I was at Howth to-day, and staid abroad a-visiting till just now.

Tuesday Evening, Nov. 23, 1731.

"Can you match with me, Who send thirty-three?

You must get fourteen more, To make up thirty-four: But, if me you can conquer, I'll own you a strong cur."[2]

This morning I'm growing, by smelling of yew, sick; My brother's come over with gold from Peru sick; Last night I came home in a storm that then blew sick; This moment my dog at a cat I halloo sick; I hear from good hands, that my poor cousin Hugh's sick; By quaffing a bottle, and pulling a screw sick: And now there's no more I can write (you'll excuse) sick; You see that I scorn to mention word music.

I'll do my best, To send the rest; Without a jest, I'll stand the test.

These lines that I send you, I hope you'll peruse sick; I'll make you with writing a little more news sick; Last night I came home with drinking of booze sick; My carpenter swears that he'll hack and he'll hew sick.

An officer's lady, I'm told, is tattoo sick; I'm afraid that the line thirty-four you will view sick.

Lord! I could write a dozen more; You see I've mounted thirty-four.

[Footnote 1: Time.--_Dublin Edition._]

[Footnote 2: The lines "thus marked" were written by Dr. Swift, at the bottom of Dr. Helsham's twenty lines; and the following fourteen were afterwards added on the same paper.--_N._]

A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, VICAR OF LARACOR.

UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH, UNTIL HIS OWN WAS BUILT[1]

An oaken broken elbow-chair; A caudle cup without an ear; A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead; A box of deal, without a lid; A pair of tongs, but out of joint; A back-sword poker, without point; A pot that's crack'd across, around, With an old knotted garter bound; An iron lock, without a key; A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey; A curtain, worn to half a stripe; A pair of bellows, without pipe; A dish, which might good meat afford once; An Ovid, and an old Concordance; A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter One is for meal, and one for water; There likewise is a copper skillet, Which runs as fast out as you fill it; A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all, And thus his household goods you have all.

These, to your lordship, as a friend, 'Till you have built, I freely lend: They'll serve your lordship for a shift; Why not as well as Doctor Swift?

[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a pet.i.tion, to Swift's great surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the time.--_Scott._]

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1]

1733

To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to find A simile[2] for womankind, A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circ.u.mstance to hit 'em.[3]

Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud[4] presented to my view, And straight this parallel I drew: Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same?

For who can tell at what they aim?[5]

Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder: So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's[7] everlasting tongue, The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar.

Clouds weep, as they do, without pain; And what are tears but women's rain?

The clouds about the welkin roam:[8]

And ladies never stay at home.

The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9]

Are not more solid nor more lasting.

A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,[11]

And all is clear when she has smiled.

In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope the simile will strike,)[12]

Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them, Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.

The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14]

And frequently produce infection; So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbour's reputation.

The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron[15] will confess, That she herself is fond of dress.

Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colours are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,[16]

In garden-silks, brocades, and laces?

Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night?

The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies, be not in a pa.s.sion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change.

In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapours rise, We see them dropping from your eyes.

In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.[17]

Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,[18] like rattling hail, Our ears on every side a.s.sail.

Clouds, when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view.

Thus, on comparison,[19] you see, In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name.

Let me proclaim[20] it then aloud, That every woman is a cloud.

[Footnote 1: The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition:]

[Footnote 2: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a _smile_; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, si-mi-le. In English, a likeness.]

[Footnote 3: Not to hurt them.]

[Footnote 4: Not like a gun or pistol.]

[Footnote 5: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]

[Footnote 6: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.]

[Footnote 7: Xanti, a nick-name for Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience, he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few pa.s.sages concerning her; and at the same time I a.s.sure them, it is not to lessen those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates, how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe? he retorted, and asked him, how he could bear the gaggling of his geese? Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replied his friend; so doth my wife bear children, said Socrates.--_Diog. Laert._

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue?

he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad.--_Plat. De Capiend. ex host. utilit._

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went in to them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in a pa.s.sion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?--_Plat. de ira cohibenda._

I could give many more instances of her termagancy, and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair s.e.x; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather pa.s.sed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honourable station of matrimony.]

[Footnote 8: Ramble.]

[Footnote 9: Not vomiting.]

[Footnote 10: Thrusting out the lip.]

[Footnote 11: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or harm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.]

[Footnote 12: Hit your fancy.]

[Footnote 13: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig, called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.]