dabbers are in execution? Or whence its timorous tenant seldom sallies, But apprehensive of insulting bailiffs? This once be mindful of a friend's advice, And cease to be improvidently nice; Exchange the prospects that delude thy sight, From Highgate's steep ascent and Hampstead's height, With verdant scenes, that, from St. George's Field, More durable and safe enjoyments yield. Here I, even I, that ne'er till now could find Ease to my troubled and suspicious mind, But ever was with jealousies possess'd, Am in a state of indolence and rest; Fearful no more of Frenchmen in disguise, Nor looking upon strangers as on spies,[2] But quite divested of my former spleen, Am unprovoked without, and calm within: And here I'll wait thy coming, till the sun Shall its diurnal course completely run. Think not that thou of sturdy bub shalt fail, My landlord's cellar stock'd with beer and ale, With every sort of malt that is in use, And every country's generous produce. The ready (for here Christian faith is sick, Which makes us seldom trespass upon tick) Instantly brings the choicest liquors out, Whether we ask for home-brew'd or for stout, For mead or cider, or, with dainties fed, Ring for a flask or two of white or red, Such as the drawer will not fail to swear Was drunk by Pilkington[3]when third time mayor. That name, methinks, so popularly known For opposition to the church and crown, Might make the Lusitanian grape to pass, And almost give a sanction to the glass; Especially with thee, whose hasty zeal Against the late rejected commerce bill Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf, To do the speaker honour, not thyself. But if thou soar'st above the common prices, By virtue of subscription to thy Crisis, And nothing can go down with thee but wines Press'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines, Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French, I love their liquors, as thou lovest a wench; Else thou must humble thy expensive taste, And, with us, hold contentment for a feast. The fire's already lighted; and the maid Has a clean cloth upon the table laid, Who never on a Saturday had struck, But for thy entertainment, up a buck. Think of this act of grace, which by your leave Susan would not have done on Easter Eve, Had she not been inform'd over and over, 'Twas for th'ingenious author of The Lover.[4] Cease, therefore, to beguile thyself with hopes, Which is no more than making sandy ropes, And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause, That must bewilder thee in faction's cause. Pr'ythee what is't to thee who guides the state? Why Dunkirk's demolition is so late? Or why her majesty thinks fit to cease The din of war, and hush the world to peace? The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell What texts to choose, and on what topics dwell; And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach Their flocks celestial happiness to reach. Rather let such poor souls as you and I, Say that the holidays are drawing nigh, And that to-morrow's sun begins the week, Which will abound with store of ale and cake, With hams of bacon, and with powder'd beef, Stuff d to give field-itinerants relief. Then I, who have within these precincts kept, And ne'er beyond the chimney-sweeper's stept, Will take a loose, and venture to be seen, Since 'twill be Sunday, upon Shanks's green; There, with erected looks and phrase sublime, To talk of unity of place and time, And with much malice, mix'd with little satire, Explode the wits on t'other side o' th' water. Why has my Lord Godolphin's special grace Invested me with a queen's waiter's place, If I, debarr'd of festival delights, Am not allow'd to spend the perquisites? He's but a short remove from being mad, Who at a time of jubilee is sad, And, like a griping usurer, does spare His money to be squander'd by his heir; Flutter'd away in liveries and in coaches, And washy sorts of feminine debauches. As for my part, whate'er the world may think, I'll bid adieu to gravity, and drink; And, though I can't put off a woful mien, Will be all mirth and cheerfulness within: As, in despight of a censorious race, I most incontinently suck my face. What mighty projects does not he design, Whose stomach flows, and brain turns round with wine? Wine, powerful wine, can thaw the frozen cit, And fashion him to humour and to wit; Makes even Somers to disclose his art By racking every secret from his heart, As he flings off the statesman's sly disguise, To name the cuckold's wife with whom he lies.[5] Ev'n Sarum, when he quaffs it’stead of tea, Fancies himself in Canterbury's see, And S****, when he carousing reels, Imagines that he has regain'd the seals: W****, by virtue of his juice, can fight, And Stanhope of commissioners make light. Wine gives Lord Wingham aptitude of parts, And swells him with his family's deserts: Whom can it not make eloquent of speech; Whom in extremest poverty not rich? Since, by the means of the prevailing grape, Th***n can Lechmere's warmth not only ape, But, half seas o'er, by its inspiring bounties, Can qualify himself in several counties. What I have promised, thou may'st rest assured Shall faithfully and gladly be procured. Nay, I'm already better than my word, New plates and knives adorn the jovial board: And, lest you at their sight shouldst make wry faces The girl has scour'd the pots, and wash'd the glasses Ta'en care so excellently well to clean 'em, That thou may'st see thine own dear picture in 'em. Moreover, due provision has been made, That conversation may not be betray'd; I have no company but what is proper To sit with the most flagrant Whig at supper. There's not a man among them but must please, Since they're as like each other as are pease. Toland and Hare have jointly sent me word They'll come; and Kennet thinks to make a third, Provided he's no other invitation From men of greater quality and station. Room will for Oldmixon and J--s be left: But their discourses smell so much of theft, There would be no abiding in the room, Should two such ignorant pretenders come. However, by this trusty bearer write, If I should any other scabs invite; Though, if I may my serious judgment give, I'm wholly for King Charles's number five: That was the stint in which that monarch fix'd, Who would not be with noisiness perplex'd: And that, if thou'lt agree to think it best, Shall be our tale of heads, without one other guest. I've nothing more, now this is said, to say, But to request thou'lt instantly away, And leave the duties of thy present post, To some well-skill'd retainer in a host: Doubtless he'll carefully thy place supply, And o'er his grace's horses have an eye. While thou, who slunk thro' postern more than once, Dost by that means avoid a crowd of duns, And, crossing o'er the Thames at Temple Stairs, Leav'st Phillips with good words to cheat their ears.

[Footnote 1: Allusion to a pamphlet written against Steele, under the name of Toby (Edward King), Abel Roper's kinsman and shopman.]

[Footnote 2: Dennis had a notion, that he was much dreaded by the French for his writings, and actually fled from the coast, on hearing that some unknown strangers had approached the town, where he was residing, never doubting that they were the messengers of Gallic vengeance. At the time of the peace of Utrecht, he was anxious for the introduction of a clause for his special protection, and was hardly consoled by the Duke of Marlborough's assurances, that he did not think such a precaution necessary in his own case, although he had been almost as obnoxious to France as Mr. Dennis.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Sir Thomas Pilkington, a leading member of the Skinners' Company, and a staunch Whig. He was elected Lord Mayor for the third time In 1690, and died in 1691.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: A comedy by Steele.]

[Footnote 5: See the Examiner, "Prose Works," ix, 171 _n._, for the grounds of this charge.--_W. E. B._]

IN SICKNESS

WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714

Soon after the author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's death.[1]--_Swift_.

'Tis true--then why should I repine To see my life so fast decline? But why obscurely here alone, Where I am neither loved nor known? My state of health none care to learn; My life is here no soul's concern: And those with whom I now converse Without a tear will tend my hearse. Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid, Who knows his art, but not his trade, Preferring his regard for me Before his credit, or his fee. Some formal visits, looks, and words, What mere humanity affords, I meet perhaps from three or four, From whom I once expected more; Which those who tend the sick for pay, Can act as decently as they: But no obliging, tender friend, To help at my approaching end. My life is now a burthen grown To others, ere it be my own. Ye formal weepers for the sick, In your last offices be quick; And spare my absent friends the grief To hear, yet give me no relief; Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow, When known, will save a double sorrow.

[Footnote 1: Queen Anne died 1st August, 1714.]

THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES[1]

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715, ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT

A bitch, that was full pregnant grown By all the dogs and curs in town, Finding her ripen'd time was come, Her litter teeming from her womb, Went here, and there, and everywhere, To find an easy place to lay her. At length to Music's house[2] she came, And begg'd like one both blind and lame; "My only friend, my dear," said she, "You see 'tis mere necessity Hath sent me to your house to whelp: I die if you refuse your help." With fawning whine, and rueful tone, With artful sigh, and feigned groan, With couchant cringe, and flattering tale, Smooth Bawty[3] did so far prevail, That Music gave her leave to litter; (But mark what follow'd--faith! she bit her;) Whole baskets full of bits and scraps, And broth enough to fill her paps; For well she knew, her numerous brood, For want of milk, would suck her blood. But when she thought her pains were done, And now 'twas high time to be gone, In civil terms, "My friend," said she, "My house you've had on courtesy; And now I earnestly desire, That you would with your cubs retire; For, should you stay but one week longer, I shall be starved with cold and hunger." The guest replied--"My friend, your leave I must a little longer crave; Stay till my tender cubs can find Their way--for now, you see, they're blind; But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear, We'll to our barn again repair." The time pass'd on; and Music came Her kennel once again to claim, But Bawty, lost to shame and honour, Set all her cubs at once upon her; Made her retire, and quit her right, And loudly cried--"A bite! bite!"

THE MORAL

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse Conceal a fatal armed force: No sooner brought within the walls, But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.

[Footnote 1: _See post_, "A Tale of a Nettle."]

[Footnote 2: The Church of England.]

[Footnote 3: A Scotch name for bitch, alluding to the kirk.]

HORACE,