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Nic. Frog was a cunning, sly fellow, quite the reverse of John in many
particulars; covetous, frugal, minded domestic affairs, would pinch his
belly to save his pocket, never lost a farthing by careless servants or
bad debtors. He did not care much for any sort of diversion, except
tricks of high German artists and legerdemain. No man exceeded Nic. in
these; yet it must be owned that Nic. was a fair dealer, and in that
way acquired immense riches.

Hocus was an old cunning attorney, and though this was the first
considerable suit that ever he was engaged in, he showed himself
superior in address to most of his profession. He kept always good
clerks, he loved money, was smooth-tongued, gave good words, and seldom
lost his temper. He was not worse than an infidel, for he provided
plentifully for his family, but he loved himself better than them all.
The neighbours reported that he was henpecked, which was impossible, by
such a mild-spirited woman as his wife was.

[Footnote 171: late King of Spain.]

[Footnote 172: Cardinal Portocarero.]

[Footnote 173: The first letters of congratulation from King William
and the States of Holland upon King Philip's accession to the crown of
Spain.]

[Footnote 174: The English.]

[Footnote 175: The Dutch.]

[Footnote 176: The character and trade of the French nation.]

[Footnote 177: The King's disposition to war.]

[Footnote 178: The sentiments and addresses of the Parliament at that
time.]

[Footnote 179: Characters of the English and Dutch, and the General,
Duke of Marlborough.]



XXV. EPITAPH UPON COLONEL CHARTRES.

Swift was reported to have had a hand in this piece, and indeed for
some time it was ascribed to him. But there is now no doubt that it
was entirely the work of Arbuthnot.


Here continueth to rot the body of Francis Chartres; who, with an
inflexible constancy and inimitable uniformity of life, persisted, in
spite of age and infirmities, in the practice of every human vice
excepting prodigality and hypocrisy: his insatiable avarice exempted
him from the first, his matchless impudence from the second.

Nor was he more singular in the undeviating pravity of his manners,
than successful in accumulating wealth.

For, without trade or profession, without trust of public money, and
without bribe-worthy service, he acquired, or more properly created, a
ministerial estate.

He was the only person of his time who could cheat without the mask of
honesty, retain his primeval meanness when possessed of ten thousand a
year; and, having daily deserved the gibbet for what he did, was at
last condemned to it for what he could not do.

O indignant reader, think not his life useless to mankind, providence
connived at his execrable designs, to give to after-ages a conspicuous
proof and example of how small estimation is exorbitant wealth in the
sight of God, by his bestowing it on the most unworthy of all mortals.

_Joannes jacet hic Mirandula--caetera norunt
Et Tagus et Ganges forsan et Antipodes_.

Applied to F. C.

Here Francis Chartres lies--be civil!
The rest God knows--perhaps the devil.




JONATHAN SWIFT.

(1667-1745.)


XXVI. MRS. FRANCES HARRIS' PETITION.

Written in the year 1701. The Lord Justices addressed were the
Earls of Berkeley and of Galway. The "Lady Betty" mentioned in the
piece was the Lady Betty Berkeley. "Lord Dromedary", the Earl of
Drogheda, and "The Chaplain", Swift himself. The author was at the
time smarting under a sense of disappointment over the failure of
his request to Lord Berkeley for preferment to the rich deanery of
Derry.


TO THEIR EXCELLENCIES THE LORD JUSTICES OF IRELAND. THE HUMBLE PETITION
OF FRANCES HARRIS, WHO MUST STARVE, AND DIE A MAID, IF IT MISCARRIES.
HUMBLY SHOWETH,

That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold,
And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence,
besides farthings, in money and gold:
So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night,
I was resolved to tell my money, and see if it was right.
Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,
Therefore all the money I have, which God knows, is a very small stock,
I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock.
So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it,
my smock was unript,
And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt:
Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed;
And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my stupid head!
So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light:
But when I search'd and miss'd my purse, law! I thought I should have
sunk outright.
"Lawk, madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?" "Indeed," says I, "never worse:
But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse?"
"Lawk, help me!" said Mary; "I never stirred out of this place:"
"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case."
So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm:
However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.
So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think,
But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.
So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round,
And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes's box, tied in a rag the money was found.
So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing:
Then my dame Wadger came: and she, you know, is thick of hearing:
"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss
I have had?"
"Nay," said she, "my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad;
For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail."
"Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail."
Says Cary, says he, "I've been a servant this five-and-twenty years
come spring,
And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing."
"Yes," says the Steward, "I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's,
Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of gooseberries."
So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief,
(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief,)
However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about:
"Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happen'd out:
'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse;
But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.
'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a
great hole in my wages:
Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages.
Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands,
That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."
"The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!"
So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to nought.
So you know, what could I say to her any more?
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.
Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man:
"No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon."
So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart,
Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part.
So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,
"Parson," said I, "can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?"
(Now you must know, he hates to be called _parson_, like the devil.)
"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;
If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see:
You are no text for my handling; so take that from me:
I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to know."
"Law!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;
You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife,
I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life."
With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,
"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.
Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!" said I, "what shall I do?
I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!"
Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't cry,
I'll give you something towards your loss;" and, says my Lady,
"so will I."
"O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to?"
For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you.
The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' protection,
And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection:
And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter,
With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:
And then your poor petitioner both night and day,
Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.



XXVII. ELEGY ON PARTRIDGE.

This was written to satirize the superstitious faith placed in the
predictions of the almanac-makers of the period. Partridge was the
name of one of them--a cobbler by profession. Fielding also
satirized the folly in _Tom Jones_. The elegy is upon "his
supposed death", which drew from Partridge an indignant denial.


Well; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Though we all took it for a jest:
Partridge is dead; nay more, he died
Ere he could prove the good 'squire lied.
Strange, an astrologer should die
Without one wonder in the sky!
Not one of his crony stars
To pay their duty at his hearse!
No meteor, no eclipse appear'd!
No comet with a flaming beard!
The sun has rose, and gone to bed,
Just as if Partridge were not dead;
Nor hid himself behind the moon
To make a dreadful night at noon.
He at fit periods walks through Aries,
Howe'er our earthly motion varies;
And twice a year he'll cut the equator,
As if there had been no such matter.
Some wits have wonder'd what analogy
There is 'twixt cobbling and astrology;
How Partridge made his optics rise
From a shoe-sole to reach the skies.
A list the cobbler's temples ties,
To keep the hair out of his eyes;
From whence 'tis plain, the diadem
That princes wear derives from them:
And therefore crowns are nowadays
Adorn'd with golden stars and rays:
Which plainly shows the near alliance
'Twixt cobbling and the planets science.
Besides, that slow-pac'd sign Bootes,
As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis:
But Partridge ended all disputes;
He knew his trade, and call'd it boots.
The horned moon, which heretofore
Upon their shoes the Romans wore,
Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
And whence we claim our shoeing-horns,
Shows how the art of cobbling bears
A near resemblance to the spheres.
A scrap of parchment hung by geometry
(A great refinement in barometry)
Can, like the stars, foretell the weather;
And what is parchment else but leather?
Which an astrologer might use
Either for almanacs or shoes.
Thus Partridge by his wit and parts
At once did practise both these arts:
And as the boding owl (or rather
The bat, because her wings are leather)
Steals from her private cell by night,
And flies about the candle-light;
So learned Partridge could as well
Creep in the dark from leathern cell,
And in his fancy fly as far
To peep upon a twinkling star.
Besides, he could confound the spheres,
And set the planets by the ears;
To show his skill, he Mars could join
To Venus in aspect malign;
Then call in Mercury for aid,
And cure the wounds that Venus made.
Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip king of Greece was dead,
His soul and spirit did divide,
And each part took a different side:
One rose a star; the other fell
Beneath, and mended shoes in hell.
Thus Partridge still shines in each art,
The cobbling and star-gazing part,
And is install'd as good a star
As any of the Caesars are.
Triumphant star! some pity show
On cobblers militant below,
Whom roguish boys in stormy nights
Torment by pissing out their lights,
Or thro' a chink convey their smoke
Inclos'd artificers to choke.
Thou, high exalted in thy sphere,
May'st follow still thy calling there.
To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd:
For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,
And scrape her pitchy sides for wax;
Then Ariadne kindly lends
Her braided hair to make thee ends;
The point of Sagittarius' dart
Turns to an awl by heav'nly art;
And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
Will forge for thee a paring-knife.
For want of room by Virgo's side,
She'll strain a point, and sit astride,
To take thee kindly in between;
And then the signs will be thirteen.


THE EPITAPH.

Here, five foot deep, lies on his back
A cobbler, star-monger, and quack;
Who to the stars in pure good-will
Does to his best look upward still.
Weep, all you customers that use
His pills, his almanacs, or shoes:
And you that did your fortunes seek,
Step to his grave but once a week:
This earth, which bears his body's print,
You'll find has so much virtue in't,
That I durst pawn my ears 't will tell
Whate'er concerns you full as well,
In physic, stolen goods, or love,
As he himself could, when above.



XXVIII. A MEDITATION UPON A BROOM-STICK.

The remainder of the title is "According to the Style and Manner of
the Honourable Robert Boyle's _Meditations_", and is intended as a
satire on the style of that philosopher's lucubrations.


This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that
neglected corner, I once knew in a nourishing state in a forest: it was
full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs: but now, in vain does
the busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that withered
bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk. 'Tis now at best but the reverse
of what it was, a tree turned upside down, the branches on the earth,
and the root in the air: 'tis now handled by every dirty wench,
condemned to do her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate,
destined to make other things clean, and be nasty itself. At length,
worn to the stumps in the service of the maids, 'tis either thrown out
of doors, or condemned to the last use of kindling a fire. When I
beheld this, I sighed and said within myself, surely mortal man is a
broom-stick; nature sent him into the world strong and lusty, in a
thriving condition, wearing his own hair on his head, the proper
branches of this reasoning vegetable, till the axe of intemperance has
lopped off his green boughs, and left him a withered trunk. He then
flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing himself upon an unnatural
bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that never grew on his head.
But now should this our broomstick pretend to enter the scene, proud of
those birchen spoils it never bore, and all covered with dust, though
the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we should be apt to
ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we are of our own
excellencies, and other men's defaults!

But a broom-stick, perhaps you will say, is an emblem of a tree
standing on its head; and pray what is man, but a topsy-turvy creature,
his animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his head
where his heels should be, grovelling on the earth! And yet, with all
his faults, he sets up to be an universal reformer and corrector of
abuses, a remover of grievances, rakes into every sluts' corner of
nature, bringing hidden corruptions to the light, and raises a mighty
dust where there was none before, sharing deeply all the while in the
very same pollutions he pretends to sweep away. His last days are spent
in slavery to women, and generally the least deserving; till, worn to
the stumps, like his brother bezom, he is either kicked out of doors,
or made use of to kindle flames, for others to warm themselves by.



XXIX. THE RELATIONS OF BOOKSELLERS AND AUTHORS.

This piece constitutes Section X. of _The Tale of a Tub_.


It is an unanswerable argument of a very refined age the wonderful
civilities that have passed of late years between the nation of authors
and that of readers. There can hardly pop out a play, a pamphlet, or a
poem, without a preface full of acknowledgments to the world for the
general reception and applause they have given it, which the Lord knows
where, or when, or how, or from whom it received. In due deference to
so laudable a custom, I do here return my humble thanks to His Majesty
and both Houses of Parliament, to the Lords of the King's most
honourable Privy Council, to the reverend the Judges, to the Clergy,
and Gentry, and Yeomanry of this land: but in a more especial manner to
my worthy brethren and friends at Will's Coffee-house, and Gresham
College, and Warwick Lane, and Moorfields, and Scotland Yard, and
Westminster Hall, and Guildhall; in short, to all inhabitants and
retainers whatsoever, either in court, or church, or camp, or city, or
country, for their generosity and universal acceptance of this divine
treatise. I accept their approbation and good opinion with extreme
gratitude, and to the utmost of my poor capacity shall take hold of all
opportunities to return the obligation.

I am also happy that fate has flung me into so blessed an age for the
mutual felicity of booksellers and authors, whom I may safely affirm to
be at this day the two only satisfied parties in England. Ask an author
how his last piece has succeeded, "Why, truly he thanks his stars the
world has been very favourable, and he has not the least reason to
complain". And yet he wrote it in a week at bits and starts, when he
could steal an hour from his urgent affairs, as it is a hundred to one
you may see further in the preface, to which he refers you, and for the
rest to the bookseller. There you go as a customer, and make the same
question, "He blesses his God the thing takes wonderful; he is just
printing a second edition, and has but three left in his shop". You
beat down the price; "Sir, we shall not differ", and in hopes of your
custom another time, lets you have it as reasonable as you please; "And
pray send as many of your acquaintance as you will; I shall upon your
account furnish them all at the same rate".

Now it is not well enough considered to what accidents and occasions
the world is indebted for the greatest part of those noble writings
which hourly start up to entertain it. If it were not for a rainy day,
a drunken vigil, a fit of the spleen, a course of physic, a sleepy
Sunday, an ill run at dice, a long tailor's bill, a beggar's purse, a
factious head, a hot sun, costive diet, want of books, and a just
contempt of learning,--but for these events, I say, and some others too
long to recite (especially a prudent neglect of taking brimstone
inwardly), I doubt the number of authors and of writings would dwindle
away to a degree most woeful to behold. To confirm this opinion, hear
the words of the famous troglodyte philosopher. "It is certain," said
he, "some grains of folly are of course annexed as part in the
composition of human nature; only the choice is left us whether we
please to wear them inlaid or embossed, and we need not go very far to
seek how that is usually determined, when we remember it is with human
faculties as with liquors, the lightest will be ever at the top."

There is in this famous island of Britain a certain paltry scribbler,
very voluminous, whose character the reader cannot wholly be a stranger
to. He deals in a pernicious kind of writings called "Second Parts",
and usually passes under the name of "The Author of the First". I
easily foresee that as soon as I lay down my pen this nimble operator
will have stole it, and treat me as inhumanly as he has already done
Dr. Blackmore, Lestrange, and many others who shall here be nameless. I
therefore fly for justice and relief into the hands of that great
rectifier of saddles and lover of mankind, Dr. Bentley, begging he will
take this enormous grievance into his most modern consideration; and if
it should so happen that the furniture of an ass in the shape of a
second part must for my sins be clapped, by mistake, upon my back, that
he will immediately please, in the presence of the world, to lighten me
of the burden, and take it home to his own house till the true beast
thinks fit to call for it.

In the meantime, I do here give this public notice that my resolutions
are to circumscribe within this discourse the whole stock of matter I
have been so many years providing. Since my vein is once opened, I am
content to exhaust it all at a running, for the peculiar advantage of
my dear country, and for the universal benefit of mankind. Therefore,
hospitably considering the number of my guests, they shall have my
whole entertainment at a meal, and I scorn to set up the leavings in
the cupboard. What the guests cannot eat may be given to the poor, and
the dogs under the table may gnaw the bones.[180] This I understand for
a more generous proceeding than to turn the company's stomachs by
inviting them again to-morrow to a scurvy meal of scraps.

If the reader fairly considers the strength of what I have advanced in
the foregoing section, I am convinced it will produce a wonderful
revolution in his notions and opinions, and he will be abundantly
better prepared to receive and to relish the concluding part of this
miraculous treatise. Readers may be divided into three classes, the
superficial, the ignorant, and the learned, and I have with much
felicity fitted my pen to the genius and advantage of each. The
superficial reader will be strangely provoked to laughter, which clears
the breast and the lungs, is sovereign against the spleen, and the most
innocent of all diuretics. The ignorant reader (between whom and the
former the distinction is extremely nice) will find himself disposed to
stare, which is an admirable remedy for ill eyes, serves to raise and
enliven the spirits, and wonderfully helps perspiration. But the reader
truly learned, chiefly for whose benefit I wake when others sleep, and
sleep when others wake, will here find sufficient matter to employ his
speculations for the rest of his life. It were much to be wished, and I
do here humbly propose for an experiment, that every prince in
Christendom will take seven of the deepest scholars in his dominions
and shut them up close for seven years in seven chambers, with a
command to write seven ample commentaries on this comprehensive
discourse. I shall venture to affirm that, whatever difference may be
found in their several conjectures, they will be all, without the
least distortion, manifestly deducible from the text. Meantime it is my
earnest request that so useful an undertaking may be entered upon (if
their Majesties please) with all convenient speed, because I have a
strong inclination before I leave the world to taste a blessing which
we mysterious writers can seldom reach till we have got into our
graves, whether it is that fame being a fruit grafted on the body, can
hardly grow and much less ripen till the stock is in the earth, or
whether she be a bird of prey, and is lured among the rest to pursue
after the scent of a carcass, or whether she conceives her trumpet
sounds best and farthest when she stands on a tomb, by the advantage of
a rising ground and the echo of a hollow vault.

It is true, indeed, the republic of dark authors, after they once found
out this excellent expedient of dying, have been peculiarly happy in
the variety as well as extent of their reputation. For night being the
universal mother of things, wise philosophers hold all writings to be
fruitful in the proportion they are dark, and therefore the true
illuminated (that is to say, the darkest of all) have met with such
numberless commentators, whose scholiastic midwifery hath delivered
them of meanings that the authors themselves perhaps never conceived,
and yet may very justly be allowed the lawful parents of them, the
words of such writers being like seed, which, however scattered at
random, when they light upon a fruitful ground, will multiply far
beyond either the hopes or imagination of the sower.

And therefore, in order to promote so useful a work, I will here take
leave to glance a few innuendos that may be of great assistance to
those sublime spirits who shall be appointed to labour in a universal
comment upon this wonderful discourse. And first, I have couched a very
profound mystery in the number of o's multiplied by seven and divided
by nine. Also, if a devout brother of the Rosy Cross will pray
fervently for sixty-three mornings with a lively faith, and then
transpose certain letters and syllables according to prescription, in
the second and fifth section they will certainly reveal into a full
receipt of the _opus magnum_. Lastly, whoever will be at the pains to
calculate the whole number of each letter in this treatise, and sum up
the difference exactly between the several numbers, assigning the true
natural cause for every such difference, the discoveries in the product
will plentifully reward his labour. But then he must beware of Bythus
and Sige, and be sure not to forget the qualities of Acamoth; _a cujus
lacrymis humecta prodit substantia, a risu lucida, a tristitia solida,
et a timore mobilis_, wherein Eugenius Philalethes[181] hath committed
an unpardonable mistake.

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