To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense:

For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones, The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans.

I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parna.s.sus, commonly called the Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was made:

You'll have a gosling, call it Dan, And do not make your goose a swan.

'Tis true, because the G.o.d of Wit To get him in that shape thought fit, He'll have some glowworm sparks of it.

Venture you may to turn him loose, But let it be to another goose.

The time will come, the fatal time, When he shall dare a swan to rhyme; The tow'ring swan comes sousing down, And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown.

From that sad time, and sad disaster, He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster.

At length for stealing rhymes and triplets, He'll be content to hang in giblets.

You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pa.s.s; for it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings, though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my Gradus ad Parna.s.sum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works.

Then lo, I mount as slowly as I sung, And then I'll make a line for every rung;[2]

There's nine, I see,--the Muses, too, are nine.

Who would refuse to die a death like mine!

1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name; 2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same.

3. This rung, I see, Terpsich.o.r.e's thy flute; 4. Erato, sing me to the G.o.ds; ah, do't: 5. Thalia, don't make me a comedy; 6. Urania, raise me tow'rds the starry sky: 7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend, 8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend; 9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end.

POOR DAN JACKSON.

[Footnote 1: A variation from: "mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae."

_Epist. ad Pisones.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder; still used in every part of Ireland.--_Scott_.]

TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON, WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED.

TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN

DEAR DAN,

Here I return my trust, nor ask One penny for remittance; If I have well perform'd my task, Pray send me an acquittance.

Too long I bore this weighty pack, As Hercules the sky; Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back, Let me be stander-by.

Not all the witty things you speak In compa.s.s of a day, Not half the puns you make a-week, Should bribe his longer stay.

With me you left him out at nurse, Yet are you not my debtor; For, as he hardly can be worse, I ne'er could make him better.

He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes, Just as he did before; And, when he's lash'd a hundred times, He rhymes and puns the more.

When rods are laid on school-boys' b.u.ms, The more they frisk and skip: The school-boys' top but louder hums The more they use the whip.

Thus, a lean beast beneath a load (A beast of Irish breed) Will, in a tedious dirty road, Outgo the prancing steed.

You knock him down and down in vain, And lay him flat before ye, For soon as he gets up again, He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!

At every stroke of mine, he fell, 'Tis true he roar'd and cried; But his impenetrable sh.e.l.l Could feel no harm beside.

The tortoise thus, with motion slow, Will clamber up a wall; Yet, senseless to the hardest blow, Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I, Attack his pericrany?

And, since it is in vain to try, We'll send him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT

Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry, Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery, But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says, He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses, For omitting the first (where I make a comparison, With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison) Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise.

So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal?

And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit, (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate, The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target; Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could, But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood; While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him, While t'other, enraged that he could not once p.r.i.c.k him, Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a wh.o.r.e, Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!"

Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man, Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan; For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough, The devil himself can't get through his buff.

Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard, Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard; And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar, Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore.

Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it, You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet; With the din of which tube my head you so bother, That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.

You made me in your last a goose; I lay my life on't you are wrong, To raise me by such foul abuse; My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue; And slit, just like a bird will chatter, And like a bird do something more; When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter, I'll change you to a black-a-moor.

I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead.

Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, I'll feed on the gra.s.s that grows on your grave.[1]

[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, To see you live, so often slain.

My arrows fly and fly in vain, But still I try and try again.

I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; I will not tell, because it's plain.

Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; If so, from pen and ink refrain.

Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain For her and you; your life's a scene Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, Enough to crack the strongest brain.

Now to conclude, I do remain, Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN