Chapter XII (7)

[Footnote 3: It was customary with Dr. Sheridan to have a Greek play acted by his head class, just before they entered the university; and, accordingly, in the year 1720, the Doctor having fixed on Hippolytus, writ a prologue in English, to be spoken by Master Thom. Putland, one of the youngest children he had in his school. The prologue was very neat and elegant, but extremely puerile, and quite adapted to the childhood of the speaker, who as regularly was taught and rehearsed his part as any of the upper lads did theirs. However, it unfortunately happened that Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, had promised Sheridan that he would go and see his lads perform the tragedy. Upon which Dr. Helsham writ another prologue, wherein he laughed egregiously at Sheridan's; and privately instructed Master Putland how to act his part; and at the same time exacted a promise from the child, that no consideration should make him repeat that prologue which he had been taught by Sheridan. When the play was to be acted, the archbishop attended according to his promise; and Master Putland began Helsham's prologue, and went through it to the amazement of Sheridan; which fired him to such a degree (although he was one of the best-natured men in the world) that he would have entirely put off the play, had it not been in respect to the archbishop, who was indeed highly complimented in Helsham's performance. When the play was over, the archbishop was very desirous to hear Sheridan's prologue; but all the entreaties of the archbishop, the child's father, and Sheridan, could not prevail with Master Putland to repeat it, having, he said, promised faithfully that he would not, upon any account whatever; and therefore insisted that he would keep his word.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: Dr. James Stopford, Bishop of Cloyne.--_F._]

[Footnote 5: The seat of ---- Hussay, Esq., in the county of Kildare.--_F._]

TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.

UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES. BY DR. DELANY IN SHERIDAN'S NAME[1]

Hail, human compound quadrifarious, Invincible as wight Briareus![2] Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one, Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon![3] O may your vastness deign t' excuse The praises of a puny Muse, Unable, in her utmost flight, To reach thy huge colossian height! T' attempt to write like thee were frantic, Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic. Yet let me bless, in humbler strain, Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian[4] vein, Pour'd out t' enrich thy native isle, As Egypt wont to be with Nile. O, how I joy to see thee wander, In many a winding loose meander, In circling mazes, smooth and supple, And ending in a clink quadruple; Loud, yet agreeable withal, Like rivers rattling in their fall! Thine, sure, is poetry divine, Where wit and majesty combine; Where every line, as huge as seven, If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven: Here all comparing would be slandering, The least is more than Alexandrine. Against thy verse Time sees with pain, He whets his envious scythe in vain; For though from thee he much may pare, Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. Thou hast alone the skill to feast With Roman elegance of taste, Who hast of rhymes as vast resources As Pompey's caterer of courses. O thou, of all the Nine inspired! My languid soul, with teaching tired, How is it raptured, when it thinks Of thy harmonious set of chinks; Each answering each in various rhymes, Like echo to St. Patrick's chimes! Thy Muse, majestic in her rage, Moves like Statira[5] on the stage; And scarcely can one page sustain The length of such a flowing train: Her train of variegated dye Shows like Thaumantia's[6] in the sky; Alike they glow, alike they please, Alike imprest by Phoebus' rays. Thy verse--(Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) To what, to what shall I compare it? 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, The famous statue of Laocoon. 'Tis like,--O yes, 'tis very like it, The long, long string, with which you fly kite. 'Tis like what you, and one or two more, Roar to your Echo[7] in good humour; And every couplet thou hast writ Concludes with Rhattah-whittah-whit.[8]

[Footnote 1: These were written all in circles, one within another, as appears from the observations in the following poem by Dr. Swift.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: The hundred-armed giant, "centumgeminus Briareus," Virg., "Aen.," vi, 287; also called Aegaeon, "centum cui brachia dicunt," Virg., "Aen.," x, 565; see Heyne's notes.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: A mythic king, having three bodies, whose arms were carried off by Hercules.--Lucr., v, 28, and Munro's note; Virg. "Aen.," vii, 662, and viii, 202:

"maxumus ultor
Tergemini nece Geryonae spoliisque superbus
Alcides aderat taurosque hac victor agebat
Ingentis, vallemque boves amnemque tenebant."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Cambyses, the warrior king of Persia, whose name is the emblem of bravado.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 5: Represented as the perfection of female beauty in "Cassandra," a romance by La Calprenède, romancier et auteur dramatique, 1610-1663,--_Larousse.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: Iris, daughter of Thaumas, and the messenger of Juno, descending and returning on the rainbow.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 7: At Gaulstown there is so famous an echo, that if you repeat two lines of Virgil out of a speaking-trumpet, you may hear the nymph return them to your ear with great propriety and clearness.--_F._]

[Footnote 8: These words allude to their amusements with the echo, having no other signification but to express the sound of stones when beaten one against the other, returned by the echo.--_F._]

TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN IN CIRCLES BY DR. SWIFT

It never was known that circular letters, By humble companions were sent to their betters, And, as to the subject, our judgment, _meherc'le_, Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle. But now for your verses; we tell you, _imprimis_, The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is, That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound, And, before we find either, our noddles turn round. Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant, To give us your measures of line by a quadrant. But we took our dividers, and found your d--n'd metre, In each single verse, took up a diameter. But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre?[1] 'Twill appear to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd, For the chord of your circle is now in their hand. The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether, By which your jade Pegasus, fix'd in a tether, As his betters are used, shall be lash'd round the ring, Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds the string. Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass, To encroach on his art by writing of bombast; And has taken just now a firm resolution To answer your style without circumlocution. Lady Betty[2] presents you her service most humble, And is not afraid your worship will grumble, That she make of your verses a hoop for Miss Tam.[3] Which is all at present; and so I remain--

[Footnote 1: There were four human figures in the centre of the circular verses.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Miss Thomason, Lady Betty's daughter, then, perhaps, about a year old; afterwards married to Gustavus Lambert, Esq., of Paynstown, in the county of Meath.--_Scott._]

ON DR. SHERIDAN'S CIRCULAR VERSES BY MR. GEORGE ROCHFORT

With music and poetry equally blest, A bard thus Apollo most humbly addrest: "Great author of harmony, verses, and light! Assisted by thee, I both fiddle and write. Yet unheeded I scrape, or I scribble all day, My verse is neglected, my tunes thrown away. Thy substitute here, Vice Apollo, disdains To vouch for my numbers, or list to my strains; Thy manual signet refuses to put To the airs I produce from the pen or the gut. Be thou then propitious, great Phoebus! and grant Relief, or reward, to my merit, or want. Though the Dean and Delany transcendently shine, O brighten one solo or sonnet of mine! With them I'm content thou shouldst make thy abode; But visit thy servant in jig or in ode; Make one work immortal: 'tis all I request." Apollo look'd pleased; and, resolving to jest, Replied, "Honest friend, I've consider'd thy case; Nor dislike thy well-meaning and humorous face. Thy petition I grant: the boon is not great; Thy works shall continue; and here's the receipt. On rondeaus hereafter thy fiddle-strings spend: Write verses in circles: they never shall end."

ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND PAPER[1]

To fair Lady Betty Dan sat for his picture, And defied her to draw him so oft as he piqued her, He knew she'd no pencil or colouring by her, And therefore he thought he might safely defy her. Come sit, says my lady; then whips up her scissar, And cuts out his coxcomb in silk in a trice, sir. Dan sat with attention, and saw with surprise How she lengthen'd his chin, how she hollow'd his eyes; But flatter'd himself with a secret conceit, That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat. Lady Betty observed it, then pulls out a pin, And varies the grain of the stuff to his grin: And, to make roasted silk to resemble his raw-bone, She raised up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone; Till at length in exactest proportion he rose, From the crown of his head to the arch of his nose; And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all, 'Tis certain the copy had outdone the original. Well, that's but my outside, says Dan, with a vapour; Say you so? says my lady; I've lined it with paper.

PATR. DELANY _sculpsit_.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 96. Dan Jackson's nose seems to have been a favourite subject for raillery, as in this and some following pieces.--_W. E. B._]

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Clarissa draws her scissars from the case To draw the lines of poor Dan Jackson's face; One sloping cut made forehead, nose, and chin, A nick produced a mouth, and made him grin, Such as in tailor's measure you have seen. But still were wanting his grimalkin eyes, For which gray worsted stocking paint supplies. Th' unravell'd thread through needle's eye convey'd, Transferr'd itself into his pasteboard head. How came the scissars to be thus outdone? The needle had an eye, and they had none. O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan-- You'll swear the pasteboard was the better man. "The devil!" says he, "the head is not so full!" Indeed it is--behold the paper skull.

THO. SHERIDAN _sculp._

ON THE SAME

If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.

THO. SHERIDAN _sculp._

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Dan's evil genius in a trice Had stripp'd him of his coin at dice. Chloe, observing this disgrace, On Pam cut out his rueful face. By G--, says Dan, 'tis very hard, Cut out at dice, cut out at card!

G. ROCHFORT _sculp._

ON THE SAME PICTURE

Whilst you three merry poets traffic To give us a description graphic Of Dan's large nose in modern sapphic;

I spend my time in making sermons, Or writing libels on the Germans, Or murmuring at Whigs' preferments.

But when I would find rhyme for Rochfort, And look in English, French, and Scotch for't, At last I'm fairly forced to botch for't.

Bid Lady Betty recollect her, And tell, who was it could direct her To draw the face of such a spectre?

I must confess, that as to me, sirs, Though I ne'er saw her hold the scissars, I now could safely swear it is hers.

'Tis true, no nose could come in better; 'Tis a vast subject stuff'd with matter, Which all may handle, none can flatter.

Take courage, Dan; this plainly shows, That not the wisest mortal knows What fortune may befall his nose.

Show me the brightest Irish toast, Who from her lover e'er could boast Above a song or two at most:

For thee three poets now are drudging all, To praise the cheeks, chin, nose, the bridge and all, Both of the picture and original.

Thy nose's length and fame extend So far, dear Dan, that every friend Tries who shall have it by the end.

And future poets, as they rise, Shall read with envy and surprise Thy nose outshining Celia's eyes.

JON. SWIFT.

DAN JACKSON'S DEFENCE

My verse little better you'll find than my face is;
A word to the wise--_ut pictura poesis_.

Three merry lads, with envy stung, Because Dan's face is better hung, Combined in verse to rhyme it down, And in its place set up their own; As if they'd run it down much better By number of their feet in metre. Or that its red did cause their spite, Which made them draw in black and white. Be that as 'twill, this is most true, They were inspired by what they drew. Let then such critics know, my face Gives them their comeliness and grace: While every line of face does bring A line of grace to what they sing. But yet, methinks, though with disgrace Both to the picture and the face, I should name them who do rehearse The story of the picture farce; The squire, in French as hard as stone, Or strong as rock, that's all as one, On face on cards is very brisk, sirs, Because on them you play at whisk, sirs. But much I wonder, why my crany Should envied be by De-el-any: And yet much more, that half-namesake Should join a party in the freak. For sure I am it was not safe Thus to abuse his better half, As I shall prove you, Dan, to be, Divisim and conjunctively. For if Dan love not Sherry, can Sherry be anything to Dan? This is the case whene'er you see Dan makes nothing of Sherry; Or should Dan be by Sherry o'erta'en Then Dan would be poor Sherridane 'Tis hard then he should be decried By Dan, with Sherry by his side. But, if the case must be so hard, That faces suffer by a card, Let critics censure, what care I? Backbiters only we defy, Faces are free from injury.

MR. ROCHFORT'S REPLY

You say your face is better hung Than ours--by what? by nose or tongue? In not explaining you are wrong to us, sir.

Because we thus must state the case, That you have got a hanging face, Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace of noose, sir.

But yet be not cast down: I see A weaver will your hangman be: You'll only hang in tapestry with many;

And then the ladies, I suppose, Will praise your longitude of nose, For latent charms within your clothes, dear Danny.

Thus will the fair of every age From all parts make their pilgrimage, Worship thy nose with pious rage of love, sir:

All their religion will be spent About thy woven monument, And not one orison be sent to Jove, sir.

You the famed idol will become, As gardens graced in ancient Rome, By matrons worshipp'd in the gloom of night.[1]

O happy Dan! thrice happy sure! Thy fame for ever shall endure, Who after death can love secure at sight.

So far I thought it was my duty To dwell upon thy boasted beauty; Now I'll proceed: a word or two t' ye in answer

To that part where you carry on This paradox, that rock and stone In your opinion, are all one: How can, sir,

A man of reasoning so profound So stupidly be run a-ground, As things so different to confound t'our senses?

Except you judged them by the knock Of near an equal hardy block; Such an experimental stroke convinces.

Then might you be, by dint of reason, A proper judge on this occasion; 'Gainst feeling there's no disputation, is granted:

Therefore to thy superior wit, Who made the trial, we submit; Thy head to prove the truth of it we wanted.

In one assertion you're to blame, Where Dan and Sherry's made the same, Endeavouring to have your name refined, sir:

You'll see most grossly you mistook, If you consult your spelling-book, (The better half you say you took,) you'll find, sir,

S, H, E, she--and R, I, ri, Both put together make Sherry; D, A, N, Dan--makes up the three syllables;

Dan is but one, and Sherry two, Then, sir, your choice will never do; Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you the tables.

[Footnote 1: Priapus, the god of procreation and fertility, both human and agricultural, whose statues, painted red, were placed in gardens. Confer Horat., Sat. I, viii, 1-8; Virg., "Georg.", iv, 110-11. In India, the same deity is to be seen in retired parts of the gardens, as he is described by Horace--"ruber porrectus ab inguine palus"--and where he is worshipped by the matrons for the same reason.--_W. E. B._]

DR. DELANY'S REPLY

Assist me, my Muse, while I labour to limn him. _Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae persimilem._ You look and you write with so different a grace, That I envy your verse, though I did not your face. And to him that thinks rightly, there's reason enough, 'Cause one is as smooth as the other is rough. But much I'm amazed you should think my design Was to rhyme down your nose, or your harlequin grin, Which you yourself wonder the de'el should malign. And if 'tis so strange, that your monstership's crany Should be envied by him, much less by Delany; Though I own to you, when I consider it stricter, I envy the painter, although not the picture. And justly she's envied, since a fiend of Hell Was never drawn right but by her and Raphael. Next, as to the charge, which you tell us is true, That we were inspired by the subject we drew. Inspired we were, and well, sir, you knew it; Yet not by your nose, but the fair one that drew it; Had your nose been the Muse, we had ne'er been inspired, Though perhaps it might justly 've been said we were fired, As to the division of words in your staves, Like my countryman's horn-comb, into three halves, I meddle not with 't, but presume to make merry, You call'd Dan one half, and t'other half Sherry: Now if Dan's a half, as you call't o'er and o'er, Then it can't be denied that Sherry's two more. For pray give me leave to say, sir, for all you, That Sherry's at least of double the value. But perhaps, sir, you did it to fill up the verse; So crowds in a concert (like actors in farce) Play two parts in one, when scrapers are scarce. But be that as 'twill, you'll know more anon, sir, When Sheridan sends to merry Dan answer.

SHERIDAN'S REPLY

Three merry lads you own we are; 'Tis very true, and free from care: But envious we cannot bear, believe, sir:

For, were all forms of beauty thine, Were you like Nereus soft and fine, We should not in the least repine, or grieve, sir.

Then know from us, most beauteous Dan, That roughness best becomes a man; 'Tis women should be pale, and wan, and taper;

And all your trifling beaux and fops, Who comb their brows, and sleek their chops, Are but the offspring of toy-shops, mere vapour.

We know your morning hours you pass To cull and gather out a face; Is this the way you take your glass? Forbear it:

Those loads of paint upon your toilet Will never mend your face, but spoil it, It looks as if you did parboil it: Drink claret.

Your cheeks, by sleeking, are so lean, That they're like Cynthia in the wane, Or breast of goose when 'tis pick'd clean, or pullet:

See what by drinking you have done: You've made your phiz a skeleton, From the long distance of your crown, t' your gullet.

A REJOINDER BY THE DEAN IN JACKSON'S NAME

Wearied with saying grace and prayer, I hasten'd down to country air, To read your answer, and prepare reply to't:

But your fair lines so grossly flatter, Pray do they praise me or bespatter? I must suspect you mean the latter-- Ah! slyboot!

It must be so! what else, alas! Can mean by culling of a face, And all that stuff of toilet, glass, and box-comb?

But be't as 'twill, this you must grant, That you're a daub, whilst I but paint; Then which of us two is the quaint- er coxcomb?

I value not your jokes of noose, Your gibes and all your foul abuse, More than the dirt beneath my shoes, nor fear it.

Yet one thing vexes me, I own, Thou sorry scarecrow of skin and bone; To be called lean by a skeleton, who'd bear it?

'Tis true, indeed, to curry friends, You seem to praise, to make amends, And yet, before your stanza ends, you flout me,

'Bout latent charms beneath my clothes, For every one that knows me, knows That I have nothing like my nose about me:

I pass now where you fleer and laugh, 'Cause I call Dan my better half! O there you think you have me safe! But hold, sir;

Is not a penny often found To be much greater than a pound! By your good leave, my most profound and bold sir, Dan's noble metal, Sherry base; So Dan's the better, though the less, An ounce of gold’s worth ten of brass, dull pedant!

As to your spelling, let me see, If SHE makes sher, and RI makes ry, Good spelling-master: your crany has lead in't.

ANOTHER REJOINDER BY THE DEAN, IN JACKSON'S NAME

Three days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose; But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to Rathmines;[1] Thy fame, thy genius, now declines, proud boaster.

I hear with some concern your roar And flying think to quit the score, By clapping billets on your door and posts, sir.

Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, I'm grieved to hear your banishment, But pleased to find you do relent and cry on.

I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, But now I'll secret keep your stuff; For know, prostration is enough to th' lion.

[Footnote 1: A village near Dublin.--_F._]

SHERIDAN'S SUBMISSION BY THE DEAN

Miserae cognosce prooemia rixae,
Si rixa est ubi tu pulsas, ego vapulo tantum.[1]

Poor Sherry, inglorious,
To Dan the victorious,
Presents, as 'tis fitting,
Petition and greeting.

To you, victorious and brave, Your now subdued and suppliant slave Most humbly sues for pardon; Who when I fought still cut me down, And when I vanquish'd, fled the town Pursued and laid me hard on.

Now lowly crouch'd, I cry _peccavi_, And prostrate, supplicate _pour ma vie_; Your mercy I rely on; For you my conqueror and my king, In pardoning, as in punishing, Will show yourself a lion.

Alas! sir, I had no design, But was unwarily drawn in; For spite I ne'er had any; 'Twas the damn'd squire with the hard name; The de'il too that owed me a shame, The devil and Delany;

They tempted me t' attack your highness, And then, with wonted wile and slyness, They left me in the lurch: Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween, I've nothing left to vent my spleen But ferula and birch:

And they, alas! yield small relief, Seem rather to renew my grief, My wounds bleed all anew: For every stroke goes to my heart And at each lash I feel the smart Of lash laid on by you.

[Footnote 1: Juvenalis, Sat. iii, 288.--_W. E. B._]

THE PARDON

The suit which humbly you have made Is fully and maturely weigh'd; And as 'tis your petition, I do forgive, for well I know, Since you're so bruised, another blow Would break the head of Priscian.[1]

'Tis not my purpose or intent That you should suffer banishment; I pardon, now you've courted; And yet I fear this clemency Will come too late to profit thee, For you're with grief transported.

However, this I do command, That you your birch do take in hand, Read concord and syntax on; The bays, your own, are only mine, Do you then still your nouns decline, Since you've declined Dan Jackson.

[Footnote 1: The Roman grammarian, who flourished about A.D. 450, and has left a work entitled "Commentariorum grammaticorum Libri xviii."--_W. E. B._]

THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF DANIEL JACKSON

MY DEAR COUNTRYMEN,

--mediocribus esse poetis
Non funes, non gryps, non concessere columnae.[1]

To give you a short translation of these two lines from Horace's Art of Poetry, which I have chosen for my neck-verse, before I proceed to my speech, you will find they fall naturally into this sense:

For poets who can't tell [high] rocks from stones,
The rope, the hangman, and the gallows groans.

I was born in a fen near the foot of Mount Parnassus, commonly called the Logwood Bog. My mother, whose name was Stanza, conceived me in a dream, and was delivered of me in her sleep. Her dream was, that Apollo, in the shape of a gander, with a prodigious long bill, had embraced her; upon which she consulted the Oracle of Delphos, and the following answer was made:

You'll have a gosling, call it Dan, And do not make your goose a swan. 'Tis true, because the God of Wit To get him in that shape thought fit, He'll have some glowworm sparks of it. Venture you may to turn him loose, But let it be to another goose. The time will come, the fatal time, When he shall dare a swan to rhyme; The tow'ring swan comes sousing down, And breaks his pinions, cracks his crown. From that sad time, and sad disaster, He'll be a lame, crack'd poetaster. At length for stealing rhymes and triplets, He'll be content to hang in giblets.

You see now, Gentlemen, this is fatally and literally come to pass; for it was my misfortune to engage with that Pindar of the times, Tom Sheridan, who did so confound me by sousing on my crown, and did so batter my pinions, that I was forced to make use of borrowed wings, though my false accusers have deposed that I stole my feathers from Hopkins, Sternhold, Silvester, Ogilby, Durfey, etc., for which I now forgive them and all the world. I die a poet; and this ladder shall be my Gradus ad Parnassum; and I hope the critics will have mercy on my works.

Then lo, I mount as slowly as I sung, And then I'll make a line for every rung;[2] There's nine, I see,--the Muses, too, are nine. Who would refuse to die a death like mine! 1. Thou first rung, Clio, celebrate my name; 2. Euterp, in tragic numbers do the same. 3. This rung, I see, Terpsichore's thy flute; 4. Erato, sing me to the Gods; ah, do't: 5. Thalia, don't make me a comedy; 6. Urania, raise me tow'rds the starry sky: 7. Calliope, to ballad-strains descend, 8. And Polyhymnia, tune them for your friend; 9. So shall Melpomene mourn my fatal end. POOR DAN JACKSON.

[Footnote 1: A variation from:
"mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae."
_Epist. ad Pisones.--W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Yorkshire term for the rounds or steps of a ladder; still used in every part of Ireland.--_Scott_.]

TO THE REV. DANIEL JACKSON TO BE HUMBLY PRESENTED BY MR. SHERIDAN IN PERSON, WITH RESPECT, CARE, AND SPEED. TO BE DELIVERED BY AND WITH MR. SHERIDAN

DEAR DAN,

Here I return my trust, nor ask
One penny for remittance;
If I have well perform'd my task,
Pray send me an acquittance.

Too long I bore this weighty pack,
As Hercules the sky;
Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back,
Let me be stander-by.

Not all the witty things you speak
In compass of a day,
Not half the puns you make a-week,
Should bribe his longer stay.

With me you left him out at nurse,
Yet are you not my debtor;
For, as he hardly can be worse,
I ne'er could make him better.

He rhymes and puns, and puns and rhymes,
Just as he did before;
And, when he's lash'd a hundred times,
He rhymes and puns the more.

When rods are laid on school-boys' bums,
The more they frisk and skip:
The school-boys' top but louder hums
The more they use the whip.

Thus, a lean beast beneath a load
(A beast of Irish breed)
Will, in a tedious dirty road,
Outgo the prancing steed.

You knock him down and down in vain,
And lay him flat before ye,
For soon as he gets up again,
He'll strut, and cry, Victoria!

At every stroke of mine, he fell,
'Tis true he roar'd and cried;
But his impenetrable shell
Could feel no harm beside.

The tortoise thus, with motion slow,
Will clamber up a wall;
Yet, senseless to the hardest blow,
Gets nothing but a fall.

Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I,
Attack his pericrany?
And, since it is in vain to try,
We'll send him to Delany.

POSTSCRIPT

Lean Tom, when I saw him last week on his horse awry, Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his sorcery, But, I think, little Dan, that in spite of what our foe says, He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphoses, For omitting the first (where I make a comparison, With a sort of allusion to Putland or Harrison) Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is A pack and a garran, a top and a tortoise. So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will ask, can I maul This teasing, conceited, rude, insolent animal? And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit, (For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

A Highlander once fought a Frenchman at Margate, The weapons a rapier, a backsword, and target; Brisk Monsieur advanced as fast as he could, But all his fine pushes were caught in the wood; While Sawney with backsword did slash him and nick him, While t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him, Cried, "Sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore, Me'll fight you, begar, if you'll come from your door!" Our case is the same; if you'll fight like a man, Don't fly from my weapon, and skulk behind Dan; For he's not to be pierced; his leather's so tough, The devil himself can't get through his buff. Besides, I cannot but say that it is hard, Not only to make him your shield, but your vizard; And like a tragedian, you rant and you roar, Through the horrible grin of your larva's wide bore. Nay, farther, which makes me complain much, and frump it, You make his long nose your loud speaking-trumpet; With the din of which tube my head you so bother, That I scarce can distinguish my right ear from t'other.

You made me in your last a goose;
I lay my life on't you are wrong,
To raise me by such foul abuse;
My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue;
And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
And like a bird do something more;
When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter,
I'll change you to a black-a-moor.

I'll write while I have half an eye in my head; I'll write while I live, and I'll write when you're dead. Though you call me a goose, you pitiful slave, I'll feed on the grass that grows on your grave.[1]

[Footnote 1; _See post_, p. 351.--_W. E. B._]

SHERIDAN TO SWIFT

I can't but wonder, Mr. Dean, To see you live, so often slain. My arrows fly and fly in vain, But still I try and try again. I'm now, Sir, in a writing vein; Don't think, like you, I squeeze and strain, Perhaps you'll ask me what I mean; I will not tell, because it's plain. Your Muse, I am told, is in the wane; If so, from pen and ink refrain. Indeed, believe me, I'm in pain For her and you; your life's a scene Of verse, and rhymes, and hurricane, Enough to crack the strongest brain. Now to conclude, I do remain, Your honest friend, TOM SHERIDAN.

SWIFT TO SHERIDAN

Poor Tom, wilt thou never accept a defiance, Though I dare you to more than quadruple alliance. You're so retrograde, sure you were born under Cancer; Must I make myself hoarse with demanding an answer? If this be your practice, mean scrub, I assure ye, And swear by each Fate, and your new friends, each Fury, I'll drive you to Cavan, from Cavan to Dundalk; I'll tear all your rules, and demolish your pun-talk: Nay, further, the moment you're free from your scalding, I'll chew you to bullets, and puff you at Baldwin.

MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1723

Well, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound up my head! You a gentleman! Marry come up! I wonder where you were bred. I'm sure such words does not become a man of your cloth; I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth. Yes, you call'd my master a knave; fie, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis a shame For a parson who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a sin; And the Dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin: He has more goodness in his little finger than you have in your whole body: My master is a personable man, and not a spindle-shank hoddy doddy. And now, whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my master, one day, in anger, call'd you a goose: Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never call'd me worse than sweet-heart, drunk or sober: Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge, Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college. You say you will eat grass on his grave:[1] a Christian eat grass! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass: But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye; Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true story: And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I? And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil: I am but a poor servant; but I think gentlefolks should be civil. Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year. And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking: Mary, said he, (one day as I was mending my master's stocking;) My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school-- I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool. Saunders, said I, I would rather than a quart of ale He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail. And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter; For I write but a sad scrawl; but my sister Marget she writes better. Well, but I must run and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers: And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs; Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand; And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to 'command, MARY.

[Footnote 1: See _ante_, p. 349.--_W.E.B_.]

A PORTRAIT FROM THE LIFE

Come sit by my side, while this picture I draw: In chattering a magpie, in pride a jackdaw; A temper the devil himself could not bridle; Impertinent mixture of busy and idle; As rude as a bear, no mule half so crabbed; She swills like a sow, and she breeds like a rabbit; A housewife in bed, at table a slattern; For all an example, for no one a pattern. Now tell me, friend Thomas,[1] Ford,[2] Grattan,[3] and Merry Dan,[4] Has this any likeness to good Madam Sheridan?

[Footnote 1: Dr. Thos. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 2: Chas. Ford, of Woodpark, Esq.]

[Footnote 3: Rev. John Grattan.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. Daniel Jackson.]

ON STEALING A CROWN, WHEN THE DEAN WAS ASLEEP

Dear Dean, since you in sleepy wise Have oped your mouth, and closed your eyes, Like ghost I glide along your floor, And softly shut the parlour door: For, should I break your sweet repose, Who knows what money you might lose: Since oftentimes it has been found, A dream has given ten thousand pound? Then sleep, my friend; dear Dean, sleep on, And all you get shall be your own; Provided you to this agree, That all you lose belongs to me.

THE DEAN'S ANSWER

So, about twelve at night, the punk Steals from the cully when he's drunk: Nor is contented with a treat, Without her privilege to cheat: Nor can I the least difference find, But that you left no clap behind. But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye, My twelve thirteens[1] and sixpence-ha'penny To eat my meat and drink my medlicot, And then to give me such a deadly cut-- But 'tis observed, that men in gowns Are most inclined to plunder crowns. Could you but change a crown as easy As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye! I thought the lady[2] at St. Catherine's Knew how to set you better patterns; For this I will not dine with Agmondisham,[3] And for his victuals, let a ragman dish 'em.

Saturday night.

[Footnote 1: A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Lady Mountcashel.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Agmondisham Vesey, Esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant-general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the Dean had a great esteem.--_Scott_.]

A PROLOGUE TO A PLAY PERFORMED AT MR. SHERIDAN'S SCHOOL. SPOKEN BY ONE OF THE SCHOLARS

AS in a silent night a lonely swain, 'Tending his flocks on the Pharsalian plain, To Heaven around directs his wandering eyes, And every look finds out a new surprise; So great's our wonder, ladies, when we view Our lower sphere made more serene by you. O! could such light in my dark bosom shine, What life, what vigour, should adorn each line! Beauty and virtue should be all my theme, And Venus brighten my poetic flame. The advent'rous painter's fate and mine are one Who fain would draw the bright meridian sun; Majestic light his feeble art defies, And for presuming, robs him of his eyes. Then blame your power, that my inferior lays Sink far below your too exalted praise: Don't think we flatter, your applause to gain; No, we're sincere,--to flatter you were vain. You spurn at fine encomiums misapplied, And all perfections but your beauties hide. Then as you're fair, we hope you will be kind, Nor frown on those you see so well inclined To please you most. Grant us your smiles, and then Those sweet rewards will make us act like men.

THE EPILOGUE

Now all is done, ye learn'd spectators, tell Have we not play'd our parts extremely well? We think we did, but if you do complain, We're all content to act the play again: 'Tis but three hours or thereabouts, at most, And time well spent in school cannot be lost. But what makes you frown, you gentlemen above? We guess'd long since you all desired to move: But that's in vain, for we'll not let a man stir, Who does not take up Plautus first, and conster,[1] Him we'll dismiss, that understands the play; He who does not, i'faith, he's like to stay. Though this new method may provoke your laughter, To act plays first, and understand them after; We do not care, for we will have our humour, And will try you, and you, and you, sir, and one or two more. Why don't you stir? there's not a man will budge; How much they've read, I leave you all to judge.

[Footnote 1: The vulgar pronunciation of the word construe is here intended.--_W. E. B._]

THE SONG

A parody on the popular song beginning, "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent."

My time, O ye Grattans, was happily spent, When Bacchus went with me, wherever I went; For then I did nothing but sing, laugh, and jest; Was ever a toper so merrily blest? But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown, Because I must go to my wife back to town; To the fondling and toying of "honey," and "dear," And the conjugal comforts of horrid small beer. My daughter I ever was pleased to see Come fawning and begging to ride on my knee: My wife, too, was pleased, and to the child said, Come, hold in your belly, and hold up your head: But now out of humour, I with a sour look, Cry, hussy, and give her a souse with my book; And I'll give her another; for why should she play, Since my Bacchus, and glasses, and friends, are away? Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become, That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum? Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile, While we sit carousing and drinking the while? Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done, Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone. Then since it is so, bring me here a supply; Begone, froward wife, for I'll drink till I die.

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FOR THE DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S GIVEN HIM AT QUILCA. BY SHERIDAN 1723

How few can be of grandeur sure! The high may fall, the rich be poor. The only favourite at court, To-morrow may be Fortune's sport; For all her pleasure and her aim Is to destroy both power and fame. Of this the Dean is an example, No instance is more plain and ample. The world did never yet produce, For courts a man of greater use. Nor has the world supplied as yet, With more vivacity and wit; Merry alternately and wise, To please the statesman, and advise. Through all the last and glorious reign, Was nothing done without the Dean; The courtier's prop, the nation's pride; But now, alas! he's thrown aside; He's quite forgot, and so's the queen, As if they both had never been. To see him now a mountaineer! Oh! what a mighty fall is here! From settling governments and thrones, To splitting rocks, and piling stones. Instead of Bolingbroke and Anna, Shane Tunnally, and Bryan Granna, Oxford and Ormond he supplies, In every Irish Teague he spies: So far forgetting his old station, He seems to like their conversation, Conforming to the tatter'd rabble, He learns their Irish tongue to gabble; And, what our anger more provokes, He's pleased with their insipid jokes; Then turns and asks them who do lack a Good plug, or pipefull of tobacco. All cry they want, to every man He gives, extravagant, a span. Thus are they grown more fond than ever, And he is highly in their favour. Bright Stella, Quilca's greatest pride, For them he scorns and lays aside; And Sheridan is left alone All day, to gape, and stretch, and groan; While grumbling, poor, complaining Dingley, Is left to care and trouble singly. All o'er the mountains spreads the rumour, Both of his bounty and good humour; So that each shepherdess and swain Comes flocking here to see the Dean. All spread around the land, you'd swear That every day we kept a fair. My fields are brought to such a pass, I have not left a blade of grass; That all my wethers and my beeves Are slighted by the very thieves. At night right loath to quit the park, His work just ended by the dark, With all his pioneers he comes, To make more work for whisk and brooms. Then seated in an elbow-chair, To take a nap he does prepare; While two fair damsels from the lawns, Lull him asleep with soft cronawns. Thus are his days in delving spent, His nights in music and content; He seems to gain by his distress, His friends are more, his honours less.

TO QUILCA A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR. 1725

Let me thy properties explain: A rotten cabin, dropping rain: Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke; Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke. Here elements have lost their uses, Air ripens not, nor earth produces: In vain we make poor Sheelah[1] toil, Fire will not roast, nor water boil. Through all the valleys, hills, and plains, The goddess Want, in triumph reigns; And her chief officers of state, Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE 1725

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters; Not seen by our betters.

THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE

A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.

A FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE BELONGING TO ---- ROOM IN T. C. D. IN IMITATION OF DR. SWIFT'S MANNER. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1725

----quaeque ipse miserrima vidi.[1]

This description of a scholar's room in Trinity College, Dublin, was found among Mr. Smith's papers. It is not in the Dean's hand, but seems to have been the production of Sheridan.

Imprimis, there's a table blotted, A tatter'd hanging all bespotted. A bed of flocks, as I may rank it, Reduced to rug and half a blanket. A tinder box without a flint, An oaken desk with nothing in't; A pair of tongs bought from a broker, A fender and a rusty poker; A penny pot and basin, this Design'd for water, that for piss; A broken-winded pair of bellows, Two knives and forks, but neither fellows. Item, a surplice, not unmeeting, Either for table-cloth, or sheeting; There is likewise a pair of breeches, But patch'd, and fallen in the stitches, Hung up in study very little, Plaster'd with cobweb and spittle, An airy prospect all so pleasing, From my light window without glazing, A trencher and a College bottle, Piled up on Locke and Aristotle. A prayer-book, which he seldom handles A save-all and two farthing candles. A smutty ballad, musty libel, A Burgersdicius[2] and a Bible. The C****[3] Seasons and the Senses By Overton, to save expenses. Item, (if I am not much mistaken,) A mouse-trap with a bit of bacon. A candlestick without a snuffer, Whereby his fingers often suffer. Two odd old shoes I should not skip here, Each strapless serves instead of slippers, And chairs a couple, I forgot 'em, But each of them without a bottom. Thus I in rhyme have comprehended His goods, and so my schedule's ended.

[Footnote 1: Virg., "Aen.," ii, 5.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Francis Burgersdicius, author of "An Argument to prove that the 39th section of the Lth chapter of the Statutes given by Queen Elizabeth to the University of Cambridge includes the whole Statutes of that University, with an answer to the Argument and the Author's reply." London, 1727. He was one of those logicians that Swift so disliked.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Illegible. John Overton, 1640-1708, a dealer in mezzotints.--_W. E. B._]

PALINODIA[1]

HORACE, BOOK I, ODE XVI

Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine, Whose verses far his rays outshine, Look down upon your quondam foe; O! let me never write again, If e'er I disoblige you, Dean, Should you compassion show.

Take those iambics which I wrote, When anger made me piping hot, And give them to your cook, To singe your fowl, or save your paste The next time when you have a feast; They'll save you many a book.

To burn them, you are not content; I give you then my free consent, To sink them in the harbour; If not, they'll serve to set off blocks, To roll on pipes, and twist in locks; So give them to your barber.

Or, when you next your physic take, I must entreat you then to make A proper application; 'Tis what I've done myself before, With Dan's fine thoughts and many more, Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do? It makes the weak the strong pursue, A goose attack a swan; It makes a woman, tooth and nail, Her husband's hands and face assail, While he's no longer man.

Though some, we find, are more discreet, Before the world are wondrous sweet, And let their husbands hector: But when the world's asleep, they wake, That is the time they choose to speak: Witness the curtain lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find: All day you could conceal your mind; But when St. Patrick's chimes Awaked your muse, (my midnight curse, When I engaged for better for worse,) You scolded with your rhymes.

Have done! have done! I quit the field, To you as to my wife, I yield: As she must wear the breeches: So shall you wear the laurel crown, Win it and wear it, 'tis your own; The poet's only riches.

[Footnote 1: Recantation.--_W. E. B._]

A LETTER TO THE DEAN WHEN IN ENGLAND. 1726. BY DR. SHERIDAN

You will excuse me, I suppose, For sending rhyme instead of prose. Because hot weather makes me lazy, To write in metre is more easy. While you are trudging London town, I'm strolling Dublin up and down; While you converse with lords and dukes, I have their betters here, my books: Fix'd in an elbow-chair at ease, I choose companions as I please. I'd rather have one single shelf Than all my friends, except yourself; For, after all that can be said, Our best acquaintance are the dead. While you're in raptures with Faustina;[1] I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina. While you are starving there in state, I'm cramming here with butchers' meat. You say, when with those lords you dine, They treat you with the best of wine, Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay; Why, so can we, as well as they. No reason then, my dear good Dean, But you should travel home again. What though you mayn't in Ireland hope To find such folk as Gay and Pope; If you with rhymers here would share But half the wit that you can spare, I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days, You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays. Our weather’s good, our sky is clear; We've every joy, if you were here; So lofty and so bright a sky Was never seen by Ireland's eye! I think it fit to let you know, This week I shall to Quilca go; To see M'Faden's horny brothers First suck, and after bull their mothers; To see, alas! my wither'd trees! To see what all the country sees! My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves, My servants such a pack of thieves; My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks, My house in common to all folks, No cabbage for a single snail, My turnips, carrots, parsneps, fail; My no green peas, my few green sprouts; My mother always in the pouts; My horses rid, or gone astray; My fish all stolen or run away; My mutton lean, my pullets old, My poultry starved, the corn all sold. A man come now from Quilca says, "_They_'ve[2] stolen the locks from all your keys;" But, what must fret and vex me more, He says, "_They_ stole the keys before. _They_'ve stol'n the knives from all the forks; And half the cows from half the sturks." Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, "_They_'ve stol'n the sturks from half the cows:" With many more accounts of woe, Yet, though the devil be there, I'll go: 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.

[Footnote 1: Signora Faustina, a famous Italian singer.--_Dublin Edition._]

[Footnote 2: _They_ is the grand thief of the county of Cavan, for whatever is stolen, if you enquire of a servant about it, the answer is, "They have stolen it." _Dublin Edition._--_W. E. B._]

AN INVITATION TO DINNER FROM DOCTOR SHERIDAN TO DOCTOR SWIFT 1727