English Satires Part 22

Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade; But unextinguish'd Av'rice still remains, And dreaded losses aggravate his pains; He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands; Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies.

But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime; An age that melts in unperceiv'd decay, And glides in modest innocence away; Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers; The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend; Such age there is, and who shall wish its end?

Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune flings, To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; New sorrow rises as the day returns, A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns.

Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, Now lacerated Friends.h.i.+p claims a tear; Year chases year, decay pursues decay, Still drops some joy from with'ring life away; New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage, Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage, Till pitying Nature signs the last release, And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.

But few there are whom hours like these await, Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate.

From Lydia's monarch should the search descend, By Solon caution'd to regard his end, In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!

From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, And Swift expires a driv'ller and a show.

The teeming mother, anxious for her race, Begs for each birth the fortune of a face; Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring; And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king.

Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise; Whom joys with soft varieties invite, By day the frolic, and the dance by night; Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, And ask the latent fas.h.i.+on of the heart; What care, what rules, your heedless charms shall save, Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave?

Against your fame with fondness hate combines, The rival batters, and the lover mines.

With distant voice neglected Virtue calls, Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls; Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry reign, And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain.

In crowd at once, where none the pa.s.s defend, The harmless freedom, and the private friend.

The guardians yield, by force superior ply'd, To Int'rest, Prudence; and to Flatt'ry, Pride.

Here Beauty falls betray'd, despis'd, distress'd, And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest.

Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find?

Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?

Inquirer, cease; pet.i.tions yet remain Which Heav'n may hear, nor deem Religion vain.

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heav'n the measure and the choice.

Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious pray'r; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best.

Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient pa.s.sions and a will resigned; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sov'reign o'er trans.m.u.ted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat: These goods for man the laws of Heav'n ordain, These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain; With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find.

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

XL. LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

Though perhaps scarcely a professedly satirical production in the proper sense of the word, there are few more pungent satires than the following letter. In Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ we read, "When the Dictionary was on the eve of publication. Lord Chesterfield, who, it is said, had flattered himself with expectations that Johnson would dedicate the work to him, attempted in a courtly manner to soothe and insinuate himself with the sage, conscious, as it would seem, of the cold indifference with which he had treated its learned author, and further attempted to conciliate him by writing two papers in the _World_ in recommendation of the work....

This courtly device failed of its effect. Johnson despised the honeyed words, and he states 'I wrote him a letter expressed in civil terms, but such as might show him that I did not mind what he said or wrote, and that I had done with him'."

February 7, 1755.

"MY LORD,

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MY LORD,

"Your lords.h.i.+p's most humble, most obedient servant,

"SAM JOHNSON."

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

(1728-1774.)

XLI. THE RETALIATION.

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

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

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

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings a good dish: Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; And d.i.c.k with his pepper shall heighten their savour; Our c.u.mberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: Our Garrick a salad, for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: To make out the dinner, full certain I am That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; That Hickey's a capon; and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool.

At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?

Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth; If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find them out; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them, That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind: Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.

In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home: Would you ask for his merits? alas, he had none!

What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at, Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!

What spirits were his, what wit and what whim, Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!

In short, so provoking a devil was d.i.c.k, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick, But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have d.i.c.k back again.

Here c.u.mberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not what they are.

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine; Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; And c.o.xcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.

Say, where has our poet this malady caught?

Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?

Say, was it, that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks.

Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own: But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover: Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can?

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confessed without rival to s.h.i.+ne; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art; Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread, And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting: 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting; With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick; He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, When he was be-Roscius'd and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies!