Written A.D. 1712.--_Stella._ Imitated from Horace, Lib. i, Epist. 5.

Toland, the Deist, distinguished himself as a party writer in behalf of the Whigs. He wrote a pamphlet on the demolition of Dunkirk, and another called "The Art of Reasoning," in which he directly charged Oxford with the purpose of bringing in the Pretender. The Earl of Nottingham, here, as elsewhere, called Dismal from his swarthy complexion, was bred a rigid High-Churchman, and was only induced to support the Whigs, in their resolutions against a peace, by their consenting to the bill against occasional conformity. He was so distinguished for regularity, as to be termed by Rowe "The sober Earl of Nottingham, Of sober sire descended."--HOR., _Odes_, ii, 4.

From these points of his character, we may estimate the severity of the following satire, which represents this pillar of High-Church principles as invited by the republican Toland to solemnize the 30th January, by attending the Calves' Head Club.--_Scott_.

If, dearest Dismal, you for once can dine Upon a single dish, and tavern wine, Toland to you this invitation sends, To eat the calfs head with your trusty friends.

Suspend awhile your vain ambitious hopes, Leave hunting after bribes, forget your tropes.

To-morrow we our mystic feast prepare, Where thou, our latest proselyte, shall share: When we, by proper signs and symbols, tell, How by brave hands the royal traitor fell; The meat shall represent the tyrant's head, The wine, his blood our predecessors shed; Whilst an alluding hymn some artist sings, We toast, Confusion to the race of kings!

At monarchy we n.o.bly show our spight, And talk, what fools call treason, all the night.

Who, by disgraces or ill fortune sunk, Feels not his soul enliven'd when he's drunk?

Wine can clear up G.o.dolphin's cloudy face, And fill Jack Smith with hopes to keep his place: By force of wine, ev'n Scarborough is brave, Hal[2] grows more pert, and Somers not so grave: Wine can give Portland wit, and Cleaveland sense, Montague learning, Bolton eloquence: Cholmondeley, when drunk, can never lose his wand; And Lincoln then imagines he has land.

My province is, to see that all be right, Gla.s.ses and linen clean, and pewter bright; From our mysterious club to keep out spies, And Tories (dress'd like waiters) in disguise.

You shall be coupled as you best approve, Seated at table next the man you love.

Sunderland, Orford, Boyle, and Richmond's grace Will come; and Hampden shall have Walpole's place; Wharton, unless prevented by a wh.o.r.e, Will hardly fail; and there is room for more; But I love elbow-room whene'er I drink; And honest Harry is too apt to stink.

Let no pretence of bus'ness make you stay; Yet take one word of counsel[3] by the way.

If Guernsey calls, send word you're gone abroad; He'll teaze you with King Charles, and Bishop Laud, Or make you fast, and carry you to prayers; But, if he will break in, and walk up stairs, Steal by the back-door out, and leave him there; Then order Squash to call a hackney chair.

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_. See Journal to Stella, July 1, 1712, "Prose Works," ii, 375; and ix, 256, 287.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Right Honourable Henry Boyle.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Scott prints "comfort."--_Forster_.]

PEACE AND DUNKIRK

BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON THE SURRENDER OF DUNKIRK TO GENERAL HILL 1712

To the tune of "The King shall enjoy his own again."

Spite of Dutch friends and English foes, Poor Britain shall have peace at last: Holland got towns, and we got blows; But Dunkirk's ours, we'll hold it fast.

We have got it in a string, And the Whigs may all go swing, For among good friends I love to be plain; All their false deluded hopes Will, or ought to end in ropes; "But the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

Sunderland's run out of his wits, And Dismal double Dismal looks; Wharton can only swear by fits, And strutting Hal is off the hooks; Old G.o.dolphin, full of spleen, Made false moves, and lost his Queen: Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane: But a Prince of high renown Swore he'd rather lose a crown, "Than the Queen should enjoy her own again."

Our merchant-ships may cut the line, And not be snapt by privateers.

And commoners who love good wine Will drink it now as well as peers: Landed men shall have their rent, Yet our stocks rise _cent, per cent._ The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: We'll bring on us no more debts, Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes; "And the Queen shall enjoy her own again."

The towns we took ne'er did us good: What signified the French to beat?

We spent our money and our blood, To make the Dutchmen proud and great: But the Lord of Oxford swears, Dunkirk never shall be theirs.

The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill A good health to General Hill: "For the Queen now enjoys her own again."

HORACE, EPIST. I, VII IMITATION OF HORACE TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]

Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall, Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.

The priest was pretty well in case, And show'd some humour in his face; Look'd with an easy, careless mien, A perfect stranger to the spleen; Of size that might a pulpit fill, But more inclining to sit still.

My lord, (who, if a man may say't, Loves mischief better than his meat), Was now disposed to crack a jest And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest.

(This Lewis was a cunning shaver, And very much in Harley's favour)-- In quest who might this parson be, What was his name, of what degree; If possible, to learn his story, And whether he were Whig or Tory.

Lewis his patron's humour knows; Away upon his errand goes, And quickly did the matter sift; Found out that it was Doctor Swift, A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat; Which made his brethren of the gown Take care betimes [3] to run him down: No libertine, nor over nice, Addicted to no sort of vice; Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought; Not rich, but owed no man a groat; In state opinions a la mode, He hated Wharton like a toad; Had given the faction many a wound, And libell'd all the junto round; Kept company with men of wit, Who often father'd what he writ: His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street, But seldom rose above a sheet: Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp Did very much his genius cramp; And, since he could not spend his fire, He now intended[4] to retire.

Said Harley, "I desire to know From his own mouth, if this be so: Step to the doctor straight, and say, I'd have him dine with me to-day."

Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant, Nor could believe my lord had sent; So never offer'd once to stir, But coldly said, "Your servant, sir!"

"Does he refuse me?" Harley cry'd: "He does; with insolence and pride."

Some few days after, Harley spies The doctor fasten'd by the eyes At Charing-cross, among the rout, Where painted monsters are hung out: He pull'd the string, and stopt his[5] coach, Beck'ning the doctor to approach.

Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide, Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side, And offer'd many a lame excuse: He never meant the least abuse-- "My lord--the honour you design'd-- Extremely proud--but I had dined-- I am sure I never should neglect-- No man alive has more respect"-- Well, I shall think of that no more, If you'll be sure to come at four."

The doctor now obeys the summons, Likes both his company and commons; Displays his talent, sits till ten; Next day invited, comes again; Soon grows domestic, seldom fails, Either at morning or at meals; Came early, and departed late; In short, the gudgeon took the bait.

My lord would carry on the jest, And down to Windsor takes his guest.

Swift much admires the place and air, And longs to be a Canon there; In summer round the Park to ride, In winter--never to reside.

A Canon!--that's a place too mean: No, doctor, you shall be a Dean; Two dozen canons round your stall, And you the tyrant o'er them all: You need but cross the Irish seas, To live in plenty, power, and ease.

Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse, With borrow'd money in his purse, Travels at least a hundred leagues, And suffers numberless fatigues.

Suppose him now a dean complete, Demurely[8] lolling in his seat, And silver verge, with decent pride, Stuck underneath his cushion side.

Suppose him gone through all vexations, Patents, instalments, abjurations, First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats; Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats.

(The wicked laity's contriving To hinder clergymen from thriving.) Now all the doctor's money's spent, His tenants wrong him in his rent, The farmers spitefully combine, Force him to take his t.i.thes in kine, And Parvisol[9] discounts arrears By bills, for taxes and repairs.

Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd, Not knowing where to turn him next, Above a thousand pounds in debt, Takes horse, and in a mighty fret Rides day and night at such a rate, He soon arrives at Harley's gate; But was so dirty, pale, and thin, Old Read[10] would hardly let him in.

Said Harley, "Welcome, rev'rend dean!

What makes your worship look so lean?

Why, sure you won't appear in town In that old wig and rusty gown?

I doubt your heart is set on pelf So much that you neglect yourself.

What! I suppose, now stocks are high, You've some good purchase in your eye?

Or is your money out at use?"-- "Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!"

The doctor in a pa.s.sion cry'd, "Your raillery is misapply'd; Experience I have[11] dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat: But you resolved to have your jest, And 'twas a folly to contest; Then, since you now have done your worst, Pray leave me where you found me first."

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's copy.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Erasmus Lewis, Esq., the treasurer's secretary.]

[Footnote 3: By time.--_Stella_.]

[Footnote 4: Is now contented,--_Stella._]

[Footnote 5: The.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 6: Would.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 7: By.--_Stella._]

[Footnote 8: "Devoutly" is the word in Stella's transcript: but it must be admitted that "demurely" is more in keeping.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 9: The Dean's agent, a Frenchman.]

[Footnote 10: The lord treasurer's porter.]