Last, let his memory be sound, In which your elephant's profound; That old examples from the wise May prompt him in his noes and ayes.

Thus the Lord c.o.ke hath gravely writ, In all the form of lawyer's wit: And then, with Latin and all that, Shows the comparison is pat.

Yet in some points my lord is wrong, One's teeth are sold, and t'other's tongue: Now, men of parliament, G.o.d knows, Are more like elephants of shows; Whose docile memory and sense Are turn'd to trick, to gather pence; To get their master half-a-crown, They spread the flag, or lay it down: Those who bore bulwarks on their backs, And guarded nations from attacks, Now practise every pliant gesture, Opening their trunk for every tester.

Siam, for elephants so famed, Is not with England to be named: Their elephants by men are sold; Ours sell themselves, and take the gold.

PAULUS: AN EPIGRAM

BY MR. LINDSAY[1]

_Dublin, Sept._ 7, 1728.

"A SLAVE to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; While smiling Nature, in her best attire, Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire.

Can he, who knows that real good should please, Barter for gold his liberty and ease?"-- This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, Upon his board the client pours the ore: He grasps the shining gift, pores o'er the cause, Forgets the sun, and dozes on the laws.

[Footnote 1: A polite and elegant scholar; at that time an eminent pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterwards advanced to be one of the Justices of the Common Pleas.--_H._]

THE ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT

Lindsay mistakes the matter quite, And honest Paulus judges right.

Then, why these quarrels to the sun, Without whose aid you're all undone?

Did Paulus e'er complain of sweat?

Did Paulus e'er the sun forget; The influence of whose golden beams Soon licks up all unsavoury steams?

The sun, you say, his face has kiss'd: It has; but then it greased his fist.

True lawyers, for the wisest ends, Have always been Apollo's friends.

Not for his superficial powers Of ripening fruits, and gilding flowers; Not for inspiring poets' brains With penniless and starveling strains; Not for his boasted healing art; Not for his skill to shoot the dart; Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles; Nor for his prophecies in riddles: But for a more substantial cause-- Apollo's patron of the laws; Whom Paulus ever must adore, As parent of the golden ore, By Phoebus, an incestuous birth, Begot upon his grandam Earth; By Phoebus first produced to light; By Vulcan form'd so round and bright: Then offer'd at the shrine of Justice, By clients to her priests and trustees.

Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand With even balance in her hand, Must we suppose she has in view, How to give every man his due; Her scales you see her only hold, To weigh her priests' the lawyers' gold.

Now, should I own your case was grievous, Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us?

'Tis very true, and none denies, At least, that such complaints are wise: 'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, To cry, like statesmen, _Quanta patimur!_ But, since the truth must needs be stretched To prove that lawyers are so wretched, This paradox I'll undertake, For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; By topics, which, though I abomine 'em, May serve as arguments _ad hominem_: Yet I disdain to offer those Made use of by detracting foes.

I own the curses of mankind Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: The clamours of ten thousand tongues Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs; I own, his conscience always free, (Provided he has got his fee,) Secure of constant peace within, He knows no guilt, who knows no sin.

Yet well they merit to be pitied, By clients always overwitted.

And though the gospel seems to say, What heavy burdens lawyers lay Upon the shoulders of their neighbour, Nor lend a finger to their labour, Always for saving their own bacon; No doubt, the text is here mistaken: The copy's false, the sense is rack'd: To prove it, I appeal to fact; And thus by demonstration show What burdens lawyers undergo.

With early clients at his door, Though he was drunk the night before, And crop-sick, with unclubb'd-for wine, The wretch must be at court by nine; Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag, As ridden by a midnight hag; Then, from the bar, harangues the bench, In English vile, and viler French, And Latin, vilest of the three; And all for poor ten moidores fee!

Of paper how is he profuse, With periods long, in terms abstruse!

What pains he takes to be prolix!

A thousand lines to stand for six!

Of common sense without a word in!

And is not this a grievous burden?

The lawyer is a common drudge, To fight our cause before the judge: And, what is yet a greater curse, Condemn'd to bear his client's purse: While he at ease, secure and light, Walks boldly home at dead of night; When term is ended, leaves the town, Trots to his country mansion down; And, disenc.u.mber'd of his load, No danger dreads upon the road; Despises rapparees,[2] and rides Safe through the Newry mountains' sides.

Lindsay, 'tis you have set me on, To state this question _pro_ and _con_.

My satire may offend, 'tis true; However, it concerns not you.

I own, there may, in every clan, Perhaps, be found one honest man; Yet link them close, in this they jump, To be but rascals in the lump.

Imagine Lindsay at the bar, He's much the same his brethren are; Well taught by practice to imbibe The fundamentals of his tribe: And in his client's just defence, Must deviate oft from common sense; And make his ignorance discern'd, To get the name of counsel-learn'd, (As _lucus_ comes _a non lucendo_,) And wisely do as other men do: But shift him to a better scene, Among his crew of rogues in grain; Surrounded with companions fit, To taste his humour, sense, and wit; You'd swear he never took a fee, Nor knew in law his A, B, C.

'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, To keep good sense in crowds of fools.

And we admire the man, who saves His honesty in crowds of knaves; Nor yields up virtue at discretion, To villains of his own profession.

Lindsay, you know what pains you take In both, yet hardly save your stake; And will you venture both anew, To sit among that venal crew, That pack of mimic legislators, Abandon'd, stupid, slavish praters?

For as the rabble daub and rifle The fool who scrambles for a trifle; Who for his pains is cuff'd and kick'd, Drawn through the dirt, his pockets pick'd; You must expect the like disgrace, Scrambling with rogues to get a place; Must lose the honour you have gain'd, Your numerous virtues foully stain'd: Disclaim for ever all pretence To common honesty and sense; And join in friendship with a strict tie, To M--l, C--y, and d.i.c.k Tighe.[3]

[Footnote 1: The G.o.ddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i, 150.--_W. E .B._]

[Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament, and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242, etc.--_W. E. B._]

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN AN EMINENT LAWYER[1] AND DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D.S.P.D. IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, BOOK II, SATIRE I

"Sunt quibus in Satira," etc.

WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729

DR. SWIFT

Since there are persons who complain There's too much satire in my vein; That I am often found exceeding The rules of raillery and breeding; With too much freedom treat my betters, Not sparing even men of letters: You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, What's your advice? Shall I give o'er?

Nor ever fools or knaves expose, Either in verse or humorous prose: And to avoid all future ill, In my scrutoire lock up my quill?

LAWYER

Since you are pleased to condescend To ask the judgment of a friend, Your case consider'd, I must think You should withdraw from pen and ink, Forbear your poetry and jokes, And live like other Christian folks; Or if the Muses must inspire Your fancy with their pleasing fire, Take subjects safer for your wit Than those on which you lately writ.

Commend the times, your thoughts correct, And follow the prevailing sect; a.s.sert that Hyde,[2] in writing story, Shows all the malice of a Tory; While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page, Discovers freedom without rage.

To Woolston[4] recommend our youth, For learning, probity, and truth; That n.o.ble genius, who unbinds The chains which fetter freeborn minds; Redeems us from the slavish fears Which lasted near two thousand years; He can alone the priesthood humble, Make gilded spires and altars tumble.

DR. SWIFT

Must I commend against my conscience, Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense; To such a subject tune my lyre, And sing like one of Milton's choir, Where devils to a vale retreat, And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate; Lament upon their hapless fall, That Force free Virtue should enthrall?

Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power Make me pollute the Muses' bower?

LAWYER

As from the tripod of Apollo, Hear from my desk the words that follow: "Some, by philosophers misled, Must honour you alive and dead; And such as know what Greece has writ, Must taste your irony and wit; While most that are, or would be great, Must dread your pen, your person hate; And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie, And there without a mitre die."

[Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.--_F_.]

[Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."]