Gentle love, the next ingredient in the true hero's composition, is a mere
bird of passage, or (as Shakspeare calls it) summer-teeming lust, and
evaporates in the heat of youth; doubtless, by that refinement, it suffers
in passing through those certain strainers which our poet somewhere
speaketh of. But when it is let alone to work upon the lees, it acquireth
strength by old age, and becometh a lasting ornament to the little epic.
It is true, indeed, there is one objection to its fitness for such a use:
for not only the ignorant may think it common, but it is admitted to be
so, even by him who best knoweth its value. 'Don't you think,' argueth he,
'to say only a man has his whore,207 ought
to go for little or nothing? Because defendit numerus; take the
first ten thousand men you meet, and I believe you would be no loser if
you betted ten to one that every single sinner of them, one with another,
had been guilty of the same frailty.'208 But
here he seemeth not to have done justice to himself: the man is sure
enough a hero who hath his lady at fourscore. How doth his modesty herein
lessen the merit of a whole well-spent life: not taking to himself the
commendation (which Horace accounted the greatest in a theatrical
character) of continuing to the very dregs the same he was from the
beginning,
... 'Servetur ad imum Qualis ab incepto processerat' ...
But here, in justice both to the poet and the hero, let us further remark,
that the calling her his whore implieth she was his own, and not his
neighbour's. Truly a commendable continence! and such as Scipio himself
must have applauded. For how much self-denial was exerted not to covet his
neighbour's whore? and what disorders must the coveting her have
occasioned in that society where (according to this political calculator)
nine in ten of all ages have their concubines!
We have now, as briefly as we could devise, gone through the three
constituent qualities of either hero. But it is not in any, or in all of
these, that heroism properly or essentially resideth. It is a lucky result
rather from the collision of these lively qualities against one another.
Thus, as from wisdom, bravery, and love, ariseth magnanimity, the object
of admiration, which is the aim of the greater epic; so from vanity,
impudence, and debauchery, springeth buffoonery, the source of ridicule,
that 'laughing ornament,' as he well termeth it,209 of the
little epic.
He is not ashamed (God forbid he ever should be ashamed!) of this
character, who deemeth that not reason, but risibility, distinguisheth the
human species from the brutal. 'As nature,' saith this profound
philosopher, 'distinguished our species from the mute creation by our
risibility, her design must have been by that faculty as evidently to
raise our happiness, as by our os sublime (our erected faces) to
lift the dignity of our form above them.'210 All
this considered, how complete a hero must he be, as well as how happy a
man, whose risibility lieth not barely in his muscles, as in the common
sort, but (as himself informeth us) in his very spirits! and whose os
sublime is not simply an erect face, but a brazen head, as should seem
by his preferring it to one of iron, said to belong to the late king of
Sweden!211
But whatever personal qualities a hero may have, the examples of Achilles
and Aeneas show us, that all those are of small avail without the constant
assistance of the gods—for the subversion and erection of empires
have never been adjudged the work of man. How greatly soever, then, we may
esteem of his high talents, we can hardly conceive his personal prowess
alone sufficient to restore the decayed empire of Dulness. So weighty an
achievement must require the particular favour and protection of the great—who,
being the natural patrons and supporters of letters, as the ancient gods
were of Troy, must first be drawn off and engaged in another interest,
before the total subversion of them can be accomplished. To surmount,
therefore, this last and greatest difficulty, we have, in this excellent
man, a professed favourite and intimado of the great. And look, of what
force ancient piety was to draw the gods into the party of Aeneas, that,
and much stronger, is modern incense, to engage the great in the party of
Dulness.
Thus have we essayed to portray or shadow out this noble imp of fame. But
now the impatient reader will be apt to say, if so many and various graces
go to the making up a hero, what mortal shall suffice to bear his
character? Ill hath he read who seeth not, in every trace of this picture,
that individual, all-accomplished person, in whom these rare virtues and
lucky circumstances have agreed to meet and concentre with the strongest
lustre and fullest harmony.
The good Scriblerus indeed—nay, the world itself—might be
imposed on, in the late spurious editions, by I can't tell what sham hero
or phantom; but it was not so easy to impose on him whom this egregious
error most of all concerned. For no sooner had the fourth book laid open
the high and swelling scene, but he recognised his own heroic acts; and
when he came to the words—
(though laureate imply no more than one crowned with laurel, as befitteth
any associate or consort in empire), he loudly resented this indignity to
violated majesty—indeed, not without cause, he being there
represented as fast asleep; so misbeseeming the eye of empire, which, like
that of Providence, should never doze nor slumber. 'Hah!' saith he, 'fast
asleep, it seems! that's a little too strong. Pert and dull at least you
might have allowed me, but as seldom asleep as any fool.'212
However, the injured hero may comfort himself with this reflection, that
though it be a sleep, yet it is not the sleep of death, but of
immortality. Here he will live213 at
least, though not awake; and in no worse condition than many an enchanted
warrior before him. The famous Durandarte, for instance, was, like him,
cast into a long slumber by Merlin, the British bard and necromancer; and
his example, for submitting to it with a good grace, might be of use to
our hero. For that disastrous knight being sorely pressed or driven to
make his answer by several persons of quality, only replied with a sigh—'Patience,
and shuffle the cards.'214
But now, as nothing in this world, no, not the most sacred or perfect
things either of religion or government, can escape the sting of envy,
methinks I already hear these carpers objecting to the clearness of our
hero's title.
It would never (say they) have been esteemed sufficient to make an hero
for the Iliad or Aeneis, that Achilles was brave enough to overturn one
empire, or Aeneas pious enough to raise another, had they not been
goddess-born, and princes bred. What, then, did this author mean by
erecting a player instead of one of his patrons (a person 'never a hero
even on the stage,'215) to this dignity of colleague
in the empire of Dulness, and achiever of a work that neither old Omar,
Attila, nor John of Leyden could entirely bring to pass?
To all this we have, as we conceive, a sufficient answer from the Roman
historian, Fabrum esse suae quemque fortunae: That every man is the
smith of his own fortune. The politic Florentine, Nicholas Machiavel,
goeth still further, and affirmeth that a man needeth but to believe
himself a hero to be one of the worthiest. 'Let him (saith he) but fancy
himself capable of the highest things, and he will of course be able to
achieve them.' From this principle it follows, that nothing can exceed our
hero's prowess; as nothing ever equalled the greatness of his conceptions.
Hear how he constantly paragons himself; at one time to Alexander the
Great and Charles XII of Sweden, for the excess and delicacy of his
ambition;216 to Henry IV of France for
honest policy;217 to the first Brutus, for love
of liberty;218 and to Sir Robert Walpole, for
good government while in power.219 At
another time, to the godlike Socrates, for his diversions and amusements;220
to Horace, Montaigne, and Sir William Temple for an elegant vanity that
maketh them for ever read and admired;221 to two
Lord Chancellors, for law, from whom, when confederate against him at the
bar, he carried away the prize of eloquence;222 and, to
say all in a word, to the right reverend the Lord Bishop of London
himself, in the art of writing pastoral letters.223
Nor did his actions fall short of the sublimity of his conceit. In his
early youth he met the Revolution224 face to
face in Nottingham, at a time when his betters contented themselves with
following her. It was here he got acquainted with old Battle-array, of
whom he hath made so honourable mention in one of his immortal odes. But
he shone in courts as well as camps. He was called up when the nation fell
in labour of this Revolution;225 and was a gossip at her
christening, with the bishop and the ladies.226
As to his birth, it is true he pretended no relation either to heathen god
or goddess; but, what is as good, he was descended from a maker of both.227
And that he did not pass himself on the world for a hero as well by birth
as education was his own fault: for his lineage he bringeth into his life
as an anecdote, and is sensible he had it in his power to be thought he
was nobody's son at all:228 And what is that but coming
into the world a hero?
But be it (the punctilious laws of epic poesy so requiring) that a hero of
more than mortal birth must needs be had, even for this we have a remedy.
We can easily derive our hero's pedigree from a goddess of no small power
and authority amongst men, and legitimate and install him after the right
classical and authentic fashion: for like as the ancient sages found a son
of Mars in a mighty warrior, a son of Neptune in a skilful seaman, a son
of Phoebus in a harmonious poet, so have we here, if need be, a son of
Fortune in an artful gamester. And who fitter than the offspring of Chance
to assist in restoring the empire of Night and Chaos?
There is, in truth, another objection, of greater weight, namely, 'That
this hero still existeth, and hath not yet finished his earthly course.
For if Solon said well, that no man could be called happy till his death,
surely much less can any one, till then, be pronounced a hero, this
species of men being far more subject than others to the caprices of
fortune and humour.' But to this also we have an answer, that will (we
hope) be deemed decisive. It cometh from himself, who, to cut this matter
short, hath solemnly protested that he will never change or amend.
With regard to his vanity, he declareth that nothing shall ever part them.
'Nature (saith he) hath amply supplied me in vanity—a pleasure which
neither the pertness of wit nor the gravity of wisdom will ever persuade
me to part with.'229 Our poet had charitably
endeavoured to administer a cure to it: but he telleth us plainly, 'My
superiors perhaps may be mended by him; but for my part I own myself
incorrigible. I look upon my follies as the best part of my fortune.'230
And with good reason: we see to what they have brought him!
Secondly, as to buffoonery, 'Is it (saith he) a time of day for me to
leave off these fooleries, and set up a new character? I can no more put
off my follies than my skin; I have often tried, but they stick too close
to me; nor am I sure my friends are displeased with them, for in this
light I afford them frequent matter of mirth, &c., &c.'231
Having then so publicly declared himself incorrigible, he is become dead
in law (I mean the law Epopoeian), and devolveth upon the poet as his
property, who may take him and deal with him as if he had been dead as
long as an old Egyptian hero; that is to say, embowel and embalm him for
posterity.
Nothing therefore (we conceive) remaineth to hinder his own prophecy of
himself from taking immediate effect. A rare felicity! and what few
prophets have had the satisfaction to see alive! Nor can we conclude
better than with that extraordinary one of his, which is conceived in
these oraculous words, 'My dulness will find somebody to do it right.'232
'Tandem Phoebus adest, morsusque inferre parantem Congelat, et patulos, ut
erant, indurat hiatus.'233
By virtue of the Authority in Us vested by the Act for subjecting poets to
the power of a licenser, we have revised this piece; where finding the
style and appellation of King to have been given to a certain pretender,
pseudo-poet, or phantom, of the name of Tibbald; and apprehending the same
may be deemed in some sort a reflection on Majesty, or at least an insult
on that Legal Authority which has bestowed on another person the crown of
poesy: We have ordered the said pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom,
utterly to vanish and evaporate out of this work: And do declare the said
Throne of Poesy from henceforth to be abdicated and vacant, unless duly
and lawfully supplied by the Laureate himself. And it is hereby enacted,
that no other person do presume to fill the same.
The proposition, the invocation, and the inscription. Then the original of
the great empire of Dulness, and cause of the continuance thereof. The
college of the goddess in the city, with her private academy for poets in
particular; the governors of it, and the four cardinal virtues. Then the
poem hastes into the midst of things, presenting her, on the evening of a
Lord Mayor's day, revolving the long succession of her sons, and the
glories past and to come. She fixes her eye on Bayes to be the instrument
of that great event which is the subject of the poem. He is described
pensive among his books, giving up the cause, and apprehending the period
of her empire: after debating whether to betake himself to the Church, or
to gaming, or to party-writing, he raises an altar of proper books, and
(making first his solemn prayer and declaration) purposes thereon to
sacrifice all his unsuccessful writings. As the pile is kindled, the
goddess, beholding the flame from her seat, flies and puts it out by
casting upon it the poem of Thulè. She forthwith reveals herself to him,
transports him to her temple, unfolds her arts, and initiates him into her
mysteries; then announcing the death of Eusden the poet laureate, anoints
him, carries him to court, and proclaims him successor.
The mighty mother, and her son, who brings
235 The Smithfield Muses
236 to the ear of kings,
I sing. Say you, her instruments, the great!
Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;
237 You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed,
Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first:
Say, how the goddess
238 bade Britannia sleep,
And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep.
In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read,
Ere Pallas issued from the Thunderer's head, 10
Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right,
Daughter of Chaos
239 and Eternal Night:
Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave,
Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave,
Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,
240 She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind.
Still her old empire
241 to restore she tries,
For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies.
O thou! whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver!
242 20
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair,
Or praise the court, or magnify mankind,
243 Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind;
From thy Boeotia though her power retires,
Mourn not, my Swift, at ought our realm acquires.
Here pleased behold her mighty wings outspread
To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead.
Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne,
And laughs to think Monro would take her down, 30
Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand,
244 Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand,
One cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye,
The cave of Poverty and Poetry.
Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess,
Emblem of music caused by emptiness.
Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down,
Escape in monsters, and amaze the town.
Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast
Of Curll's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post:
247 40
Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines,
248 Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc'ries, Magazines:
Sepulchral lies,
249 our holy walls to grace,
And new-year odes,
250 and all the Grub Street race.
In clouded majesty here Dulness shone;
Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne:
Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears
Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:
Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake
Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake: 50
Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail:
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale,
Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.
Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep,
Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,
'Till genial Jacob,
251 or a warm third day,
Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play;
How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,
How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry, 60
Maggots half-form'd in rhyme exactly meet,
And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.
Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes,
And ductile Dulness new meanders takes;
There motley images her fancy strike,
Figures ill pair'd, and similes unlike.
She sees a mob of metaphors advance,
Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance;
How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;
How Farce and Epic
252 get a jumbled race; 70
How Time himself stands still at her command,
Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land.
Here gay Description Egypt glads with showers,
Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;
Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen,
There painted valleys of eternal green;
In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
All these, and more, the cloud-compelling queen
Beholds through fogs that magnify the scene. 80
She, tinsell'd o'er in robes of varying hues,
With self-applause her wild creation views;
Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.
'Twas on the day,
253 when Thorold rich and grave,
Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave:
(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,
Glad chains,
254 warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces.)
Now night descending, the proud scene was o'er,
But lived, in Settle's numbers, one day more.
255 90
Now mayors and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay,
Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day;
While pensive poets painful vigils keep,
Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
Much to the mindful queen the feast recalls
What city swans once sung within the walls;
Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,
And sure succession down from Heywood's
256 days.
She saw, with joy, the line immortal run,
Each sire impress'd and glaring in his son: 100
So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care,
Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear.
She saw old Pryn in restless Daniel
257 shine,
And Eusden
258 eke out Blackmore's endless line;
She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's
259 poor page,
And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage.
260
In each she marks her image full express'd,
But chief in Bayes's monster-breeding breast;
Bayes formed by nature stage and town to bless,
And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. 110
Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce,
Remembering she herself was pertness once.
Now (shame to Fortune!
261) an ill run at play
Blank'd his bold visage, and a thin third day;
Swearing and supperless the hero sate,
Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damn'd his fate.
Then gnaw'd his pen, then dash'd it on the ground,
Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound!
Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there,
Yet wrote and floundered on, in mere despair. 120
Round him much embryo, much abortion lay,
Much future ode, and abdicated play;
Nonsense precipitate, like running lead,
That slipp'd through cracks and zig-zags of the head;
All that on Folly Frenzy could beget,
Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit.
Next, o'er his books his eyes began to roll,
In pleasing memory of all he stole,
How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug,
And suck'd all o'er, like an industrious bug. 130
Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes,
262 and here
The frippery of crucified Molière;
There hapless Shakspeare, yet of Tibbald
263 sore,
Wish'd he had blotted
264 for himself before.
The rest on outside merit but presume,
Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room;
Such with their shelves as due proportion hold,
Or their fond parents dress'd in red and gold;
Or where the pictures for the page atone,
And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. 140
Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great;
265 There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete:
266 Here all his suffering brotherhood retire,
And 'scape the martyrdom of Jakes and fire:
A Gothic library! of Greece and Rome
Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome.
267
But, high above, more solid learning shone,
The classics of an age that heard of none;
There Caxton
268 slept, with Wynkyn at his side,
One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; 150
There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Dry bodies of divinity appear:
De Lyra
269 there a dreadful front extends,
And here the groaning shelves Philemon
270 bends.
Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies,
Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise:
An hecatomb of pure, unsullied lays
That altar crowns: a folio common-place
Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: 160
Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre:
A twisted birth-day ode completes the spire.
Then he: Great tamer of all human art!
First in my care, and ever at my heart;
Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,
With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end,
E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig
271 was praise,
To the last honours of the butt and bays:
O thou! of business the directing soul;
To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 170
Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true,
Obliquely waddling to the mark in view;
Oh, ever gracious to perplexed mankind,
Still spread a healing mist before the mind;
And, lest we err by wit's wild dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night.
Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence,
Guard the sure barrier between that and sense;
Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread,
And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! 180
As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,
And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky;
As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe,
The wheels above urged by the load below:
Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire,
And were my elasticity and fire.
Some demon stole my pen (forgive the offence)
And once betrayed me into common sense:
Else all my prose and verse were much the same;
This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fallen lame. 190
Did on the stage my fops appear confined?
My life gave ampler lessons to mankind.
Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove?
The brisk example never fail'd to move.
Yet sure, had Heaven decreed to save the state,
Heaven had decreed these works a longer date.
Could Troy be saved by any single hand,
This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand.
What can I now my Fletcher cast aside,
Take up the Bible, once my better guide? 200
Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod,
This box my thunder, this right hand my god?
Or chair'd at White's amidst the doctors sit,
Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit?
Or bidst thou rather party to embrace?
(A friend to party thou, and all her race;
'Tis the same rope at different ends they twist;
To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.
272)
Shall I, like Curtins, desperate in my zeal,
O'er head and ears plunge for the common weal? 210
Or rob Rome's ancient geese
273 of all their glories,
And, cackling, save the monarchy of Tories?
Hold—to the minister I more incline;
To serve his cause, O queen! is serving thine.
And see! thy very gazetteers give o'er,
Ev'n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more.
What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain
Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain.
This brazen brightness, to the squire so dear;
This polish'd hardness, that reflects the peer: 220
This arch absurd, that wit and fool delights;
This mess, tossed up of Hockley-hole and White's;
Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown,
At once the bear and fiddle
274 of the town.
O born in sin, and forth in folly brought!
Works damn'd, or to be damn'd (your father's fault)!
Go, purified by flames, ascend the sky,
My better and more Christian progeny!
Unstain'd, untouch'd, and yet in maiden sheets;
While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. 230
Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland,
275 Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land;
Nor sail with Ward
276 to ape-and-monkey climes,
Where vile Mundungus trucks for viler rhymes:
Not sulphur-tipp'd, emblaze an ale-house fire;
Not wrap up oranges, to pelt your sire!
Oh, pass more innocent, in infant state,
To the mild limbo of our father Tate:
277 Or peaceably forgot, at once be blest
In Shadwell's bosom with eternal rest! 240
Soon to that mass of nonsense to return,
Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn.
With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!)
Stole from the master of the sevenfold face:
And thrice he lifted high the birth-day brand,
And thrice he dropp'd it from his quivering hand;
Then lights the structure with averted eyes:
The rolling smoke involves the sacrifice.
The opening clouds disclose each work by turns,
Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; 250
Great Caesar roars, and hisses in the fires;
King John in silence modestly expires:
No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims,
Moliere's
278 old stubble in a moment flames.
Tears gush'd again, as from pale Priam's eyes
When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies.
Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head,
Then snatch'd a sheet of Thulè
279 from her bed,
Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre;
Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. 260
Her ample presence fills up all the place;
A veil of fogs dilates her awful face:
Great in her charms! as when on shrieves and mayors
She looks, and breathes herself into their airs.
She bids him wait her to her sacred dome:
Well pleased he enter'd, and confessed his home.
So, spirits ending their terrestrial race,
Ascend, and recognise their native place.
This the great mother dearer held than all
The clubs of quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall: 270
Here stood her opium, here she nursed her owls,
And here she plann'd the imperial seat of fools.
Here to her chosen all her works she shows;
Prose swell'd to verse, verse loitering into prose:
How random thoughts now meaning chance to find,
Now leave all memory of sense behind:
How prologues into prefaces decay,
And these to notes are fritter'd quite away:
How index-learning turns no student pale,
Yet holds the eel of science by the tail: 280
How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape,
Less human genius than God gives an ape,
Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,
A past, vamp'd, future, old, revived, new piece,
'Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakspeare, and Corneille,
Can make a Cibber, Tibbald,
280 or Ozell.
281
The goddess then o'er his anointed head,
With mystic words, the sacred opium shed.
And, lo! her bird (a monster of a fowl,
Something betwixt a Heidegger
282 and owl,) 290
Perch'd on his crown. 'All hail! and hail again,
My son! the promised land expects thy reign.
Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise;
He sleeps among the dull of ancient days;
Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest,
Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon
283 rest,
And high-born Howard,
284 more majestic sire,
With fool of quality completes the quire,
Thou, Cibber! thou, his laurel shalt support,
Folly, my son, has still a friend at Court. 300
Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come!
Sound, sound, ye viols, be the cat-call dumb!
Bring, bring the madding bay, the drunken vine;
The creeping, dirty, courtly ivy join.
And thou! his aide-de-camp, lead on my sons,
Light-arm'd with points, antitheses, and puns.
Let Bawdry, Billingsgate, my daughters dear,
Support his front, and Oaths bring up the rear:
And under his, and under Archer's wing,
Gaming
285 and Grub Street, skulk behind the king. 310
Oh! when shall rise a monarch all our own,
And I, a nursing mother, rock the throne;
'Twixt prince and people close the curtain draw,
Shade him from light, and cover him from law;
Fatten the courtier, starve the learnèd band,
And suckle armies, and dry-nurse the land:
Till senates nod to lullabies divine,
And all be sleep, as at an ode of thine.'
She ceased. Then swells the chapel-royal
286 throat:
God save King Cibber! mounts in every note. 320
Familiar White's, God save King Colley! cries;
God save King Colley! Drury lane replies:
To Needham's quick the voice triumphal rode,
But pious Needham
287 dropp'd the name of God;
Back to the Devil
288 the last echoes roll,
And Coll! each butcher roars at Hockley-hole.
So when Jove's block descended from on high
(As sings thy great forefather Ogilby
289),
Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog,
And the hoarse nation croak'd, God save King Log!
VARIATIONS.
VER. 1. The mighty mother, &c. In the first edition it was thus—
Books and the man I sing, the first who brings
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings.
Say, great patricians! since yourselves inspire
These wondrous works (so Jove and Fate require)
Say, for what cause, in vain decried and cursed,
Still—-
After VER. 22, in the MS.—
Or in the graver gown instruct mankind,
Or silent let thy morals tell thy mind.
But this was to be understood, as the poet says,
ironicè, like the 23d
verse.
VER. 29. Close to those walls, &c. In the former edition thus—
Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-fair,
245 A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;
246 Keen hollow winds howl through the bleak recess,
Emblem of music caused by emptiness;
Here in one bed two shivering sisters lie,
The cave of Poverty and Poetry.
VER. 41 in the former lines—
Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lay,
Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day.
VER. 42 alludes to the annual songs composed to music on St Cecilia's
Feast.
VER. 85 in the former editions—
'Twas on the day—when Thorald,
290 rich and grave.
VER. 108. But chief in Bayes's, &e. In the former edition thus—
But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast;
Sees gods with demons in strange league engage,
And earth, and heaven, and hell her battles wage.
She eyed the bard, where supperless he sate,
And pined, unconscious of his rising fate;
Studious he sate, with all his books around,
Sinking from thought to thought, &c—
VER. 121. Round him much embryo, &c. In the former editions thus—
He roll'd his eyes, that witness'd huge dismay,
Where yet unpawn'd much learned lumber lay;
Volumes whose size the space exactly fill'd,
Or which fond authors were so good to gild,
Or where, by sculpture made for ever known,
The page admires new beauties not its own.
Here swells the shelf, &c.—
VER. 146. In the first edition it was—
Well-purged, and worthy W—y, W—s, and Bl—-.
VER. 162. A twisted, &c. In the former edition—
And last, a little Ajax
291 tips the spire.
VER. 177. Or, if to wit, &c. In the former edition—
Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand,
Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land;
Where rebel to thy throne if science rise,
She does but show her coward face, and dies:
There thy good scholiasts with unwearied pains
Make Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains:
Here studious I unlucky moderns save,
Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave,
Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,
And crucify poor Shakspeare once a week.
For thee supplying, in the worst of days.
Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays;
Not that my quill to critics was confined,
My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind;
So gravest precepts may successless prove.
But sad examples never fail to move.
As, forced from wind-guns, &c.
VER. 195. Yet sure had Heaven, &c. In the former edition—
Had Heaven decreed such works a longer date,
Heaven had decreed to spare the Grub Street state.
But see great Settle to the dust descend,
And all thy cause and empire at an end!
Could Troy be saved, &c.—
VER. 213. Hold—to the minister. In the former edition—
Yes, to my country I my pen consign
Yes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine.
VER. 225. O born in sin, &c. In the former edition—
Adieu, my children! better thus expire
Unstall'd, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire,
Fair without spot; than greased by grocer's hands,
Or shipp'd with Ward to ape-and-monkey lands,
Or wafting ginger, round the streets to run,
And visit ale-house, where ye first begun,
With that he lifted thrice the sparkling brand,
And thrice he dropp'd it, &c.—
VER. 250. Now flames the Cid, &c. In the former edition—
Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns,
In one quick flash see Proserpine expire,
And last, his own cold Aeschylus took fire.
Then gushed the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes,
When the last blaze, &c.
After VER. 268, in the former edition, followed these two lines—
Raptured, he gazes round the dear retreat,
And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat.
VER. 293. Know, Eusden, &c. In the former edition—
Know, Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise,
Is gather'd to the dull of ancient days,
Safe where no critics damn, no duns molest,
Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest.
I see a king! who leads my chosen sons
To lands that flow with clenches and with puns:
Till each famed theatre my empire own;
Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne!
I see! I see!—Then rapt she spoke no more.
God save King Tibbald! Grub Street alleys roar.
So when Jove's block, &c.