Chapter XIX: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (8)

_P._ I left a frugal Merchant, who began
Early to thrive, and grew a wealthy man;
Retired from business with a favourite Niece,
He lived in plenty, or, if not—in peace.
Their small affairs, conforming to his will,
The maiden managed with superior skill.
He had a Nephew too, a brother’s child—
But James offended, for the lad was wild:
And Patty’s tender soul was vex’d to hear,
“Your Cousin James will rot in gaol, my dear; 10
And now, I charge you, by no kind of gift
Show him that folly may be help’d by thrift.”
This Patty heard, but in her generous mind
Precept so harsh could no admission find.
Her Cousin James, too sure in prison laid,
With strong petitions plied the gentle maid,
That she would humbly on their Uncle press
His deep repentance, and his sore distress;
How that he mourn’d in durance, night and day,
And, which removed, he would for ever pray. 20
“Nought will I give, his worthless life to save,”
The Uncle said; and nought in fact he gave.
But the kind maiden from her pittance took
All that she could, and gave with pitying look;
For soft compassion in her bosom reign’d,
And her heart melted when the Youth complain’d.
Of his complaints the Uncle loved to hear,
As Patty told them, shedding many a tear;
While he would wonder how the girl could pray
For a young rake, to place him in her way, 30
Or once admit him in his Uncle’s view;
“But these,” said he, “are things that women do.”
Thus were the Cousins, young, unguarded, fond,
Bound in true friendship—so they named the bond—
Nor call’d it love—and James resolved, when free,
A most correct and frugal man to be.
He sought her prayers, but not for heavenly aid:
“Pray to my Uncle,” and she kindly pray’d—
“James will be careful,” said the Niece; “and I
Will be as careful,” was the stern reply. 40
Thus he resisted, and I know not how
He could be soften’d—Is he kinder now?
Hard was his heart; but yet a heart of steel
May melt in dying, and dissolving feel.

II.

_F._ What were his feelings I cannot explain,
His actions only on my mind remain.
He never married, that indeed we know,
But childless was not, as his foes could show—
Perhaps his friends—for friends, as well as foes,
Will the infirmities of man disclose. 50
When young, our Merchant, though of sober fame,
Had a rude passion that he could not tame;
And, not to dwell upon the passion’s strife,
He had a Son, who never had a wife;
The father paid just what the law required,
Nor saw the infant, nor to see desired.
That infant, thriving on the parish fare,
Without a parent’s love, consent, or care,
Became a sailor, and sustain’d his part
So like a man, it touch’d his father’s heart.— 60
He for protection gave the ready pay,
And placed the seaman in preferment’s way;
Who doubted not, with sanguine heart, to rise,
And bring home riches, gain’d from many a prize.
But Jack—for so we call’d him—Jack once more,
And never after, touch’d his native shore;
Nor was it known if he in battle fell,
Or sickening died—we sought, but none could tell.
The father sigh’d—as some report, he wept;
And then his sorrow with the Sailor slept; 70
Then age came on; he found his spirits droop,
And his kind Niece remain’d the only hope.
Premising this, our story then proceeds—
Our gentle Patty for her Cousin pleads;
And now her Uncle, to his room confined,
And kindly nursed, was soften’d and was kind.
James, whom the law had from his prison sent, }
With much contrition to his Uncle went, }
And, humbly kneeling, said, “Forgive me, I repent.” }
Reproach, of course, his humbled spirit bore; 80
He knew for pardon anger opes the door;
The man, whom we with too much warmth reprove,
Has the best chance our softening hearts to move;
And this he had—“Why, Patty, love! it seems,”
Said the old man, “there’s something good in James;
I must forgive; but you my child, are yet
My stay and prop; I cannot this forget.
Still, my dear Niece, as a reforming man,
I mean to aid your Cousin, if I can.”
Then Patty smiled; for James and she had now 90
Time for their loves, and pledged the constant vow.
James the fair way to favouring thoughts discern’d—
He learn’d the news, and told of all he learn’d;
Read all the papers in an easy style,
And knew the bits would raise his Uncle’s smile;
Then would refrain, to hear the good man say,
“You did not come as usual yesterday;
I must not take you from your duties, lad,
But of your daily visits should be glad!”
Patty was certain that their Uncle now 100
Would their affection all it ask’d allow;
She was convinced her lover now would find
The past forgotten and old Uncle kind.
“It matters not,” she added, “who receives
The larger portion; what to one he leaves
We both inherit! let us nothing hide,
Dear James, from him in whom we both confide.”
“Not for your life!” quoth James. “Let Uncle choose
Our ways for us—or we the way shall lose.
For know you, Cousin, all these miser men”—— 110
“Nay, my dear James!”—
“Our worthy Uncle, then,
And all, like Uncle, like to be obey’d
By their dependants, who must seem afraid
Of their own will.—If we to wed incline,
You’ll quickly hear him peevishly repine,
Object, dispute, and sundry reasons give,
To prove we ne’er could find the means to live;
And then, due credit for his speech to gain,
He’ll leave us poor—lest wealth should prove it vain.
Let him propose the measure, and then we 120
May for his pleasure to his plan agree.
I, when at last assenting, shall be still
But giving way to a kind Uncle’s will;
Then will he deem it just, amends to make
To one who ventures all things for his sake;
So, should you deign to take this worthless hand,
Be sure, dear Patty, ’tis at his command!”
But Patty questioned—“Is it, let me ask,
The will of God that we should wear a mask?”
This startled James: he lifted up his eyes, 130
And said with some contempt, besides surprise,
“Patty, my love! the will of God, ’tis plain,
Is that we live by what we can obtain;
Shall we a weak and foolish man offend,
And when our trial is so near our end?”
This hurt the maiden, and she said, “’Tis well!
Unask’d I will not of your purpose tell,
But will not lie.”—
“Lie! Patty, no, indeed;
Your downright lying never will succeed!
A better way our prudence may devise 140
Than such unprofitable things as lies.
Yet, a dependant, if he would not starve,
The way through life must with discretion carve,
And, though a lie he may with pride disdain,
He must not every useless truth maintain.
If one respect to these fond men would show,
Conceal the facts that give them pain to know;
While all that pleases may be placed in view,
And, if it be not, they will think it true.”
The humble Patty dropp’d a silent tear, 150
And said, “Indeed, ’tis best to be sincere.”
James answer’d not—there could be no reply
To what he would not grant nor could deny;
But from that time he in the maiden saw
What he condemn’d; yet James was kept in awe.
He felt her virtue, but was sore afraid
For the frank blunders of the virtuous maid.
Meantime he daily to his Uncle read
The news, and to his favourite subjects led:
If closely press’d, he sometimes staid to dine, 160
Eat of one dish, and drank one glass of wine;
For James was crafty grown, and felt his way
To favour, step by step, and day by day;
He talk’d of business, till the Uncle prized
The lad’s opinion, whom he once despised,
And, glad to see him thus his faults survive,
“This Boy,” quoth he, “will keep our name alive.
Women are weak, and Patty, though the best
Of her weak sex, is woman like the rest:
An idle husband will her money spend, 170
And bring my hard-earn’d savings to an end.”
Far as he dared, his Nephew this way led,
And told his tales of lasses rashly wed,
Told them as matters that “He heard, he knew
Not where,” he said—“they might be false or true:
One must confess that girls are apt to dote
On the bright scarlet of a coxcomb’s coat;
And that with ease a woman they beguile
With a fool’s flattery, or a rascal’s smile;—
But then,” he added, fearing to displease, 180
“Our Patty never saw such men as these.”
“True! but she may—some scoundrel may command
The girl’s whole store, if he can gain her hand.
Her very goodness will itself deceive,
And her weak virtue help her to believe;
Yet she is kind; and, Nephew! go, and say,
I need her now—You’ll come another day.”
In such discourses, while the maiden went
About her household, many an hour was spent,
Till James was sure that when his Uncle died, 190}
He should at least the property divide; }
Nor long had he to wait—the fact was quickly tried. }
The Uncle now, to his last bed confined,
To James and Patty his affairs resign’d;
The doctor took his final fee in hand;
The man of law received his last command;
The silent priest sat watching in his chair,
If he might wake the dying man to prayer—
When the last groan was heard; then all was still,
And James indulged his musings—on the Will. 200
This in due time was read, and Patty saw
Her own dear Cousin made the heir-by-law.
Something indeed was hers, but yet she felt
As if her Uncle had not kindly dealt;
And but that James was one whom she could trust,
She would have thought it cruel and unjust.
Ev’n as it was, it gave her some surprise,
And tears unbidden started in her eyes;
Yet she confess’d it was the same to her,
And it was likely men would men prefer. 210
Loth was the Niece to think her Uncle wrong;
And other thoughts engaged her—“Is it long
That custom bids us tarry ere we wed,
When a kind Uncle is so lately dead?
At any rate,” the maiden judged, “’tis he
That first will speak—it does not rest with me.”
James to the Will his every thought confined,
And found some parts that vex’d his sober mind.
He, getting much, to angry thoughts gave way,
For the poor pittance that he had to pay, 220
With Patty’s larger claim. Save these alone,
The weeping heir beheld the whole his own;
Yet something painful in his mind would dwell—
It was not likely, but was possible—”
No—Fortune lately was to James so kind,
He was determined not to think her blind:
She saw his merit, and would never throw
His prospects down by such malicious blow.”
Patty, meanwhile, had quite enough betray’d
Of her own mind to make her James afraid 230
Of one so simply pure: his hardening heart
Inclined to anger—he resolved to part.
Why marry Patty?—if he look’d around,
More advantageous matches might be found;
But, though he might a richer wife command,
He first must break her hold upon his hand.
She with a spinster-friend retired awhile—
“Not long,” she said—and said it with a smile.
Not so had James determined.—He essay’d
To move suspicion in the gentle maid. 240
Words not succeeding, he design’d to pass
The spinster’s window with some forward lass.
If in her heart so pure no pang was known,
At least he might affect it in his own.
There was a brother of her friend, and he,
Though poor and rude, might serve for jealousy.
If all should fail, he, though of schemes bereft,
Might leave her yet!—They fail’d, and she was left.
Poor Patty bore it with a woman’s mind,
And with an angel’s, sorrowing and resign’d. 250
Ere this in secret long she wept and pray’d,
Long tried to think her lover but delay’d
The union, once his hope, his prayer, his pride;—
She could in James as in herself confide:
Was he not bound by all that man can bind,
In love, in honour, to be just and kind?
Large was his debt, and, when their debts are large,
The ungrateful cancel what the just discharge;
Nor payment only in their pride refuse,
But first they wrong their friend, and then accuse. 260
Thus Patty finds her bosom’s claims denied,
Her love insulted, and her right defied.
She urged it not; her claim the maid withdrew, }
For maiden pride would not the wretch pursue; }
She sigh’d to find him false, herself so good and true. }
Now all his fears, at least the present, still—
He talk’d, good man! about his uncle’s will—
“All unexpected,” he declared—“surprised
Was he—and his good uncle ill-advised.
He no such luck had look’d for, he was sure, 270
Nor such deserved,” he said, with look demure;
“He did not merit such exceeding love;
But his, he meant, so help him God, to prove.”
And he has proved it! all his cares and schemes
Have proved the exceeding love James bears to James.
But to proceed—for we have yet the facts
That show how Justice looks on wicked acts;
For, though not always, she at times appears—
To wake in man her salutary fears.
James, restless grown—for no such mind can rest— 280
Would build a house, that should his wealth attest;
In fact, he saw, in many a clouded face, }
A certain token of his own disgrace, }
And wish’d to overawe the murmurs of the place. }
The finish’d building show’d the master’s wealth,
And noisy workmen drank his Honour’s health—
“His and his heirs”—and at the thoughtless word
A strange commotion in his bosom stirr’d.
“‘Heirs!’ said the idiots?”—and again that clause
In the strange Will corrected their applause. 290
Prophetic fears! for now reports arose
That spoil’d “his Honour’s” comforts and repose.
A stout young Sailor, though in battle maim’d,
Arrived in port, and his possessions claim’d.
The Will he read: he stated his demand,
And his attorney grasp’d at house and land.
The Will provided—“If my son survive,
He shall inherit;” and lo! Jack’s alive!
Yes! he was that lost lad, preserved by fate,
And now was bent on finding his estate. 300
But claim like this the angry James denied,
And to the law the sturdy heir applied.
James did what men when placed like him would do—
Avow’d his right, and fee’d his lawyer too:
The Will, indeed, provided for a son;
But was this Sailor youth the very one?
Ere Jack’s strong proofs in all their strength were shown, }
To gain a part James used a milder tone; }
But the instructed tar would reign alone. }
At last he reign’d: to James a large bequest 310
Was frankly dealt; the Seaman had the rest—
Save a like portion to the gentle Niece,
Who lived in comfort, and regain’d her peace.
In her neat room her talent she employ’d,
With more true peace than ever James enjoy’d.
The young, the aged, in her praise agreed—
Meek in her manner, bounteous in her deed;
The very children their respect avow’d:
“’Twas the good lady,” they were told, and bow’d.
The merry Seaman much the maid approv’d— 320
Nor that alone—he like a seaman loved;
Loved as a man who did not much complain;
Loved like a sailor, not a sighing swain;
Had heard of wooing maids, but knew not how—
“Lass, if you love me, prithee tell me now,”
Was his address—but this was nothing cold—
“Tell if you love me;” and she smiled and told.
He brought her presents, such as sailors buy, }
Glittering like gold, to please a maiden’s eye, }
All silk and silver, fringe and finery; 330}
These she accepted in respect to him,
And thought but little of the missing limb.
Of this he told her, for he loved to tell
A warlike tale, and judged he told it well:—
“You mark me, love! the French were two to one,
And so, you see, they were ashamed to run;
We fought an hour; and then there came the shot
That struck me here—a man must take his lot;—
A minute after, and the Frenchman struck:
One minute sooner had been better luck; 340
But, if you can a crippled cousin like,
You ne’er shall see him for a trifle strike.”
Patty, whose gentle heart was not so nice
As to reject the thought of loving twice,
Judged her new Cousin was by nature kind,
With no suspicions in his honest mind,
Such as our virtuous ladies now and then
Find strongly floating in the minds of men.
So they were married, and the lasses vow’d
That Patty’s luck would make an angel proud: 350
“Not but that time would come when she must prove
That men are men, no matter how they love!”—
And she has prov’d it; for she finds her man
As kind and true as when their loves began.
James is unhappy; not that he is poor,
But, having much, because he has no more;
Because a rival’s pleasure gives him pain;
Because his vices work’d their way in vain;
And, more than these, because he sees the smile
Of a wrong’d woman pitying man so vile. 360
He sought an office, serves in the excise, }
And every wish, but that for wealth, denies; }
Wealth is the world to him, and he is worldly wise. }
But disappointment in his face appears; }
Care and vexation, sad regret and fears }
Have fix’d on him their fangs, and done the work of years. }
Yet grows he wealthy in a strange degree,
And neighbours wonder how the fact can be.
He lives alone, contracts a sordid air,
And sees with sullen grief the cheerful pair; 370
Feels a keen pang, as he beholds the door
Where peace abides, and mutters—“_I am poor!_”

TALE XXII.

_PREACHING AND PRACTICE._

I.

_P._ What I have ask’d are questions that relate
To those once known, that I might learn their fate.
But there was ONE, whom though I scarcely knew,
Much do I wish to learn his fortunes too.
Yet what expect?—He was a rich man’s Heir,
His conduct doubtful, but his prospects fair;
Thoughtless and brave, extravagant and gay,
Wild as the wind, and open as the day;
His freaks and follies were a thousand times
Brought full in view; I heard not of his crimes. 10
Like our Prince Hal, his company he chose
Among the lawless, of restraint the foes;
But, though to their poor pleasures he could stoop,
He was not, rumour said, their victim-dupe.
His mother’s Sister was a maiden prim,
Pious and poor, and much in debt to him.
This she repaid with volumes of reproof,
And sage advice, till he would cry “Enough!”
His father’s Brother no such hints allow’d—
Peevish and rich, and insolent and proud, 20
Of stern, strong spirit. Him the Youth withstood,
At length; “Presume not” (said he) “on our blood!
Treat with politeness him whom you advise,
Nor think I fear your doting prophecies!”
And fame has told of many an angry word,
When anger this, and that contempt had stirr’d.
“Boy! thou wilt beg thy bread, I plainly see.”—
“Upbraid not, Uncle! till I beg of thee.”—
“Oh! thou wilt run to ruin and disgrace.”—
“What! and so kind an Uncle in the place?”— 30
“Nay, for I hold thee stranger to my blood.”—
“Then must I treat thee as a stranger would;
For, if you throw the tie of blood aside,
You must the roughness of your speech abide.”—
“What! to your father’s Brother do you give
A challenge?—Mercy! in what times we live!”
Now, I confess, the youth who could supply
Thus that poor Spinster, and could thus defy
This wealthy Uncle;—who could mix with them
Whom his strong sense and feeling must condemn, 40
And in their follies his amusement find,
Yet never lose the vigour of his mind—
A youth like this, with much we must reprove,
Had something still to win esteem and love.
Perhaps he lives not; but he seem’d not made
To pass through life entirely in the shade.
_F._ Suppose you saw him—does your mind retain
So much, that you would know the man again?
Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press
Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress; 50
He now may show the stamp of woe and pain,
And nothing of his lively cast remain.
Survey these features—see if nothing there
May old impressions on your mind repair!
Is there not something in this shattered frame
Like to that—
_P._ No! not like it, but the same;
That eye so brilliant, and that smile so gay,
Are lighted up, and sparkle through decay.
But may I question? Will you that allow?
There was a difference, and there must be now; 60
And yet, permitted, I would gladly hear
What must have pass’d in many a troubled year.

* * * * *

_F._ Then hear my tale; but I the price demand: }
That understood, I too must understand }
Thy wanderings through, or sufferings in, the land; }
And, if our virtues cannot much produce,
Perhaps our errors may be found of use.
To all the wealth my Father’s care laid by,
I added wings, and taught it how to fly.
To him that act had been of grievous sight; 70
But he survived not to behold the flight.
Strange doth it seem to grave and sober minds,
How the dear vice the simple votary blinds,
So that he goes to ruin smoothly on,
And scarcely feels he’s going, till he’s gone.
I had made over, in a lucky hour,
Funds for my Aunt, and placed beyond my power:
The rest was flown, I speak it with remorse,
And now a pistol seem’d a thing in course.
But, though its precepts I had not obey’d, 80
Thoughts of my Bible made me much afraid
Of such rebellion, and, though not content,
I must live on when life’s supports were spent;
Nay, I must eat, and of my frugal Aunt
Must grateful take what gracious she would grant;
And true, she granted, but with much discourse—
Oh! with what words did she her sense enforce!
Great was her wonder, in my need that I
Should on the prop myself had raised rely—
I, who provided for her in my care, 90
“Must be assured how little she could spare!”
I stood confounded, and with angry tone,
With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan,
I fled her presence—yet I saw her air
Of resignation, and I heard her prayer;
“Now Heaven,” she utter’d, “make his burden light!”
And I, in parting, cried, “Thou hypocrite!”
But I was wrong—she might have meant to pray;
Though not to give her soul—her cash—away.
Of course, my Uncle would the spendthrift shun; 100
So friends on earth I now could reckon none.
One morn I rambled, thinking of the past,
Far in the country—Did you ever fast
Through a long summer’s day? or, sturdy, go
To pluck the crab, the bramble, and the sloe,
The hyp, the cornel, and the beech, the food
And the wild solace of the gypsy brood?
To pick the cress, embrown’d by summer sun,
From the dry bed where streams no longer run?
Have you, like school-boy, mingling play and toil, 110
Dug for the ground-nut, and enjoy’d the spoil?
Or chafed with feverish hand the ripening wheat,
Resolved to fast, and yet compell’d to eat?
Say, did you this, and drink the crystal spring,
And think yourself an abdicated king,
Driv’n from your state by a rebellious race?
And, in your pride contending with disgrace,
Could you your hunger in your anger lose,
And call the ills you bear the ways you choose?
Thus, on myself depending, I began 120
To feel the pride of a neglected man;
Not yet correct, but still I could command
Unshaken nerves, and a determined hand.
“Lo! men at work!” I said, “and I, a man,
Can work! I feel it is my pride, I can.”
This said, I wander’d on, and join’d the poor,
Assumed a labourer’s dress, and was no more
Than labour made—Upon the road I broke
Stones for my bread, and startled at the stroke;
But every day the labour seem’d more light, 130
And sounder, sweeter still the sleep of every night.
“Thus will I live,” I cried, “nor more return
To herd with men, whose love and hate I spurn.
All creatures toil; the beast, if tamed or free,
Must toil for daily sustenance like me;
The feather’d people hunt as well as sing,
And catch their flying food upon the wing.
The fish, the insect, all who live, employ
Their powers to keep on life, or to enjoy,
Their life th’ enjoyment; thus will I proceed, 140
A man from man’s detested favours freed.”
Thus was I reasoning, when at length there came
A gift, a present, but without a name.
“That Spinster-witch, has she then found a way
To cure her conscience, and her Nephew pay,
And sends her pittance? Well, and let it buy
What sweetens labour; need I this deny?
I thank her not; it is as if I found
The fairy-gift upon this stony ground.”
Still I wrought on; again occurred the day, 150
And then the same addition to my pay.
Then, lo! another Friend, if not the same,
For that I knew not, with a message came—
“Canst keep accounts?” the man was pleased to ask—
“I could not cash!—but that the harder task.”
“Yet try,” he said; and I was quickly brought
To Lawyer Snell, and in his office taught.
Not much my pay, but my desires were less,
And I for evil days reserved th’ excess.
Such day occurr’d not: quickly came there one, 160
When I was told my present work was done.
My Friend then brought me to a building large,
And gave far weightier business to my charge.
There I was told I had accounts to keep
Of those vast Works, where wonders never sleep,
Where spindles, bobbins, rovings, threads, and pins,
[Make] up the complex mass that ever spins.
There, at my desk, in my six feet of room,
I noted every power of every loom;
Sounds of all kinds I heard from mortal lungs— 170
Eternal battle of unwearied tongues,
The jar of men and women, girls and boys,
And the huge Babel’s own dull whirring, grinding noise.
My care was mark’d, and I had soon in charge
Important matters, and my pay was large.
I at my fortune marvell’d; it was strange,
And so the outward and the inward change,
Till to the Power who “gives and takes away”
I turn’d in praise, and taught my soul to pray.
Another came! “I come,” he said, “to show, 180
Your unknown Friend—have you a wish to know?”
Much I desired, and forth we rode, and found
My Uncle dying, but his judgment sound.
The good old man, whom I abused, had been
The guardian power, directing but unseen;
And thus the wild but grateful boy he led
To take new motives at his dying bed.
The rest you judge—I now have all I need—
And now the tale you promised!—Come, proceed.

* * * * *

_P._ ’Tis due, I own, but yet in mercy spare! 190}
Alas! no Uncle was my guide—my care }
Was all my own; no guardian took a share. }
I, like Columbus, for a world unknown—
’Twas no great effort—sacrificed my own—
My own sad world, where I had never seen
The earth productive, or the sky serene.
But this is past—and I at length am come
To see what changes have been wrought at home;
Happy in this, that I can set me down
At worst a stranger in my native town. 200
_F._ Then be it so! but mean you not to show
How time has pass’d? for we expect to know;
And, if you tell not, know you we shall trace
Your movements for ourselves from place to place!
Your wants, your wishes, all you’ve sought or seen,
Shall be the food for our remark and spleen.
So, warn’d in time, the real page unfold,
And let the Truth, before the Lie, be told.
_P._ This might be done; but wonders I have none;
All my adventures are of Self alone. 210
_F._ What then? I grant you, if your way was clear,
All smooth and right—we’ve no desire to hear;
But, if you’ve lewd and wicked things to tell, }
Low passions, cruel deeds, nay crimes—’tis well: }
Who would not listen?—— }
_P._ Hark! I hear the bell. }
It calls to dinner with inviting sound,
For now we know where dinners may be found,
And can behold and share the glad repast,
Without a dread that we behold our last.
_F._ Come then, shy friend, let doleful subjects cease, 220
And thank our God that we can dine in peace.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

(1780—1829)

PREVIOUSLY PRINTED AND NOW FIRST ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL SEQUENCE.

POETICAL EPISTLES.

[April, 1780.]

(1.) FROM THE DEVIL. AN EPISTLE GENERAL.

(2.) FROM THE AUTHOR.

_An Introduction to the former of these, by the learned Martinus
Scriblerus._

Peradventure it may surprize thee, Reader, that an Author of our Dignity and Importance should stoop to the servile employment of introducing to the World the flimsy Production of an anonymous Scribler; unless thou art indeed persuaded that the great Personage above mentioned should have prevailed upon us to recommend his Labours to an Age not extremely partial to poetical Composition.

But, whatever Intimacy we may be favoured with in either “Profound,” we are in this Case totally innocent of any Intention to deceive thee; for, we apprehend, did the Genius aforesaid think proper to add the Sin of Rhyme to his other Failings, he has too great a Correspondence and Reputation among Mankind to need our Solicitations in his Favour, were we ever so well disposed to grant them; but, knowing of no due Authority which any man hath to accuse Satan of this Infirmity, we judge it both Cruel and unnecessary to load him with so heavy a Charge, as would in all probability render him more odious to Company in general than any other Accusation he now labours under.

We are however aware of this Objection, that, as the Devil is “_ab Origine_” the Author of Evil, so Poetry, as one Species of it, may properly be placed to his Account; but, as our argument principally relates to the Piece before us, we shall waive all general Discourse, and observe only that our Reasoning went no farther than to show (whatever may be his Talent for Poetry,) that we have no right to affix his Name in a particular Manner to any one Publication.

The very title of the Work we have thought proper to introduce to our Acquaintance; for, besides that it is an Approved Custom amongst Editors, we did not choose our honest and venerated Name should appear to countenance a Falsity.

As pure Compassion is our motive for recommending this little Work to our learned Friends, so would we have its real Author sensible of the Honour we do him, and not, with an Author-like spirit, carp at our Emendations, at the Time we are studiously aiming at his Benefit. Nor could we allow the Title he has chosen to pass at any rate, did he not assure us he can think of no other so likely to take with the humour of the Town.

It having occurred to us, that the judicious Authors of a periodical Publication, called “The World,” did, in their first Paper, counsel their Readers against being witty—purely for the Wit’s sake—at their Expence, and more particularly did guard them against such Expressions of pretended Disapprobation as these, “’tis a vile World,” “a sad World,” &c.: so, gentle Friends, we would borrow a Thought from the excellent Mr Fitz-Adam, and advise ye, not to abuse our Author with the Terms “poor Devil,” “dull Devil,” “stupid Devil,” and so forth, notwithstanding we do agree that it shall be imputed unto ye for wit when ye shall say of the ensueing Poem, “it is devilish good,” “devilish clever,” and such-like.

And to all our Brethren, the real Critics and Judges of Literary productions, we would towards that before us recommend Lenity; it is a first performance and of a young Author; and, albeit there shall be found blemishes and Failings therein, we do in a certain Degree perceive Beauties not altogether unworthy our Approbation, the which if ye likewise behold, and point out to the Public after a friendly Sort, ye shall do well.

EPISTLE I.

Ye Mortals, whom Poets with Verses perplex,
Whom Churchmen misguide, and Philosophers vex,
Whose Heads are disturbed with the Tenets of Schools,
Whom Terror betrays, and whom Conscience befools—
From the Regions below, with a Heart full of Love,
I send to my excellent Subjects above,
And, tho’ ’tis Advice that now dictates my Strain,
I must freely confess I’ve no Cause to complain.
With Pleasure I hear, how the Demon of War
Is hurling his blessed Confusion from far, 10
Has bade the slow Spaniard to Battle advance
And has got a good Footing in England and France.
It delights me to find, the Designs of the Dutch
Are to move for a Peace, but to hinder it much;
For my trusty Disciples of Holland are known
To have no kind of Feeling for aught but their own;
And the Kingdoms around are, as far as I see,
Just acting the Part they have borrow’d from me.
Nor is it without a great Share of Delight
I find so much wrong is confounded with Right. 20
Where Justice alone on one Party is clear,
Why, Truth may prevail and a Peace may be near;
But, where Good and Evil are properly mixed,
The Cause is obscure, and Destruction more fix’d;
Since each on the first will rest all their Pretensions,
The latter to stretch to its utmost Dimensions.
With much Satisfaction, I likewise confess,
I behold so much Deviltry drop from the Press;
But this is a Subject I will not say much on,
Because what hereafter I purpose to touch on. 30
At present to all, in their several Degrees,
I pay my Respect in such Verses as these;
And, my rough-moving Lines should your Critics condemn,
I shall talk in a much rougher Language to them.
Ye Monarchs! Ye Rulers of Nations! attend
To a Ruler, your Equal! the first Monarch’s Friend!
Whose Empire at least is as large as your own,
As crowded his Army, as splendid his Throne;
His Spirit as great, and, whatever his Cause,
A greater Obedience is paid to his Laws! 40
Attend and receive your Instructions from me;
Though a Counsellor famous, I covet no fee;
Prefer me before all your ignoble Tribe—
What Mortal in Black ever acts without Bribe?
Let Empire unbounded your Bosoms possess;
You’re as noble as Cæsar, and scorn to be less.
Be your Counsellors such as may aid your Designs—
Good Jockeys, great Gamblers, rare Judges of Wines!
And then, should you happen to fail in your Ends,
Your People may lay all the Blame on your Friends, 50
And say, “’tis a pity a Monarch so just
Such a pack of damn’d Villainous Fellows should trust.”
Nor judge in this Case my Advice is confin’d:
Be it common as Air, and as free as the Wind;
Obey’d in the Climes which Sol scarce can appear in,
Caress’d in the Countries he passes the year in!
Nor would I like him from my Friends fly away:
Wherever I’m courted I constantly stay,
To Spain, France, or Flanders extending my Care,
And England! in spite of my Enemies there. 60
With its monarch of old I was social and free,
And the Present must die—that’s some Comfort to me.
Believe me, my Brethren—for when I advise
I always speak Truth, tho’ the Father of Lies—
’Tis a foolish Mistake to imagine Mankind
Were not for their Monarch’s good Pleasure design’d.
We know and believe they’re as truly his own
As the Farmer’s his Beast, or the wheat he has sown;
And he’s a most stupid and scandalous Block
Who would not be part of so noble a Stock, 70
To fetch and to carry, be curried and fed,
As his Master has Work, or his Master has Bread.
Ye Statesmen, I next to your Honours apply:
Ye know the old Subject; ye ken who am I!
I would give each Advice how to act in his Station;
But most have without it entire Approbation.
Nay, let us confess, and give Mortals their due,
We borrow a great many Maxims from you!
And would ne’er have you heed what your Satirists say,
Who expose to the World all your pensions and pay. 80
Such Wretches, by jealous Emotions betray’d,
Are as knavish as you, and yet never get paid.
Sejanus politely his Compliments sends,
To show he remembers his very good Friends,
And tells you, with Grief which his Feelings betray,
He hears ye are some of ye veering away.
If this—and there’s Reason to fear it—be true,
I’d have ye consider what end ye pursue;
You’ll find you’ve a very bad bargain at last,
Despis’d for the present and damn’d for the past. 90
Ye Commons, your Nation’s most able Protectors,
Ye generous Elected, ye well-paid Electors,
Your Patron here greets you, and, though but in Song,
He praises the Path ye have mov’d in so long—
A Path he has form’d with such exquisite Care
That it leads you directly, he need not say where.
At a Crisis important to Europe and us,
It becomes us, my Friends, to act constantly thus:
To stick to our Cause with a strong perseverance,
Else Nobody knows what may happen a year hence; 100
For in Times of Disturbance ’tis frequently seen,
That Virtue’s more busy than when they’re serene;
And, from a good Spirit in brisk fermentation,
A Clear-settled Habit may reign in each Nation;
The which to prevent ’tis my serious Command
You carefully lend each his Heart and his Hand.
In England I’ve studied that People’s Condition,
And seen the Contents of each County’s petition;
By which I collect, with a Logic my own,
The Seeds of Dissension are properly sown; 110
And I’m not without Hope but, if suffer’d to grow,
I may reap in due Time what I taught you to sow.
But I’m sorry to find that, in spite of my Care
For that Country’s Estate, I’ve my Enemies there,
Whom though I’ve attended with studious Skill,
I don’t know a people have us’d me so ill.
Go, Wretches ingrate; see my Subjects in France,
With what excellent skill they my Business advance!
Do they stick to Agreements, or such Kind of Things?
Is there Truth in their Courtiers, or Faith in their Kings?
Their Notions of Honour, or keeping of Treaties, 121
Are govern’d by that kind of Body their Fleet is;
While you of a Nation I take such Delight in
Are inferior in Fraud, tho’ you beat them at fighting.
Ye Spirits uncurb’d by the Dictates of Schools,
The Lectures of Priests, or Morality’s Rules,
Or the pitifull Dreams of the Herd we dispise—
The Puritan dull, and the Prelate precise;
Ye learned Philosophers, Deists devout,
Who know not the Depth of the Thing you’re about— 130
But, I’m willing to own it, ’tis proper you should
And Satan here thanks you: ye’ve done him much Good.
Before ye began to reform Men’s Opinions,
How bounded my Realm, how restrain’d my Dominions!
But now, since ’tis clear that there’s no Revelation, }
I’ve a pretty good Footing, my Friends, in the Nation; }
And I’d have you go on with each learn’d Dissertation. }
For our firmest Adherents we commonly call
The Man who believes there’s no Devil at all;
And, as you so clearly convince your attendants 140
We’re nothing, and all our good Company send hence,
Your learned Opinion, I find as I read it,
Advances my Gain, whilst it shatters my Credit,
As Bankrupts who wilfully plunge into Shame,
To gain in their purse what they lose in their Fame.
For the learned, the wise, and the deep-sighted Few,
I’ve an excellent Work which I’d have ye pursue!
Your Genius may mend a dull Devil’s Designs,
May alter my Manner, and polish my Lines.
The Scheme is exalted! is quite in your walk; 150
And I care not in what kind of Language I talk.
’Tis to prove to Mankind, to whom pleasures belong,
Your Moralists, too, as your Pastors, are wrong;
That not to Religion alone is confin’d
Our work, but a full Reformation’s design’d;
Till your Country all Kinds of Enjoyment excell in,
And [become] much the Kind of a Place which we dwell in.
But first you’ll my Congratulations receive
For the exquisite Pleasure your arguments give,
Which we hear with a vast deal of Joy and Delight 160
At Coachmakers’ Hall, almost every Night,
And are so entertain’d with the things in that Style
That we’d thoughts of erecting our Houses-Carlisle.
But the Motion was quash’d on a due recollection—
Our good Subjects here ev’ry Party and Sect shun—
That we have the same Constant Business in View,
And can never dissent in opinion like you;
Nor suffer we here any Authors to write;
And to talk of the State, why, ’tis deemed impolite;
And the Point Revelation, that’s banish’d your Creed, 170
Would not move a Debate where we all are agreed;
Nor have we a Subject which Satan can reckon
Is fit for a Genius among us to speak on.
But, by Way of Digression, we can but admire
That your Ladies to argue should cooly desire,
Should one at a Time any Subject discuss:
They ne’er could be brought to that Order with us.
But they still altogether their Subjects pursue
With the Knack which they formerly had among you;
And we marvel that Men of Discretion can teach 180
To such Lips the all-conquering Graces of Speech!
But my Plan to return to, ye Sages, assist;
Let’s our Heads lay together, our Arguments twist,
And prove by the Light we thought proper to kindle
In our dearly beloved, our Toland and Tindal!
With Arguments all unresisted as these,
That men have a right to do just what they please;
And, because I shall chance my own Worth to proclaim,
My Actions, my Spirit, my Merit and Fame,
With Modesty such as you can but approve 190
I shall speak in the Words of my Vot’ries above.
Yet, again to digress: you must never suppose
But even the learned are sometimes my Foes;
Nor is it a volatile Genius alone,
Or eccentric Attempt, that proclaims you my own,
There was Priestley, they told me, had wrote in my Cause,
And publish’d good Things with a deal of Applause;
But ’tis mere Imposition—he scribble for me!
He scrawl in my Favour! No, damn him, not he!
Yet ’tis some Consolation that Blunderers make 200
His meanings so strange, that they’re ours by Mistake.
And now, having settled the principal Points,
Your Master the Head of his Prophet anoints,
And, judging all Conscience no more in the Way,
Thus bids you to sing, or thus bids you to say.
“What pictures of Life do the Dogmatists paint!
What a dull Dissertation comes forth from the Saint!
How they roar against Sin and contribute to drub
Every Demon from Earth, both in Pulpit and Tub;
Enjoyment how plaguily low do they rate it, 210
How rail at all Pleasure, and tell you they hate it;
As Jockeys, designing to purchase your Horse,
Will assure you no Mortal on Earth has a worse,
Display ev’ry Failing with exquisite Skill,
Yet bestride him themselves with a hearty good Will!
“’Twere well if the Earth had their Censure engross’d;
But the Devil engages their Spleen to his Cost!
Poor Devil! from whom half our Blessings accrue,—
But the Saints give to no one the Qualities due.
Else, how might they praise without Flatt’ry’s Appearance 220
His Honour, his Spirit, his known Perseverance;
How seldom his Friendship’s remember’d to alter;
How he smiles on the Block, and how softens the Halter!
The Friends to his Cause he with Spirit supports,
Attends them at Tyburn, conveys them to Courts;
With noble Profusion gives all he can give,
And scorns to forsake them, so long as they live;
In mystery deep, a great Metaphysician;
In history known, and a rare Politician;
A merry Companion, yet sage in due Places, 230
He knows good Behaviour and studies the Graces;
Can the Springs of good Humour and Harmony feel—
Not Stanhope himself could be half so genteel;
Is the last to disturb them where people are gay,
And the first to drive stupid Reflection away.
Then spare him, ye Preachers, without whose assistance
Your dull Congregations as well were at Distance;
Retract your Abuse, wheresoever you’ve spread it,
And lament your Attack on a Gentleman’s Credit.
“Would you know the vile Sources of Sorrow and Grief, 240
We’re fully persuaded We’ll tell you the Chief.
But, first, ’tis but right we our Talents should use
To take from the Guiltless a Load of abuse.
“Our Moralists tell us, indulg’d Inclinations
Breed all our Disasters, and nurse our Vexations;
That Sin, Satan’s Daughter, as Milton has told us,
Has dealt to Mankind all the Plagues which enfold us.
’Tis false—I acquit her with lenient Sentence;
The Plagues they describe are the Plagues of Repentance;
And surely ’tis hard we should blame her for Woes 250
She strives to keep from us wherever she goes.
To bully Devotion and banter her Laws,
To seduce a Weak Mind, and to plead in the Cause,
A Friend to betray, or a Father to wound,
And revel in Folly’s fantastical round,
Are Vices, they cry—but they make a Man known,
Give Honour, give Pleasure, and Fame and Renown,
Are Gentlemen’s Actions, and Joy must accrue
From Actions which Gentlemen so often do;
And, in spite of what Moralists tell us, I find 260
The antient Philosophers were of our Mind:
Who, each in his Way, though to wisdom akin,
Have labour’d to beautify some kind of Sin.
Then why should we fear on dull Morals to trample,
Who’re blest with the Boon of such noble Example?
“To Sickness and cruel Disease are assign’d
A part of the Sorrows which trouble Mankind;
But do we not see how Mankind are agreed
To be sick unto Death when there can be no Need?
Why faints the soft Nymph? Why the Vapours and Spleen?
What can Nameless Complaints and Infirmities mean— 271
The pain of a Moment, the Headache at will,
Or the languor that’s cur’d without Julep or Pill?
Why riots the Youth, so unhappily sleek?
Why poisons the Maid the pure Blood in her Cheek?
How happens it, Mortals are jumbled together
Without Care in Crowds and in all kinds of Weather?
Or why press the Throng at Assemblies so thick,
If people had not a Delight to be sick?
“What then are the Causes of human Distress? 280
Let Pedants and Preachers have Grace to confess:
There’s nothing such varied Disasters can hit
Like Religion and Virtue, Good Nature and Wit.
“Religion, what horrid Opinions it starts,
How it cramps our Ambition, and deadens our Hearts;
Continually plagues us with Lectures from Heaven,
And robs us the Year round of one Day in seven;
Denies to the Passions the Flowers in their Road,
And carps at the varying Designs of the Mode!
It teaches few Fashions but such as, we find, 290
Have been hiss’d from good Company, Time out of Mind;
Affords us no rule for the Cut of a Coat,
Nor winks at the Science of cutting a Throat;
A tenth of each Man’s Cultivation commands,
And threatens us all in Return for our Lands;
Still presses the More like a Dun for Neglect,
And is never contented with civil Respect;
Intrudes in the Dance, and grows grave in the Song,
And conjures up Conscience with all her dull Throng.
“And Virtue—what’s Virtue? an obstinate Cur, 300
Who clings to a Rock and refuses to stir;
Whose Lectures on Life are a plague beyond bearing;
So he snaps at your Heels, till you’re quite out of hearing.
But hearken to him, and he’ll tell you the Fancies
Which please the poor School-Boy in Tales and Romances:
How he and his Friends have defeated the Crimes
Of voluptuous Aspirers in horrible Times;
By Patience and Prating done wonderfull Things
To Women consumptive, and Death-alarm’d Kings.
But tell me when Virtue got any Man Pension’d, 310
Or procur’d him a Title that’s fit to be mention’d,
Or taught him to talk for the Praise of the Nation,
Or dictated Themes for a publick Oration?
Did it ever a Brilliant Assembly advance,
Or import sound Politeness and Claret from France?
Not this; but it hobbles in Gait and in speech
And, laught at by all, is still aiming to teach;
From the gentle ‘_in modo_’ will angrily flee,
But sternly adhere to the hatefull ‘_in re_.’
“And what is a properer Object of Satire 320
Than that most ridiculous Failing, Good-nature?
Do you know a Man laugh’d at by all his Acquaintance,
Despis’d and disdain’d by the People he maintains;
Too grave for a Wit, and too mean for a Beau;
A Clown who does nothing as other Men do;
An Awkwardly-generous, blundering Thing,
Who stoops to a Beggar and stares on a King;
A Creature who makes no Distinction at all }
’Twixt a Speech in the Vestry and one in the Hall— }
Leoni who warbles, or Porters who bawl; 330}
His Heart without Judgment, his Head without Rule
And, merely for want of Discretion, a Fool;
Whose Mind with a pitiful Tale is possess’d;
Who is every one’s Friend, yet is every one’s Jest;
Who blunders thro’ Life without forming a Plan,
Is that poor stupid Mortal—a good-natur’d Man.
“But of all the vile Things which torment or molest us
Wit a thousand times worse than the worst of the rest is:
The Poison [that’s] banish’d from every Table, }
As far as the People of Fashion are able, 340}
To the Bookworms in Schools, and the Grooms of the Stable. }
A Man who has Wit is more proud than the Devil;
Is never so welcome, is never so civil;
With Absolute Tenets as stern as the Church’s,
He lashes the failings his wealth can not purchase;
Is ever awakening his Enemies’ Slumber,
Lamenting his Foes, yet increasing their Number.
So dirty, no Gentleman cares to go near him,
And sensible Women don’t know how to bear him.
His Wit is rebellious, and, as a Man’s Wife, 350
If it conquers him once, ’tis his Master for Life;
And, though there are things it may chance to produce
If it takes the right turn of an excellent use,
Yet, ’tis plain to be seen, it extinguishes Merit
And dashes the Efforts of Genius and Spirit.”
But, not to perplex you with tedious Instruction,
I hope this may serve for a good Introduction;
And, leaving the rest of the Business to you,
Beloved and Trusty, I bid you adieu!

EPISTLE II.

TO MIRA.