Book: English Satires

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[Footnote 213: There is a tradition, that the study of Friar Bacon,
built on an arch over the bridge, will fall when a man greater than
Bacon shall pass under it. To prevent so shocking an accident, it was
pulled down many years since.]



XL. LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

Though perhaps scarcely a professedly satirical production in the
proper sense of the word, there are few more pungent satires than
the following letter. In Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ we read, "When
the Dictionary was on the eve of publication. Lord Chesterfield,
who, it is said, had flattered himself with expectations that
Johnson would dedicate the work to him, attempted in a courtly
manner to soothe and insinuate himself with the sage, conscious, as
it would seem, of the cold indifference with which he had treated
its learned author, and further attempted to conciliate him by
writing two papers in the _World_ in recommendation of the work....
This courtly device failed of its effect. Johnson despised the
honeyed words, and he states 'I wrote him a letter expressed in
civil terms, but such as might show him that I did not mind what he
said or wrote, and that I had done with him'."


February 7, 1755.

"MY LORD,

"I have been lately informed by the proprietor of _The World_ that two
papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were
written by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour which,
being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well
how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

"When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I
was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your
address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself _Le
vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre_;--that I might obtain that regard
for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so
little encouraged that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to
continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had
exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar
can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to
have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

"Seven years, my lord, have now past since I waited in your outward
rooms or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been
pushing on my work through difficulties of which it is useless to
complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication,
without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile
of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron
before.

"The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found
him a native of the rocks.

"Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man
struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground,
encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take
of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been
delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary,
and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is
no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit
has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider
me as owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for
myself.

"Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any
favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should
conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long
wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so
much exultation.

"MY LORD,

"Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant,

"SAM JOHNSON."




OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

(1728-1774.)


XLI. THE RETALIATION.

The origin of the following satire is told by Boswell (who was
prejudiced against Goldsmith) in this wise: "At a meeting of a
company of gentlemen who were well known to each other and
diverting themselves among other things with the peculiar oddities
of Dr. Goldsmith, who would never allow a superior in any art, from
writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, Goldsmith, with great
eagerness, insisted on matching his epigrammatic powers with
Garrick's. It was determined that each should write the other's
epitaph. Garrick immediately said his epitaph was finished, and
spoke the following distich extempore:

"'Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,
Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll'.

"Goldsmith would not produce his at the time, but some weeks after,
read to the company this satire in which the characteristics of
them all were happily hit off."


Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings a good dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour;
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain:
Our Garrick a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey's a capon; and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least in six weeks I could not find them out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them,
That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote:
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits? alas, he had none!
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at,
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his, what wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick,
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not what they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks.
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own:
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover:
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can?
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art;
Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting:
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting;
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick;
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind:
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
When he was be-Roscius'd and you were bepraised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies!
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And Slander itself must allow him good-nature:
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper:
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!
Then what was his failing? Come, tell it, and burn ye,--
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand:
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.



XLII. THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

This piece was first printed in _The Busy Body_ in 1759, in direct
imitation of the style of Swift. It was, therefore, improperly
included in the Dublin edition of Swift's works, and in the edition
of Swift edited by Sir Walter Scott.


Logicians have but ill defined
As rational the human mind,
Reason they say belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can,
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius
By ratiocinations specious
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
_Homo est ratione preditum_;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em.
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain:
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
_Deus est anima brutorum_.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute.
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd.
No politics disturb the mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-Noster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act,
Thus at the court both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.



XLIII. BEAU TIBBS, HIS CHARACTER AND FAMILY.

Johnson always maintained that there was a great deal of
Goldsmith's own nature and eccentricities portrayed in the
character of Beau Tibbs. The following piece constitutes Letter 54
of the _Citizen of the World_.


I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new acquaintance, whom it will be
no easy matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook me again
in one of the public walks, and slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me
with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as
usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier
shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.

As I knew him to be an harmless, amusing little thing, I could not
return his smiles with any degree of severity: so we walked forward on
terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the
usual topics preliminary to particular conversation.

The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear;
he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of
returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he
drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the
company, with much importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me
through the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and
fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator.

When we were got to the end of our procession, "Blast me," cries he,
with an air of vivacity, "I never saw the park so thin in my life
before; there's no company at all to-day; not a single face to be
seen." "No company," interrupted I, peevishly; "no company where there
is such a crowd! why man, there's too much. What are the thousands
that have been laughing at us but company!" "Lard, my dear," returned
he, with the utmost good-humour, "you seem immensely chagrined; but
blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at all the world, and so
we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash, the Creolian, and I sometimes
make a party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a thousand
things for the joke. But I see you are grave, and if you are a fine
grave sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife to-day,
I must insist on't; I'll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as
elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred, but that's
between ourselves, under the inspection of the Countess of All-night. A
charming body of voice, but no more of that, she will give us a song.
You shall see my little girl too, Carolina Wilhelma Amelia Tibbs, a
sweet pretty creature; I design her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son,
but that's in friendship, let it go no farther; she's but six years
old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely
already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every
accomplishment. In the first place I'll make her a scholar; I'll teach
her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct her;
but let that be a secret."

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm, and
hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways;
for, from some motives, to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular
aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the
door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he
informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air.

We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably
open, and I began to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he
mounted to show me the way, he demanded whether I delighted in
prospects, to which answering in the affirmative, "Then," says he, "I
shall show you one of the most charming in the world out of my windows;
we shall see the ships sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles
round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand
guineas for such an one; but as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I
always love to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may see me
the oftener."

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to
ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the
first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from
within demanded, who's there? My conductor answered that it was him.
But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the
demand: to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was
opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance.

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony,
and turning to the old woman, asked where was her lady? "Good troth,"
replied she, in a peculiar dialect, "she's washing your two shirts at
the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the
tub any longer." "My two shirts," cries he in a tone that faltered with
confusion, "what does the idiot mean!" "I ken what I mean well enough,"
replied the other, "she's washing your two shirts at the next door,
because--" "Fire and fury! no more of thy stupid explanations," cried
he. "Go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag to be
for ever in the family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget
that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen
of breeding or high life; and yet it is very surprising too, as I had
her from a parliament man, a friend of mine, from the highlands, one
of the politest men in the world; but that's a secret."

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs' arrival, during which interval I
had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture;
which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he
assured me were his wife's embroidery; a square table that had been
once japanned, a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the
other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarin without a head, were stuck
over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry, unframed
pictures, which, he observed, were all his own drawing. "What do you
think, sir, of that head in a corner, done in the manner of Grisoni?
There's the true keeping in it; it's my own face, and though there
happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me an hundred for its
fellow. I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you
know."

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a
coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She
made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille, but
hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night at the gardens
with the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. "And, indeed,
my dear," added she, turning to her husband, "his lordship drank your
health in a bumper." "Poor Jack," cries he, "a dear good-natured
creature, I know he loves me; but I hope, my dear, you have given
orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there
are but three of us, something elegant, and little will do; a turbot,
an ortolan, or a--" "Or what do you think, my dear," interrupts the
wife, "of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a
little of my own sauce."--"The very thing," replies he, "it will eat
best with some smart bottled beer: but be sure to let's have the sauce
his grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is
country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least
acquainted with high life."

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase;
the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never
fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a
prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house,
according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a
piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mr. Tibbs assuring me that
dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.




CHARLES CHURCHILL.

(1731-1764.)


XLIV. THE JOURNEY.

Churchill devoted himself principally to satirical attacks upon
actors and the stage as a whole. His _Rosciad_ created quite a
panic among the disciples of Thespis, even the mighty Garrick
courting this terrible _censor morum_. His own morals were but
indifferent.


Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose
All, who, not daring to appear my foes,
Feign great good-will, and not more full of spite
Than full of craft, under false colours fight)
Some of my friends (so lavishly I print)
As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
(Tho' that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
That I shall run my stock of genius out,
My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
Must needs become a bankrupt at the last.
Recover'd from the vanity of youth,
I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,
And am, if not too late, resolv'd to mend,
Resolv'd to give some respite to my pen,
Apply myself once more to books and men,
View what is present, what is past review,
And my old stock exhausted, lay in new.
For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear
This oath to Heav'n), for twice six moons, I swear,
No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,
Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way;
Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,
Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend.
It cannot be--Whether I will, or no,
Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.
Convinc'd, determin'd, I in prose begin,
But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,
And taints me thro' and thro': by this good light,
In verse I talk by day, I dream by night;
If now and then I curse, my curses chime,
Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme,
E'en now I err, in spite of common-sense,
And my confession doubles my offence.
Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force;
Mean are the words, and such as come of course,
The subject not less simple than the lay;
A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day.
Far from me now be ev'ry tuneful Maid,
I neither ask, nor can receive their aid.
Pegasus turn'd into a common hack,
Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track,
Nor would I have the Sisters of the Hill
Behold their bard in such a dishabille.
Absent, but only absent for a time,
Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme;
Let them, as far as decency permits,
Without suspicion, play the fool with wits,
'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule,
Wits are false things, there's danger in a fool.
Let them, tho' modest, Gray more modest woo;
Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo;
Let them with Franklin, proud of some small Greek,
Make Sophocles disguis'd, in English speak;
Let them with Glover o'er Medea doze;
Let them with Dodsley wail Cleone's woes,
Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,
Melts, as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;
Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep
Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;[214]
Let them with Browne contrive, to vulgar trick,
To cure the dead, and make the living sick;[215]
Let them in charity to Murphy give
Some old French piece, that he may steal and live;
Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get,
And advertise a Summer-house of Wit.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed;
I on my Journey all alone proceed.
If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r,
With hum'rous Scots let them disport their hour:
Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb;
Let them forge lies, and histories for Hume;
Let them with Home, the very prince of verse,
Make something like a Tragedy in Erse;
Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil
Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale
Of rueful length; Let them plain things obscure,
Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth;
With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth
Born of false Taste, with Fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated style, by affectation taught,
With much false colouring, and little thought,
With phrases strange, and dialect decreed
By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,
With words which Nature meant each other's foe,
Forc'd to compound whether they will or no;
With such materials let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common-Sense,
By way of compliment to Providence;
Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of Sense,
Read musty lectures on Benevolence,
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the night
Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,
When for our past misdoings Conscience takes
A deep revenge, when by Reflection led,
She draws his curtain, and looks Comfort dead,
Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns
And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns,
A more than Etna in his coward breast,
And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest:
Tho' soft as plumage from young zephyr's wing,
His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring.
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there,
No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed
I on my Journey all alone proceed.

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