[Footnote 14: Three stupid verse-writers in London; the last, to the shame of the court, and the highest disgrace to wit and learning, was made laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of Arthur Moore, whose father was jailor of Monaghan, in Ireland. See the character of Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds [Theobald], in the "Dunciad."]

[Footnote 15: Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, letters, and last wills and testaments of the n.o.bility and ministers of state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. He hath been in custody of the House of Lords, for publishing or forging the letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in their journal-book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published, without the consent of the next heir-at-law or license from their House.]

[Footnote 16: The play by which the dealer may win or lose all the tricks. See Hoyle on "Quadrille."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 17: See _post_, p. 267.]

[Footnote 18: A place in London, where old books are sold.]

[Footnote 19: See _ante_ "On Stephen Duck, the Thresher Poet,"

p. 192.]

[Footnote 20: Walpole hath a set of party scribblers, who do nothing but write in his defence.]

[Footnote 21: Henley is a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. There, at set times, he delivereth strange speeches, compiled by himself and his a.s.sociates, who share the profit with him. Every hearer payeth a shilling each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reported crazy.]

[Footnote 22: See _ante_, p. 188.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 23: See _ante_, p. 188. There is some confusion here betwixt Woolston and Wollaston, whose book, the "Religion of Nature delineated,"

was much talked of and fashionable. See a letter from Pope to Beth.e.l.l in Pope's correspondence, Pope's Works, edit. Elwin and Courthope, ix, p. 149.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 24: Denham's elegy on Cowley: "To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own."]

[Footnote 25: See _ante_, pp. 192 and 252.]

[Footnote 26: In the year 1713, the late queen was prevailed with, by an address of the House of Lords in England, to publish a proclamation, promising 300 to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs"; and in Ireland, in the year 1724, Lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward of 300 to any person who would discover the author of a pamphlet, called "The Drapier's Fourth Letter," etc., writ against that destructive project of coining halfpence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was the Dean discovered.]

[Footnote 27: Queen Anne's ministry fell to variance from the first year after their ministry began; Harcourt, the chancellor, and Lord Bolingbroke, the secretary, were discontented with the treasurer Oxford, for his too much mildness to the Whig party; this quarrel grew higher every day till the queen's death. The Dean, who was the only person that endeavoured to reconcile them, found it impossible, and thereupon retired to the country about ten weeks before that event: upon which he returned to his deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worryed by the new people in power, and had hundreds of libels writ against him in England.]

[Footnote 28: In the height of the quarrel between the ministers, the queen died.]

[Footnote 29: Upon Queen Anne's death, the Whig faction was restored to power, which they exercised with the utmost rage and revenge; impeached and banished the chief leaders of the Church party, and stripped all their adherents of what employments they had; after which England was never known to make so mean a figure in Europe. The greatest preferments in the Church, in both kingdoms, were given to the most ignorant men.

Fanaticks were publickly caressed, Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved, only great ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue, and are likely to remain so.]

[Footnote 30: Upon the queen's death, the Dean returned to live in Dublin at his Deanery House. Numberless libels were written against him in England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street, and at night he was forced to be attended by his servants armed.]

[Footnote 31: Ireland.]

[Footnote 32: One Wood, a hardware-man from England, had a patent for coining copper halfpence in Ireland, to the sum of 108,000, which, in the consequence, must leave that kingdom without gold or silver. See The Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 33: Whitshed was then chief justice. He had some years before prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the Dean, to persuade the people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures. Whitshed sent the jury down eleven times, and kept them nine hours, until they were forced to bring in a special verdict. He sat afterwards on the trial of the printer of the Drapier's Fourth Letter; but the jury, against all he could say or swear, threw out the bill. All the kingdom took the Drapier's part, except the courtiers, or those who expected places. The Drapier was celebrated in many poems and pamphlets. His sign was set up in most streets of Dublin (where many of them still continue) and in several country towns. This note was written in 1734.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 34: Scroggs was chief justice under King Charles II. His judgement always varied in state trials according to directions from Court. Tresilian was a wicked judge hanged above three hundred years ago.]

[Footnote 35: In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile; to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the d.u.c.h.ess of Somerset.]

[Footnote 36: In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted with one single lord, spiritual or temporal. He only conversed with private gentlemen of the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either.]

[Footnote 37: The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction by one single act, and tamely submitted to this infamous mark of slavery without the least resentment or remonstrance.]

[Footnote 38: The Parliament, as they call it in Ireland, meet but once in two years, and after having given five times more than they can afford, return home to reimburse themselves by country jobs and oppressions of which some few are mentioned.]

[Footnote 39: The highwaymen in Ireland are, since the late wars there, usually called Rapparees, which was a name given to those Irish soldiers who, in small parties, used at that time to plunder Protestants.]

[Footnote 40: The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks, the building and repairing whereof and other charges, have cost a prodigious sum to that unhappy kingdom.]

ON POETRY A RHAPSODY. 1733

All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits.

Young's universal pa.s.sion, pride,[1]

Was never known to spread so wide.

Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most?

Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges.

What reason can there be a.s.sign'd For this perverseness in the mind?

Brutes find out where their talents lie: A bear will not attempt to fly; A founder'd horse will oft debate, Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, Who sees the ditch too deep and wide.

But man we find the only creature Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And, where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs.

Not empire to the rising sun By valour, conduct, fortune won; Not highest wisdom in debates, For framing laws to govern states; Not skill in sciences profound So large to grasp the circle round, Such heavenly influence require, As how to strike the Muse's lyre.

Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; Not b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a pedler Scot; Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, The sp.a.w.n of Bridewell[2] or the stews; Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Has blasted with poetic fire.

What hope of custom in the fair, While not a soul demands your ware?

Where you have nothing to produce For private life, or public use?

Court, city, country, want you not; You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.

For poets, law makes no provision; The wealthy have you in derision: Of state affairs you cannot smatter; Are awkward when you try to flatter; Your portion, taking Britain round, Was just one annual hundred pound; Now not so much as in remainder, Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; For ever fix'd by right divine (A monarch's right) on Grub Street line.

Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains!

How unproportion'd to thy pains!

And here a simile comes pat in: Though chickens take a month to fatten, The guests in less than half an hour Will more than half a score devour.

So, after toiling twenty days To earn a stock of pence and praise, Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; Gone to be never heard of more, Gone where the chickens went before.

How shall a new attempter learn Of different spirits to discern, And how distinguish which is which, The poet's vein, or scribbling itch?

Then hear an old experienced sinner, Instructing thus a young beginner.

Consult yourself; and if you find A powerful impulse urge your mind, Impartial judge within your breast What subject you can manage best; Whether your genius most inclines To satire, praise, or humorous lines, To elegies in mournful tone, Or prologue sent from hand unknown.

Then, rising with Aurora's light, The Muse invoked, sit down to write; Blot out, correct, insert, refine, Enlarge, diminish, interline; Be mindful, when invention fails, To scratch your head, and bite your nails.

Your poem finish'd, next your care Is needful to transcribe it fair.

In modern wit all printed trash is Set off with numerous breaks and dashes.

To statesmen would you give a wipe, You print it in _Italic_ type.

When letters are in vulgar shapes, 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes: But, when in capitals express'd, The dullest reader smokes the jest: Or else perhaps he may invent A better than the poet meant; As learned commentators view In Homer more than Homer knew.

Your poem in its modish dress, Correctly fitted for the press, Convey by penny-post to Lintot,[4]

But let no friend alive look into't.

If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, You need not fear your labour lost: And how agreeably surprised Are you to see it advertised!

The hawker shows you one in print, As fresh as farthings from the mint: The product of your toil and sweating; A b.a.s.t.a.r.d of your own begetting.

Be sure at Will's,[5] the following day, Lie snug, and hear what critics say; And, if you find the general vogue p.r.o.nounces you a stupid rogue, d.a.m.ns all your thoughts as low and little, Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; Be silent as a politician, For talking may beget suspicion; Or praise the judgment of the town, And help yourself to run it down.

Give up your fond paternal pride, Nor argue on the weaker side: For, poems read without a name We justly praise, or justly blame; And critics have no partial views, Except they know whom they abuse: And since you ne'er provoke their spite, Depend upon't their judgment's right.

But if you blab, you are undone: Consider what a risk you run: You lose your credit all at once; The town will mark you for a dunce; The vilest dogg'rel Grub Street sends, Will pa.s.s for yours with foes and friends; And you must bear the whole disgrace, Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.

Your secret kept, your poem sunk, And sent in quires to line a trunk, If still you be disposed to rhyme, Go try your hand a second time.

Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; Take courage and attempt a third.

But first with care employ your thoughts Where critics mark'd your former faults; The trivial turns, the borrow'd wit, The similes that nothing fit; The cant which every fool repeats, Town jests and coffeehouse conceits, Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, And introduced the Lord knows why: Or where we find your fury set Against the harmless alphabet; On A's and B's your malice vent, While readers wonder whom you meant: A public or a private robber, A statesman, or a South Sea jobber; A prelate, who no G.o.d believes; A parliament, or den of thieves; A pickpurse at the bar or bench, A d.u.c.h.ess, or a suburb wench: Or oft, when epithets you link, In gaping lines to fill a c.h.i.n.k; Like stepping-stones, to save a stride, In streets where kennels are too wide; Or like a heel-piece, to support A cripple with one foot too short; Or like a bridge, that joins a marish To moorlands of a different parish.

So have I seen ill-coupled hounds Drag different ways in miry grounds.