Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretenceTo something of exalted sense'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,Affect those pleasures to despise,Which, merely to the eye confined,Bring no improvement to the mind,Rail at all pomp; they would not goFor millions to a puppet-show,Nor can forgive the mighty crimeOf countenancing pantomime;No, not at Covent Garden, where,Without a head for play or player,Or, could a head be found most fit,Without one player to second it,They must, obeying Folly's call,Thrive by mere show, or not at allWith these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)Most cruel to themselves, take painsFor wretchedness, and would be thoughtMuch wiser than a wise man ought,For his own happiness, to be;Who what they hear, and what they see,And what they smell, and taste, and feel,Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,And, by long trains of consequencesInsured, gives sanction to the senses;Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) wasteOne hour in what the world calls Taste,Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,Unless they know some reason why;With these grave fops, whose system seemsTo give up certainty for dreams,The eye of man is understoodAs for no other purpose goodThan as a door, through which, of course,Their passage crowding, objects force,A downright usher, to admitNew-comers to the court of Wit:(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)Where (such the practice of the court,Which legal precedents support)Not one idea is allow'dTo pass unquestion'd in the crowd,But ere it can obtain the graceOf holding in the brain a place,Before the chief in congregationMust stand a strict examination.Not such as those, who physic twirl,Full fraught with death, from every curl;Who prove, with all becoming state,Their voice to be the voice of Fate;Prepared with essence, drop, and pill,To be another Ward or Hill,Before they can obtain their ends,To sign death-warrants for their friends,And talents vast as theirs employ,Secundum artem to destroy,Must pass (or laws their rage restrain)Before the chiefs of Warwick Lane:Thrice happy Lane! where, uncontroll'd,In power and lethargy grown old,Most fit to take, in this bless'd land,The reins--which fell from Wyndham's hand,Her lawful throne great Dulness rears,Still more herself, as more in years;Where she, (and who shall dare denyHer right, when Reeves and Chauncy's by?)Calling to mind, in ancient time,One Garth, who err'd in wit and rhyme,Ordains, from henceforth, to admitNone of the rebel sons of Wit,And makes it her peculiar careThat Schomberg never shall be there.Not such as those, whom Polly trainsTo letters, though unbless'd with brains,Who, destitute of power and willTo learn, are kept to learning still;Whose heads, when other methods fail,Receive instruction from the tail,Because their sires,--a common caseWhich brings the children to disgrace,--Imagine it a certain ruleThey never could beget a fool,Must pass, or must compound for, ereThe chaplain, full of beef and prayer,Will give his reverend permit,Announcing them for orders fit;So that the prelate (what's a name?All prelates now are much the same)May, with a conscience safe and quiet,With holy hands lay on that fiatWhich doth all faculties dispense,All sanctity, all faith, all sense;Makes Madan quite a saint appear,And makes an oracle of Cheere.Not such as in that solemn seat,Where the Nine Ladies hold retreat,--The Ladies Nine, who, as we're told,Scorning those haunts they loved of old,The banks of Isis now prefer,Nor will one hour from Oxford stir,--Are held for form, which Balaam's assAs well as Balaam's self might pass,And with his master take degrees,Could he contrive to pay the fees.Men of sound parts, who, deeply read,O'erload the storehouse of the headWith furniture they ne'er can use,Cannot forgive our rambling MuseThis wild excursion; cannot seeWhy Physic and Divinity,To the surprise of all beholders,Are lugg'd in by the head and shoulders;Or how, in any point of view,Oxford hath any thing to do.But men of nice and subtle learning,Remarkable for quick discerning,Through spectacles of critic mould,Without instruction, will beholdThat we a method here have gotTo show what is, by what is not;And that our drift (parenthesisFor once apart) is briefly this:Within the brain's most secret cellsA certain Lord Chief-Justice dwells,Of sovereign power, whom, one and all,With common voice, we Reason call;Though, for the purposes of satire,A name, in truth, is no great matter;Jefferies or Mansfield, which you will--It means a Lord Chief-Justice still.Here, so our great projectors say,The Senses all must homage pay;Hither they all must tribute bring,And prostrate fall before their king;Whatever unto them is brought,Is carried on the wings of ThoughtBefore his throne, where, in full state,He on their merits holds debate,Examines, cross-examines, weighsTheir right to censure or to praise:Nor doth his equal voice dependOn narrow views of foe and friend,Nor can, or flattery, or forceDivert him from his steady course;The channel of Inquiry's clear,No sham examination's here.He, upright justicer, no doubt,Ad libitum puts in and out,Adjusts and settles in a triceWhat virtue is, and what is vice;What is perfection, what defect;What we must choose, and what reject;He takes upon him to explainWhat pleasure is, and what is pain;Whilst we, obedient to the whim,And resting all our faith on him,True members of the Stoic Weal,Must learn to think, and cease to feel.This glorious system, form'd for manTo practise when and how he can,If the five Senses, in alliance,To Reason hurl a proud defiance,And, though oft conquer'd, yet unbroke,Endeavour to throw off that yoke,Which they a greater slavery holdThan Jewish bondage was of old;Or if they, something touch'd with shame,Allow him to retain the nameOf Royalty, and, as in sport,To hold a mimic formal court;Permitted--no uncommon thing--To be a kind of puppet king,And suffer'd, by the way of toy,To hold a globe, but not employ;Our system-mongers, struck with fear,Prognosticate destruction near;All things to anarchy must run;The little world of man's undone.Nay, should the Eye, that nicest sense,Neglect to send intelligenceUnto the Brain, distinct and clear,Of all that passes in her sphere;Should she, presumptuous, joy receiveWithout the Understanding's leave,They deem it rank and daring treasonAgainst the monarchy of Reason,Not thinking, though they're wondrous wise,That few have reason, most have eyes;So that the pleasures of the mindTo a small circle are confined,Whilst those which to the senses fallBecome the property of all.Besides, (and this is sure a caseNot much at present out of place)Where Nature reason doth deny,No art can that defect supply;But if (for it is our intentFairly to state the argument)A man should want an eye or two,The remedy is sure, though new:The cure's at hand--no need of fear--For proof--behold the Chevalier!--As well prepared, beyond all doubt,To put eyes in, as put them out.But, argument apart, which tendsTo embitter foes and separate friends,(Nor, turn'd apostate from the Nine,Would I, though bred up a divine,And foe, of course, to Reason's Weal,Widen that breach I cannot heal)By his own sense and feelings taught,In speech as liberal as in thought,Let every man enjoy his whim;What's he to me, or I to him?Might I, though never robed in ermine,A matter of this weight determine,No penalties should settled beTo force men to hypocrisy,To make them ape an awkward zeal,And, feeling not, pretend to feel.I would not have, might sentence restFinally fix'd within my breast,E'en Annet censured and confined,Because we're of a different mind.Nature, who, in her act most free,Herself delights in liberty,Profuse in love, and without bound,Pours joy on every creature round;Whom yet, was every bounty shedIn double portions on our head,We could not truly bounteous call,If Freedom did not crown them all.By Providence forbid to stray,Brutes never can mistake their way;Determined still, they plod alongBy instinct, neither right nor wrong;But man, had he the heart to useHis freedom, hath a right to choose;Whether he acts, or well, or ill,Depends entirely on his will.To her last work, her favourite Man,Is given, on Nature's better plan,A privilege in power to err.Nor let this phrase resentment stirAmongst the grave ones, since indeedThe little merit man can pleadIn doing well, dependeth stillUpon his power of doing ill.Opinions should be free as air;No man, whate'er his rank, whate'erHis qualities, a claim can foundThat my opinion must be bound,And square with his; such slavish chainsFrom foes the liberal soul disdains;Nor can, though true to friendship, bendTo wear them even from a friend.Let those, who rigid judgment own,Submissive bow at Judgment's throne,And if they of no value holdPleasure, till pleasure is grown cold,Pall'd and insipid, forced to waitFor Judgment's regular debateTo give it warrant, let them findDull subjects suited to their mind.Theirs be slow wisdom; be my plan,To live as merry as I can,Regardless, as the fashions go,Whether there's reason for't or no:Be my employment here on earthTo give a liberal scope to mirth,Life's barren vale with flowers to adorn,And pluck a rose from every thorn.But if, by Error led astray,I chance to wander from my way,Let no blind guide observe, in spite,I'm wrong, who cannot set me right.That doctor could I ne'er endureWho found disease, and not a cure;Nor can I hold that man a friendWhose zeal a helping hand shall lendTo open happy Folly's eyes,And, making wretched, make me wise:For next (a truth which can't admitReproof from Wisdom or from Wit)To being happy here below,Is to believe that we are so.Some few in knowledge find relief;I place my comfort in belief.Some for reality may call;Fancy to me is all in all.Imagination, through the trickOf doctors, often makes us sick;And why, let any sophist tell,May it not likewise make us well?This I am sure, whate'er our view,Whatever shadows we pursue,For our pursuits, be what they will,Are little more than shadows still;Too swift they fly, too swift and strong,For man to catch or hold them long;But joys which in the fancy live,Each moment to each man may give:True to himself, and true to ease,He softens Fate's severe decrees,And (can a mortal wish for more?)Creates, and makes himself new o'er,Mocks boasted vain reality,And is, whate'er he wants to be.Hail, Fancy!--to thy power I oweDeliverance from the gripe of Woe;To thee I owe a mighty debt,Which Gratitude shall ne'er forget,Whilst Memory can her force employ,A large increase of every joy.When at my doors, too strongly barr'd,Authority had placed a guard,A knavish guard, ordain'd by lawTo keep poor Honesty in awe;Authority, severe and stern,To intercept my wish'd return;When foes grew proud, and friends grew cool,And laughter seized each sober fool;When Candour started in amaze,And, meaning censure, hinted praise;When Prudence, lifting up her eyesAnd hands, thank'd Heaven that she was wise;When all around me, with an airOf hopeless sorrow, look'd despair;When they, or said, or seem'd to say,There is but one, one only wayBetter, and be advised by us,Not be at all, than to be thus;When Virtue shunn'd the shock, and Pride,Disabled, lay by Virtue's side,Too weak my ruffled soul to cheer,Which could not hope, yet would not fear;Health in her motion, the wild graceOf pleasure speaking in her face,Dull regularity thrown by,And comfort beaming from her eye,Fancy, in richest robes array'd,Came smiling forth, and brought me aid;Came smiling o'er that dreadful time,And, more to bless me, came in rhyme.Nor is her power to me confined;It spreads, it comprehends mankind.When (to the spirit-stirring soundOf trumpets breathing courage round,And fifes well-mingled, to restrainAnd bring that courage down again;Or to the melancholy knellOf the dull, deep, and doleful bell,Such as of late the good Saint BrideMuffled, to mortify the prideOf those who, England quite forgot,Paid their vile homage to the Scot;Where Asgill held the foremost place,Whilst my lord figured at a race)Processions ('tis not worth debateWhether they are of stage or state)Move on, so very, very slow,Tis doubtful if they move, or no;When the performers all the whileMechanically frown or smile,Or, with a dull and stupid stare,A vacancy of sense declare,Or, with down-bending eye, seem wroughtInto a labyrinth of thought,Where Reason wanders still in doubt,And, once got in, cannot get out;What cause sufficient can we find,To satisfy a thinking mind,Why, duped by such vain farces, manDescends to act on such a plan?Why they, who hold themselves divine,Can in such wretched follies join,Strutting like peacocks, or like crows,Themselves and Nature to expose?What cause, but that (you'll understandWe have our remedy at hand,That if perchance we start a doubt,Ere it is fix'd, we wipe it out;As surgeons, when they lop a limb,Whether for profit, fame, or whim,Or mere experiment to try,Must always have a styptic by)Fancy steps in, and stamps that real,Which, ipso facto, is ideal.Can none remember?--yes, I know,All must remember that rare showWhen to the country Sense went down,And fools came flocking up to town;When knights (a work which all admitTo be for knighthood much unfit)Built booths for hire; when parsons play'd,In robes canonical array'd,And, fiddling, join'd the Smithfield dance,The price of tickets to advance:Or, unto tapsters turn'd, dealt out,Running from booth to booth about,To every scoundrel, by retail,True pennyworths of beef and ale,Then first prepared, by bringing beer in,For present grand electioneering;When heralds, running all aboutTo bring in Order, turn'd it out;When, by the prudent Marshal's care,Lest the rude populace should stare,And with unhallow'd eyes profaneGay puppets of Patrician strain,The whole procession, as in spite,Unheard, unseen, stole off by night;When our loved monarch, nothing both,Solemnly took that sacred oath,Whence mutual firm agreements springBetwixt the subject and the king,By which, in usual manner crown'd,His head, his heart, his hands, he bound,Against himself, should passion stirThe least propensity to err,Against all slaves, who might prepare,Or open force, or hidden snare,That glorious Charter to maintain,By which we serve, and he must reign;Then Fancy, with unbounded sway,Revell'd sole mistress of the day,And wrought such wonders, as might makeEgyptian sorcerers forsakeTheir baffled mockeries, and ownThe palm of magic hers alone.A knight, (who, in the silken lapOf lazy Peace, had lived on pap;Who never yet had dared to roam'Bove ten or twenty miles from home,Nor even that, unless a guideWas placed to amble by his side,And troops of slaves were spread aroundTo keep his Honour safe and sound;Who could not suffer, for his life,A point to sword, or edge to knife;And always fainted at the sightOf blood, though 'twas not shed in fight;Who disinherited one sonFor firing off an alder gun,And whipt another, six years old,Because the boy, presumptuous, boldTo madness, likely to becomeA very Swiss, had beat a drum,Though it appear'd an instrumentMost peaceable and innocent,Having, from first, been in the handsAnd service of the City bands)Graced with those ensigns, which were meantTo further Honour's dread intent,The minds of warriors to inflame,And spur them on to deeds of fame;With little sword, large spurs, high feather,Fearless of every thing but weather,(And all must own, who pay regardTo charity, it had been hardThat in his very first campaignHis honours should be soil'd with rain)A hero all at once became,And (seeing others much the sameIn point of valour as himself,Who leave their courage on a shelfFrom year to year, till some such routIn proper season calls it out)Strutted, look'd big, and swagger'd moreThan ever hero did before;Look'd up, look'd down, look'd all around,Like Mavors, grimly smiled and frown'd;Seem'd Heaven, and Earth, and Hell to callTo fight, that he might rout them all,And personated Valour's styleSo long, spectators to beguile,That, passing strange, and wondrous true,Himself at last believed it too;Nor for a time could he discern,Till Truth and Darkness took their turn,So well did Fancy play her part,That coward still was at the heart.Whiffle (who knows not Whiffle's name,By the impartial voice of FameRecorded first through all this landIn Vanity's illustrious band?)Who, by all-bounteous Nature meantFor offices of hardiment,A modern Hercules at least,To rid the world of each wild beast,Of each wild beast which came in view,Whether on four legs or on two,Degenerate, delights to proveHis force on the parade of Love,Disclaims the joys which camps afford,And for the distaff quits the sword;Who fond of women would appearTo public eye and public ear,But, when in private, lets them knowHow little they can trust to show;Who sports a woman, as of course,Just as a jockey shows a horse,And then returns her to the stable,Or vainly plants her at his table,Where he would rather Venus find(So pall'd, and so depraved his mind)Than, by some great occasion led,To seize her panting in her bed,Burning with more than mortal fires,And melting in her own desires;Who, ripe in years, is yet a child,Through fashion, not through feeling, wild;Whate'er in others, who proceedAs Sense and Nature have decreed,From real passion flows, in himIs mere effect of mode and whim;Who laughs, a very common way,Because he nothing has to say,As your choice spirits oaths dispenseTo fill up vacancies of sense;Who, having some small sense, defies it,Or, using, always misapplies it;Who now and then brings something forthWhich seems indeed of sterling worth;Something, by sudden start and fit,Which at a distance looks like wit,But, on examination near,To his confusion will appear,By Truth's fair glass, to be at bestA threadbare jester's threadbare jest;Who frisks and dances through the street,Sings without voice, rides without seat,Plays o'er his tricks, like Aesop's ass,A gratis fool to all who pass;Who riots, though he loves not waste,Whores without lust, drinks without taste,Acts without sense, talks without thought,Does every thing but what he ought;Who, led by forms, without the powerOf vice, is vicious; who one hour,Proud without pride, the next will beHumble without humility:Whose vanity we all discern,The spring on which his actions turn;Whose aim in erring, is to err,So that he may be singular,And all his utmost wishes meanIs, though he's laugh'd at, to be seen:Such, (for when Flattery's soothing strainHad robb'd the Muse of her disdain,And found a method to persuadeHer art to soften every shade,Justice, enraged, the pencil snatch'dFrom her degenerate hand, and scratch'dOut every trace; then, quick as thought,From life this striking likeness caught)In mind, in manners, and in mien,Such Whiffle came, and such was seenIn the world's eye; but (strange to tell!)Misled by Fancy's magic spell,Deceived, not dreaming of deceit,Cheated, but happy in the cheat,Was more than human in his own.Oh, bow, bow all at Fancy's throne,Whose power could make so vile an elfWith patience bear that thing, himself.But, mistress of each art to please,Creative Fancy, what are these,These pageants of a trifler's pen,To what thy power effected then?Familiar with the human mind,And swift and subtle as the wind,Which we all feel, yet no one knows,Or whence it comes, or where it goes,Fancy at once in every partPossess'd the eye, the head, the heart,And in a thousand forms array'd,A thousand various gambols play'd.Here, in a face which well might askThe privilege to wear a maskIn spite of law, and Justice teachFor public good to excuse the breach,Within the furrow of a wrinkle'Twixt eyes, which could not shine but twinkle,Like sentinels i' th' starry way,Who wait for the return of day,Almost burnt out, and seem to keepTheir watch, like soldiers, in their sleep;Or like those lamps, which, by the powerOf law, must burn from hour to hour,(Else they, without redemption, fallUnder the terrors of that Hall,Which, once notorious for a hop,Is now become a justice shop)Which are so managed, to go outJust when the time comes round about,Which yet, through emulation, striveTo keep their dying light alive,And (not uncommon, as we find,Amongst the children of mankind)As they grow weaker, would seem stronger,And burn a little, little longer:Fancy, betwixt such eyes enshrined,No brush to daub, no mill to grind,Thrice waved her wand around, whose forceChanged in an instant Nature's course,And, hardly credible in rhyme,Not only stopp'd, but call'd back Time;The face of every wrinkle clear'd,Smooth as the floating stream appear'd,Down the neck ringlets spread their flame,The neck admiring whence they came;On the arch'd brow the Graces play'd;On the full bosom Cupid laid;Suns, from their proper orbits sent,Became for eyes a supplement;Teeth, white as ever teeth were seen,Deliver'd from the hand of Green,Started, in regular array,Like train-bands on a grand field day,Into the gums, which would have fled,But, wondering, turn'd from white to red;Quite alter'd was the whole machine,And Lady ---- ---- was fifteen.Here she made lordly temples riseBefore the pious Dashwood's eyes,Temples which, built aloft in air,May serve for show, if not for prayer;In solemn form herself, before,Array'd like Faith, the Bible bore.There over Melcombe's feather'd head--Who, quite a man of gingerbread,Savour'd in talk, in dress, and phiz,More of another world than this,To a dwarf Muse a giant page,The last grave fop of the last age--In a superb and feather'd hearse,Bescutcheon'd and betagg'd with verse,Which, to beholders from afar,Appear'd like a triumphal car,She rode, in a cast rainbow clad;There, throwing off the hallow'd plaid,Naked, as when (in those drear cellsWhere, self-bless'd, self-cursed, Madness dwells)Pleasure, on whom, in Laughter's shape,Frenzy had perfected a rape,First brought her forth, before her time,Wild witness of her shame and crime,Driving before an idol bandOf drivelling Stuarts, hand in hand;Some who, to curse mankind, had woreA crown they ne'er must think of more;Others, whose baby brows were gracedWith paper crowns, and toys of paste,She jigg'd, and, playing on the flute,Spread raptures o'er the soul of Bute.Big with vast hopes, some mighty plan,Which wrought the busy soul of manTo her full bent; the Civil Law,Fit code to keep a world in awe,Bound o'er his brows, fair to behold,As Jewish frontlets were of old;The famous Charter of our landDefaced, and mangled in his hand;As one whom deepest thoughts employ,But deepest thoughts of truest joy,Serious and slow he strode, he stalk'd;Before him troops of heroes walk'd,Whom best he loved, of heroes crown'd,By Tories guarded all around;Dull solemn pleasure in his face,He saw the honours of his race,He saw their lineal glories rise,And touch'd, or seem'd to touch, the skies:Not the most distant mark of fear,No sign of axe or scaffold near,Not one cursed thought to cross his willOf such a place as Tower Hill.Curse on this Muse, a flippant jade,A shrew, like every other maidWho turns the corner of nineteen,Devour'd with peevishness and spleen;Her tongue (for as, when bound for life,The husband suffers for the wife,So if in any works of rhymePerchance there blunders out a crime,Poor culprit bards must always rue it,Although 'tis plain the Muses do it)Sooner or later cannot failTo send me headlong to a jail.Whate'er my theme, (our themes we choose,In modern days, without a Muse;Just as a father will provideTo join a bridegroom and a bride,As if, though they must be the players,The game was wholly his, not theirs)Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who stillOwns no direction but her will,Plies off, and ere I could expect,By ways oblique and indirect,At once quite over head and earsIn fatal politics appears.Time was, and, if I aught discernOf fate, that time shall soon return,When, decent and demure at least,As grave and dull as any priest,I could see Vice in robes array'd,Could see the game of Folly play'dSuccessfully in Fortune's school,Without exclaiming rogue or fool.Time was, when, nothing both or proud,I lackey'd with the fawning crowd,Scoundrels in office, and would bowTo cyphers great in place; but nowUpright I stand, as if wise Fate,To compliment a shatter'd state,Had me, like Atlas, hither sentTo shoulder up the firmament,And if I stoop'd, with general crack,The heavens would tumble from my back.Time was, when rank and situationSecured the great ones of the nationFrom all control; satire and lawKept only little knaves in awe;But now, Decorum lost, I standBemused, a pencil in my hand,And, dead to every sense of shame,Careless of safety and of fame,The names of scoundrels minute down,And libel more than half the town.How can a statesman be secureIn all his villanies, if poorAnd dirty authors thus shall dareTo lay his rotten bosom bare?Muses should pass away their timeIn dressing out the poet's rhymeWith bills, and ribands, and arrayEach line in harmless taste, though gay;When the hot burning fit is on,They should regale their restless sonWith something to allay his rage,Some cool Castalian beverage,Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain,Taking the Muse's name in vain,Know nothing of their real court,And only fable from report)As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down,Or slakes the Feverette of Brown:But who would in his senses think,Of Muses giving gall to drink,Or that their folly should affordTo raving poets gun or sword?Poets were ne'er designed by FateTo meddle with affairs of state,Nor should (if we may speak our thoughtTruly as men of honour ought)Sound policy their rage admit,To launch the thunderbolts of WitAbout those heads, which, when they're shot,Can't tell if 'twas by Wit or not.These things well known, what devil, in spite,Can have seduced me thus to writeOut of that road, which must have ledTo riches, without heart or head,Into that road, which, had I moreThan ever poet had beforeOf wit and virtue, in disgraceWould keep me still, and out of place;Which, if some judge (you'll understandOne famous, famous through the landFor making law) should stand my friend,At last may in a pillory end;And all this, I myself admit,Without one cause to lead to it?For instance, now--this book--the Ghost--Methinks I hear some critic PostRemark most gravely--'The first wordWhich we about the Ghost have heard.'Peace, my good sir!--not quite so fast--What is the first, may be the last,Which is a point, all must agree,Cannot depend on you or me.Fanny, no ghost of common mould,Is not by forms to be controll'd;To keep her state, and show her skill,She never comes but when she will.I wrote and wrote, (perhaps you doubt,And shrewdly, what I wrote about;Believe me, much to my disgrace,I, too, am in the self-same case;)But still I wrote, till Fanny cameImpatient, nor could any shameOn me with equal justice fallIf she had never come at all.An underling, I could not stirWithout the cue thrown out by her,Nor from the subject aid receiveUntil she came and gave me leave.So that, (ye sons of EruditionMark, this is but a supposition,Nor would I to so wise a nationSuggest it as a revelation)If henceforth, dully turning o'erPage after page, ye read no moreOf Fanny, who, in sea or air,May be departed God knows where,Rail at jilt Fortune; but agreeNo censure can be laid on me;For sure (the cause let Mansfield try)Fanny is in the fault, not I.But, to return--and this I holdA secret worth its weight in goldTo those who write, as I write now,Not to mind where they go, or how,Through ditch, through bog, o'er hedge and stile,Make it but worth the reader's while,And keep a passage fair and plainAlways to bring him back again.Through dirt, who scruples to approach,At Pleasure's call, to take a coach?But we should think the man a clown,Who in the dirt should set us down.But to return--if Wit, who ne'erThe shackles of restraint could bear,In wayward humour should refuseHer timely succour to the Muse,And, to no rules and orders tied,Roughly deny to be her guide,She must renounce Decorum's plan,And get back when, and how she can;As parsons, who, without pretext,As soon as mention'd, quit their text,And, to promote sleep's genial power,Grope in the dark for half an hour,Give no more reason (for we knowReason is vulgar, mean, and low)Why they come back (should it befallThat ever they come back at all)Into the road, to end their rout,Than they can give why they went out.But to return--this book--the Ghost--A mere amusement at the most;A trifle, fit to wear awayThe horrors of a rainy day;A slight shot-silk, for summer wear,Just as our modern statesmen are,If rigid honesty permitThat I for once purloin the witOf him, who, were we all to steal,Is much too rich the theft to feel:Yet in this book, where Base should joinWith Mirth to sugar every line;Where it should all be mere chit-chat,Lively, good-humour'd, and all that;Where honest Satire, in disgrace,Should not so much as show her face,The shrew, o'erleaping all due bounds,Breaks into Laughter's sacred grounds,And, in contempt, plays o'er her tricksIn science, trade, and politics.By why should the distemper'd scoldAttempt to blacken men enroll'dIn Power's dread book, whose mighty skillCan twist an empire to their will;Whose voice is fate, and on their tongueLaw, liberty, and life are hung;Whom, on inquiry, Truth shall findWith Stuarts link'd, time out of mind,Superior to their country's laws,Defenders of a tyrant's cause;Men, who the same damn'd maxims holdDarkly, which they avow'd of old;Who, though by different means, pursueThe end which they had first in view,And, force found vain, now play their partWith much less honour, much more art?Why, at the corners of the streets,To every patriot drudge she meets,Known or unknown, with furious cryShould she wild clamours vent? or why,The minds of groundlings to inflame,A Dashwood, Bute, and Wyndham name?Why, having not, to our surprise,The fear of death before her eyes,Bearing, and that but now and then,No other weapon but her pen,Should she an argument affordFor blood to men who wear a sword?Men, who can nicely trim and pareA point of honour to a hair--(Honour!--a word of nice import,A pretty trinket in a court,Which my lord, quite in rapture, feelsDangling and rattling with his seals--Honour!--a word which all the NineWould be much puzzled to define--Honour!--a word which torture mocks,And might confound a thousand Lockes--Which--for I leave to wiser heads,Who fields of death prefer to bedsOf down, to find out, if they can,What honour is, on their wild plan--Is not, to take it in their way,And this we sure may dare to sayWithout incurring an offence,Courage, law, honesty, or sense):Men, who, all spirit, life, and soulNeat butchers of a button-hole,Having more skill, believe it trueThat they must have more courage too:Men who, without a place or name,Their fortunes speechless as their fame,Would by the sword new fortunes carve,And rather die in fight than starveAt coronations, a vast field,Which food of every kind might yield;Of good sound food, at once most fitFor purposes of health and wit,Could not ambitious Satire rest,Content with what she might digest?Could she not feast on things of course,A champion, or a champion's horse?A champion's horse--no, better say,Though better figured on that day,A horse, which might appear to us,Who deal in rhyme, a Pegasus;A rider, who, when once got on,Might pass for a Bellerophon,Dropt on a sudden from the skies,To catch and fix our wondering eyes,To witch, with wand instead of whip,The world with noble horsemanship,To twist and twine, both horse and man,On such a well-concerted plan,That, Centaur-like, when all was done,We scarce could think they were not one?Could she not to our itching earsBring the new names of new-coin'd peers,Who walk'd, nobility forgot,With shoulders fitter for a knotThan robes of honour; for whose sakeHeralds in form were forced to make,To make, because they could not find,Great predecessors to their mind?Could she not (though 'tis doubtful sinceWhether he plumber is, or prince)Tell of a simple knight's advanceTo be a doughty peer of France?Tell how he did a dukedom gain,And Robinson was Aquitain?Tell how her city chiefs, disgraced,Were at an empty table placed,--A gross neglect, which, whilst they live,They can't forget, and won't forgive;A gross neglect of all those rightsWhich march with city appetites,Of all those canons, which we findBy Gluttony, time out of mind,Established, which they ever holdDearer than any thing but gold?Thanks to my stars--I now see shore--Of courtiers, and of courts no more--Thus stumbling on my city friends,Blind Chance my guide, my purpose bendsIn line direct, and shall pursueThe point which I had first in view,Nor more shall with the reader sportTill I have seen him safe in port.Hush'd be each fear--no more I bearThrough the wide regions of the airThe reader terrified, no moreWild ocean's horrid paths explore.Be the plain track from henceforth mine--Cross roads to Allen I resign;Allen, the honor of this nation;Allen, himself a corporation;Allen, of late notorious grownFor writings, none, or all, his own;Allen, the first of letter'd men,Since the good Bishop holds his pen,And at his elbow takes his stand,To mend his head, and guide his hand.But hold--once more, Digression hence--Let us return to Common Sense;The car of Phoebus I discharge,My carriage now a Lord Mayor's barge.Suppose we now--we may supposeIn verse, what would be sin in prose--The sky with darkness overspread,And every star retired to bed;The gewgaw robes of Pomp and PrideIn some dark corner thrown aside;Great lords and ladies giving wayTo what they seem to scorn by day,The real feelings of the heart,And Nature taking place of Art;Desire triumphant through the night,And Beauty panting with delight;Chastity, woman's fairest crown,Till the return of morn laid down.Then to be worn again as brightAs if not sullied in the night;Dull Ceremony, business o'er,Dreaming in form at Cottrell's door;Precaution trudging all aboutTo see the candles safely out,Bearing a mighty master-key,Habited like Economy,Stamping each lock with triple seals;Mean Avarice creeping at her heels.Suppose we too, like sheep in pen,The Mayor and Court of AldermenWithin their barge, which through the deep,The rowers more than half asleep,Moved slow, as overcharged with state;Thames groan'd beneath the mighty weight,And felt that bauble heavier farThan a whole fleet of men of war.Sleep o'er each well-known faithful headWith liberal hand his poppies shed;Each head, by Dulness render'd fitSleep and his empire to admit.Through the whole passage not a word,Not one faint, weak half-sound was heard;Sleep had prevail'd to overwhelmThe steersman nodding o'er the helm;The rowers, without force or skill,Left the dull barge to drive at will;The sluggish oars suspended hung,And even Beardmore held his tongue.Commerce, regardful of a freightOn which depended half her state,Stepp'd to the helm; with ready handShe safely clear'd that bank of sand,Where, stranded, our west-country fleetDelay and danger often meet,Till Neptune, anxious for the trade,Comes in full tides, and brings them aid.Next (for the Muses can surveyObjects by night as well as day;Nothing prevents their taking aim,Darkness and light to them the same)They pass'd that building which of oldQueen-mothers was design'd to hold;At present a mere lodging-pen,A palace turn'd into a den;To barracks turn'd, and soldiers treadWhere dowagers have laid their head.Why should we mention Surrey Street,Where every week grave judges meetAll fitted out with hum and ha,In proper form to drawl out law,To see all causes duly tried'Twixt knaves who drive, and fools who ride?Why at the Temple should we stay?What of the Temple dare we say?A dangerous ground we tread on there,And words perhaps may actions bear;Where, as the brethren of the seasFor fares, the lawyers ply for fees.What of that Bridge, most wisely madeTo serve the purposes of trade,In the great mart of all this nation,By stopping up the navigation,And to that sand bank adding weight,Which is already much too great?What of that Bridge, which, void of senseBut well supplied with impudence,Englishmen, knowing not the Guild,Thought they might have a claim to build,Till Paterson, as white as milk,As smooth as oil, as soft as silk,In solemn manner had decreedThat on the other side the TweedArt, born and bred, and fully grown,Was with one Mylne, a man unknown,But grace, preferment, and renownDeserving, just arrived in town:One Mylne, an artist perfect quiteBoth in his own and country's right,As fit to make a bridge as he,With glorious Patavinity,To build inscriptions worthy foundTo lie for ever under ground.Much more worth observation too,Was this a season to pursueThe theme, our Muse might tell in rhyme:The will she hath, but not the time;For, swift as shaft from Indian bow,(And when a goddess comes, we know,Surpassing Nature acts prevail.And boats want neither oar nor sail)The vessel pass'd, and reach'd the shoreSo quick, that Thought was scarce before.Suppose we now our City courtSafely delivered at the port.And, of their state regardless quite,Landed, like smuggled goods, by night,The solemn magistrate laid down,The dignity of robe and gown,With every other ensign gone,Suppose the woollen nightcap on;The flesh-brush used, with decent state,To make the spirits circulate,(A form which, to the senses true,The lickerish chaplain uses too,Though, something to improve the plan,He takes the maid instead of man)Swathed, and with flannel cover'd o'er,To show the vigour of threescore,The vigour of threescore and ten,Above the proof of younger men,Suppose, the mighty Dulman ledBetwixt two slaves, and put to bed;Suppose, the moment he lies down,No miracle in this great town,The drone as fast asleep as heMust in the course of nature be,Who, truth for our foundation take,When up, is never half awake.There let him sleep, whilst we surveyThe preparations for the day;That day on which was to be shownCourt pride by City pride outdone.The jealous mother sends away,As only fit for childish play,That daughter who, to gall her pride,Shoots up too forward by her side.The wretch, of God and man accursed,Of all Hell's instruments the worst,Draws forth his pawns, and for the dayStruts in some spendthrift's vain array;Around his awkward doxy shineThe treasures of Golconda's mine;Each neighbour, with a jealous glare,Beholds her folly publish'd there.Garments well saved, (an anecdoteWhich we can prove, or would not quote)Garments well saved, which first were madeWhen tailors, to promote their trade,Against the Picts in arms arose,And drove them out, or made them clothes;Garments immortal, without end,Like names and titles, which descendSuccessively from sire to son;Garments, unless some work is doneOf note, not suffer'd to appear'Bove once at most in every year,Were now, in solemn form, laid bare,To take the benefit of air,And, ere they came to be employ'dOn this solemnity, to voidThat scent which Russia's leather gave,From vile and impious moth to save.Each head was busy, and each heartIn preparation bore a part;Running together all aboutThe servants put each other out,Till the grave master had decreed,The more haste ever the worse speed.Miss, with her little eyes half-closed,Over a smuggled toilette dosed;The waiting-maid, whom story notesA very Scrub in petticoats,Hired for one work, but doing all,In slumbers lean'd against the wall.Milliners, summon'd from afar,Arrived in shoals at Temple Bar,Strictly commanded to importCart loads of foppery from Court;With labour'd visible design,Art strove to be superbly fine;Nature, more pleasing, though more wild,Taught otherwise her darling child,And cried, with spirited disdain,Be Hunter elegant and plain!Lo! from the chambers of the East,A welcome prelude to the feast,In saffron-colour'd robe array'd,High in a car, by Vulcan made,Who work'd for Jove himself, each steed,High-mettled, of celestial breed,Pawing and pacing all the way,Aurora brought the wish'd-for day,And held her empire, till out-runBy that brave jolly groom, the Sun.The trumpet--hark! it speaks--it swellsThe loud full harmony; it tellsThe time at hand when Dulman, ledBy Form, his citizens must head,And march those troops, which at his callWere now assembled, to Guildhall,On matters of importance great,To court and city, church and state.From end to end the sound makes way,All hear the signal and obey;But Dulman, who, his charge forgot,By Morpheus fetter'd, heard it not;Nor could, so sound he slept and fast,Hear any trumpet, but the last.Crape, ever true and trusty known,Stole from the maid's bed to his own,Then in the spirituals of pride,Planted himself at Dulman's side.Thrice did the ever-faithful slave,With voice which might have reach'd the grave,And broke Death's adamantine chain,On Dulman call, but call'd in vain.Thrice with an arm, which might have madeThe Theban boxer curse his trade,The drone he shook, who rear'd the head,And thrice fell backward on his bed.What could be done? Where force hath fail'd,Policy often hath prevail'd;And what--an inference most plain--Had been, Crape thought might be again.Under his pillow (still in mindThe proverb kept, 'fast bind, fast find')Each blessed night the keys were laid,Which Crape to draw away assay'd.What not the power of voice or armCould do, this did, and broke the charm;Quick started he with stupid stare,For all his little soul was there.Behold him, taken up, rubb'd down,In elbow-chair, and morning-gown;Behold him, in his latter bloom,Stripp'd, wash'd, and sprinkled with perfume;Behold him bending with the weightOf robes, and trumpery of state;Behold him (for the maxim's true,Whate'er we by another do,We do ourselves; and chaplain paid,Like slaves in every other trade,Had mutter'd over God knows what,Something which he by heart had got)Having, as usual, said his prayers,Go titter, totter to the stairs:Behold him for descent prepare,With one foot trembling in the air;He starts, he pauses on the brink,And, hard to credit, seems to think;Through his whole train (the chaplain gaveThe proper cue to every slave)At once, as with infection caught,Each started, paused, and aim'd at thought;He turns, and they turn; big with care,He waddles to his elbow-chair,Squats down, and, silent for a season,At last with Crape begins to reason:But first of all he made a sign,That every soul, but the divine,Should quit the room; in him, he knows,He may all confidence repose.'Crape--though I'm yet not quite awake--Before this awful step I take,On which my future all depends,I ought to know my foes and friends.My foes and friends--observe me still--I mean not those who well or illPerhaps may wish me, but those whoHave't in their power to do it too.Now if, attentive to the state,In too much hurry to be great,Or through much zeal,--a motive, Crape,Deserving praise,--into a scrapeI, like a fool, am got, no doubtI, like a wise man, should get out:Note that remark without replies;I say that to get out is wise,Or, by the very self-same rule,That to get in was like a fool.The marrow of this argumentMust wholly rest on the event,And therefore, which is really hard,Against events too I must guard.Should things continue as they stand,And Bute prevail through all the landWithout a rival, by his aidMy fortunes in a trice are made;Nay, honours on my zeal may smile,And stamp me Earl of some great Isle:But if, a matter of much doubt,The present minister goes out,Fain would I know on what pretextI can stand fairly with the next?For as my aim, at every hour,Is to be well with those in power,And my material point of view,Whoever's in, to be in too,I should not, like a blockhead, chooseTo gain these, so as those to lose:'Tis good in every case, you know,To have two strings unto our bow.'As one in wonder lost, Crape view'dHis lord, who thus his speech pursued:'This, my good Crape, is my grand point;And as the times are out of joint,The greater caution is requiredTo bring about the point desired.What I would wish to bring aboutCannot admit a moment's doubt;The matter in dispute, you know,Is what we call the Quomodo.That be thy task.'--The reverend slave,Becoming in a moment grave,Fix'd to the ground and rooted stood,Just like a man cut out out of wood,Such as we see (without the leastReflection glancing on the priest)One or more, planted up and down,Almost in every church in town;He stood some minutes, then, like oneWho wish'd the matter might be done,But could not do it, shook his head,And thus the man of sorrow said:'Hard is this task, too hard I swear,By much too hard for me to bear;Beyond expression hard my part,Could mighty Dulman see my heart,When he, alas! makes known a willWhich Crape's not able to fulfil.Was ever my obedience barr'dBy any trifling nice regardTo sense and honour? Could I reachThy meaning without help of speech,At the first motion of thy eyeDid not thy faithful creature fly?Have I not said, not what I ought,But what my earthly master taught?Did I e'er weigh, through duty strong,In thy great biddings, right and wrong?Did ever Interest, to whom thouCanst not with more devotion bow,Warp my sound faith, or will of mineIn contradiction run to thine?Have I not, at thy table placed,When business call'd aloud for haste,Torn myself thence, yet never heardTo utter one complaining word,And had, till thy great work was done,All appetites, as having none?Hard is it, this great plan pursuedOf voluntary servitude;Pursued without or shame, or fear,Through the great circle of the year,Now to receive, in this grand hour,Commands which lie beyond my power,Commands which baffle all my skill,And leave me nothing but my will:Be that accepted; let my lordIndulgence to his slave afford:This task, for my poor strength unfit,Will yield to none but Dulman's wit.'With such gross incense gratified,And turning up the lip of pride,'Poor Crape'--and shook his empty head--'Poor puzzled Crape!' wise Dulman said,'Of judgment weak, of sense confined,For things of lower note design'd;For things within the vulgar reach,To run of errands, and to preach;Well hast thou judged, that heads like mineCannot want help from heads like thine;Well hast thou judged thyself unmeetOf such high argument to treat;Twas but to try thee that I spoke,And all I said was but a joke.Nor think a joke, Crape, a disgrace,Or to my person, or my place;The wisest of the sons of menHave deign'd to use them now and then.The only caution, do you see,Demanded by our dignity,From common use and men exempt,Is that they may not breed contempt.Great use they have, when in the handsOf one like me, who understands,Who understands the time and place,The person, manner, and the grace,Which fools neglect; so that we find,If all the requisites are join'd,From whence a perfect joke must spring,A joke's a very serious thing.But to our business--my design,Which gave so rough a shock to thine,To my capacity is madeAs ready as a fraud in trade;Which, like broad-cloth, I can, with ease,Cut out in any shape I please.Some, in my circumstance, some few,Aye, and those men of genius too,Good men, who, without love or hate,Whether they early rise or late,With names uncrack'd, and credit sound,Rise worth a hundred thousand pound,By threadbare ways and means would tryTo bear their point--so will not I.New methods shall my wisdom findTo suit these matters to my mind;So that the infidels at court,Who make our city wits their sport,Shall hail the honours of my reign,And own that Dulman bears a brain.Some, in my place, to gain their ends,Would give relations up, and friends;Would lend a wife, who, they might swearSafely, was none the worse for wear;Would see a daughter, yet a maid,Into a statesman's arms betray'd;Nay, should the girl prove coy, nor knowWhat daughters to a father owe,Sooner than schemes so nobly plann'dShould fail, themselves would lend a hand;Would vote on one side, whilst a brother,Properly taught, would vote on t'other;Would every petty band forget;To public eye be with one set,In private with a second herd,And be by proxy with a third;Would, (like a queen, of whom I read,The other day--her name is fled--In a book,--where, together bound,'Whittington and his Cat' I found--A tale most true, and free from art,Which all Lord Mayors should have by heart;A queen oh!--might those days beginAfresh, when queens would learn to spin--Who wrought, and wrought, but for some plot,The cause of which I've now forgot,During the absence of the sunUndid what she by day had done)Whilst they a double visage wear,What's sworn by day, by night unswear.Such be their arts, and such, perchance,May happily their ends advance;Prom a new system mine shall spring,A locum tenens is the thing.That's your true plan. To obligateThe present ministers of state,My shadow shall our court approach,And bear my power, and have my coach;My fine state-coach, superb to view,A fine state-coach, and paid for too.To curry favour, and the graceObtain of those who're out of place;In the mean time I--that's to say,I proper, I myself--here stay.But hold--perhaps unto the nation,Who hate the Scot's administration,To lend my coach may seem to beDeclaring for the ministry,For where the city-coach is, thereIs the true essence of the Mayor:Therefore (for wise men are intentEvils at distance to prevent,Whilst fools the evils first endure,And then are plagued to seek a cure)No coach--a horse--and free from fear,To make our Deputy appear,Fast on his back shall he be tied,With two grooms marching by his side;Then for a horse--through all the land,To head our solemn city-band,Can any one so fit be foundAs he who in Artillery-ground,Without a rider, (noble sight!)Led on our bravest troops to fight?But first, Crape, for my honour's sake--A tender point--inquiry makeAbout that horse, if the disputeIs ended, or is still in suit:For whilst a cause, (observe this planOf justice) whether horse or manThe parties be, remains in doubt,Till 'tis determined out and out,That power must tyranny appearWhich should, prejudging, interfere,And weak, faint judges overawe,To bias the free course of law.You have my will--now quickly run,And take care that my will be done.In public, Crape, you must appear,Whilst I in privacy sit here;Here shall great Dulman sit alone,Making this elbow-chair my throne,And you, performing what I bid,Do all, as if I nothing did.'Crape heard, and speeded on his way;With him to hear was to obey;Not without trouble, be assured,A proper proxy was procuredTo serve such infamous intent,And such a lord to represent;Nor could one have been found at allOn t'other side of London Wall.The trumpet sounds--solemn and slowBehold the grand procession go,All moving on, cat after kind,As if for motion ne'er design'd.Constables, whom the laws admitTo keep the peace by breaking it;Beadles, who hold the second placeBy virtue of a silver mace,Which every Saturday is drawn,For use of Sunday, out of pawn;Treasurers, who with empty keySecure an empty treasury;Churchwardens, who their course pursueIn the same state, as to their pewChurchwardens of St Margaret's go,Since Peirson taught them pride and show,Who in short transient pomp appear,Like almanacs changed every year;Behind whom, with unbroken locks,Charity carries the poor's box,Not knowing that with private keysThey ope and shut it when they please:Overseers, who by frauds ensureThe heavy curses of the poor;Unclean came flocking, bulls and bears,Like beasts into the ark, by pairs.Portentous, flaming in the van,Stalk'd the professor, Sheridan,A man of wire, a mere pantine,A downright animal machine;He knows alone, in proper mode,How to take vengeance on an ode,And how to butcher Ammon's sonAnd poor Jack Dryden both in one:On all occasions next the chairHe stands, for service of the Mayor,And to instruct him how to useHis A's and B's, and P's and Q's:O'er letters, into tatters worn,O'er syllables, defaced and torn,O'er words disjointed, and o'er sense,Left destitute of all defence,He strides, and all the way he goesWades, deep in blood, o'er Criss-cross-rows:Before him every consonantIn agonies is seen to pant;Behind, in forms not to be known,The ghosts of tortured vowels groan.Next Hart and Duke, well worthy graceAnd city favour, came in place;No children can their toils engage,Their toils are turn'd to reverend age;When a court dame, to grace his browsResolved, is wed to city-spouse,Their aid with madam's aid must join,The awkward dotard to refine,And teach, whence truest glory flows,Grave sixty to turn out his toes.Each bore in hand a kit; and eachTo show how fit he was to teachA cit, an alderman, a mayor,Led in a string a dancing bear.Since the revival of Fingal,Custom, and custom's all in all,Commands that we should have regard,On all high seasons, to the bard.Great acts like these, by vulgar tongueProfaned, should not be said, but sung.This place to fill, renown'd in fame,The high and mighty Lockman came,And, ne'er forgot in Dulman's reign,With proper order to maintainThe uniformity of pride,Brought Brother Whitehead by his side.On horse, who proudly paw'd the ground,And cast his fiery eyeballs round,Snorting, and champing the rude bit,As if, for warlike purpose fit,His high and generous blood disdain'd,To be for sports and pastimes rein'd,Great Dymock, in his glorious station,Paraded at the coronation.Not so our city Dymock came,Heavy, dispirited, and tame;No mark of sense, his eyes half-closed,He on a mighty dray-horse dozed:Fate never could a horse provideSo fit for such a man to ride,Nor find a man with strictest care,So fit for such a horse to bear.Hung round with instruments of death,The sight of him would stop the breathOf braggart Cowardice, and makeThe very court Drawcansir quake;With dirks, which, in the hands of Spite,Do their damn'd business in the night,From Scotland sent, but here display'dOnly to fill up the parade;With swords, unflesh'd, of maiden hue,Which rage or valour never drew;With blunderbusses, taught to rideLike pocket-pistols, by his side,In girdle stuck, he seem'd to beA little moving armoury.One thing much wanting to completeThe sight, and make a perfect treat,Was, that the horse, (a courtesyIn horses found of high degree)Instead of going forward on,All the way backward should have gone.Horses, unless they breeding lack,Some scruple make to turn their back,Though riders, which plain truth declares,No scruple make of turning theirs.Far, far apart from all the rest,Fit only for a standing jest,The independent, (can you getA better suited epithet?)The independent Amyand came,All burning with the sacred flameOf Liberty, which well he knowsOn the great stock of Slavery grows;Like sparrow, who, deprived of mate,Snatch'd by the cruel hand of Fate,From spray to spray no more will hop,But sits alone on the house-top;Or like himself, when all aloneAt Croydon he was heard to groan,Lifting both hands in the defenceOf interest, and common sense;Both hands, for as no other manAdopted and pursued his plan,The left hand had been lonesome quite,If he had not held up the right;Apart he came, and fix'd his eyesWith rapture on a distant prize,On which, in letters worthy note,There 'twenty thousand pounds' was wrote.False trap, for credit sapp'd is foundBy getting twenty thousand pound:Nay, look not thus on me, and stare,Doubting the certainty--to swearIn such a case I should be loth--But Perry Cust may take his oath.In plain and decent garb array'd,With the prim Quaker, Fraud, came Trade;Connivance, to improve the plan,Habited like a juryman,Judging as interest prevails,Came next, with measures, weights, and scales;Extortion next, of hellish raceA cub most damn'd, to show his faceForbid by fear, but not by shame,Turn'd to a Jew, like Gideon came;Corruption, Midas-like, beholdTurning whate'er she touch'd to gold;Impotence, led by Lust, and Pride,Strutting with Ponton by her side;Hypocrisy, demure and sad,In garments of the priesthood clad,So well disguised, that you might swear,Deceived, a very priest was there;Bankruptcy, full of ease and health,And wallowing in well-saved wealth,Came sneering through a ruin'd band,And bringing B---- in her hand;Victory, hanging down her head,Was by a Highland stallion led;Peace, clothed in sables, with a faceWhich witness'd sense of huge disgrace,Which spake a deep and rooted shameBoth of herself and of her name,Mourning creeps on, and, blushing, feelsWar, grim War, treading on her heels;Pale Credit, shaken by the artsOf men with bad heads and worse hearts,Taking no notice of a bandWhich near her were ordain'd to stand,Well-nigh destroyed by sickly fit,Look'd wistful all around for Pitt;Freedom--at that most hallow'd nameMy spirits mount into a flame,Each pulse beats high, and each nerve strains,Even to the cracking; through my veinsThe tides of life more rapid run,And tell me I am Freedom's son--Freedom came next, but scarce was seen,When the sky, which appear'd sereneAnd gay before, was overcast;Horror bestrode a foreign blast,And from the prison of the North,To Freedom deadly, storms burst forth.A car like those, in which, we're told,Our wild forefathers warr'd of old,Loaded with death, six horses bearThrough the blank region of the air.Too fierce for time or art to tame,They pour'd forth mingled smoke and flameFrom their wide nostrils; every steedWas of that ancient savage breedWhich fell Geryon nursed; their foodThe flesh of man, their drink his blood.On the first horses, ill-match'd pair,This fat and sleek, that lean and bare,Came ill-match'd riders side by side,And Poverty was yoked with Pride;Union most strange it must appear,Till other unions make it clear.Next, in the gall of bitterness,With rage which words can ill express,With unforgiving rage, which springsFrom a false zeal for holy things,Wearing such robes as prophets wear,False prophets placed in Peter's chair,On which, in characters of fire,Shapes antic, horrible, and direInwoven flamed, where, to the view,In groups appear'd a rabble crewOf sainted devils; where, all round,Vile relics of vile men were found,Who, worse than devils, from the birthPerform'd the work of hell on earth,Jugglers, Inquisitors, and Popes,Pointing at axes, wheels, and ropes,And engines, framed on horrid plan,Which none but the destroyer, Man,Could, to promote his selfish views,Have head to make or heart to use,Bearing, to consecrate her tricks,In her left hand a crucifix,'Remembrance of our dying Lord,'And in her right a two-edged sword,Having her brows, in impious sport,Adorn'd with words of high import,'On earth peace, amongst men good will,Love bearing and forbearing still,'All wrote in the hearts' blood of thoseWho rather death than falsehood chose:On her breast, (where, in days of yore,When God loved Jews, the High Priest woreThose oracles which were decreedTo instruct and guide the chosen seed)Having with glory clad and strength,The Virgin pictured at full length,Whilst at her feet, in small pourtray'd,As scarce worth notice, Christ was laid,--Came Superstition, fierce and fell,An imp detested, e'en in hell;Her eye inflamed, her face all o'erFoully besmear'd with human gore,O'er heaps of mangled saints she rode;Fast at her heels Death proudly strode,And grimly smiled, well pleased to seeSuch havoc of mortality;Close by her side, on mischief bent,And urging on each bad intentTo its full bearing, savage, wild,The mother fit of such a child,Striving the empire to advanceOf Sin and Death, came Ignorance.With looks, where dread command was placed,And sovereign power by pride disgraced,Where, loudly witnessing a mindOf savage, more than human kind,Not choosing to be loved, but fear'd,Mocking at right, Misrule appear'd.With eyeballs glaring fiery red,Enough to strike beholders dead,Gnashing his teeth, and in a floodPouring corruption forth and bloodFrom his chafed jaws; without remorseWhipping and spurring on his horse,Whose sides, in their own blood embay'd,E'en to the bone were open laid,Came Tyranny, disdaining awe,And trampling over Sense and Law;One thing, and only one, he knew,One object only would pursue;Though less (so low doth passion bring)Than man, he would be more than king.With every argument and artWhich might corrupt the head and heart,Soothing the frenzy of his mind,Companion meet, was Flattery join'd;Winning his carriage, every lookEmployed, whilst it conceal'd a hook;When simple most, most to be fear'd;Most crafty, when no craft appear'd;His tales, no man like him could tell;His words, which melted as they fell,Might even a hypocrite deceive,And make an infidel believe,Wantonly cheating o'er and o'erThose who had cheated been before:--Such Flattery came, in evil hour,Poisoning the royal ear of Power,And, grown by prostitution great,Would be first minister of state.Within the chariot, all alone,High seated on a kind of throne,With pebbles graced, a figure came,Whom Justice would, but dare not name.Hard times when Justice, without fear,Dare not bring forth to public earThe names of those who dare offend'Gainst Justice, and pervert her end!But, if the Muse afford me grace,Description shall supply the place.In foreign garments he was clad;Sage ermine o'er the glossy plaidCast reverend honour; on his heart,Wrought by the curious hand of Art,In silver wrought, and brighter farThan heavenly or than earthly star,Shone a White Rose, the emblem dearOf him he ever must revere;Of that dread lord, who, with his hostOf faithful native rebels lost,Like those black spirits doom'd to hell,At once from power and virtue fell:Around his clouded brows was placedA bonnet, most superbly gracedWith mighty thistles, nor forgotThe sacred motto--'Touch me not.'In the right hand a sword he boreHarder than adamant, and moreFatal than winds, which from the mouthOf the rough North invade the South;The reeking blade to view presentsThe blood of helpless innocents,And on the hilt, as meek becomeAs lamb before the shearers dumb,With downcast eye, and solemn showOf deep, unutterable woe,Mourning the time when Freedom reign'd,Fast to a rock was Justice chain'd.In his left hand, in wax impress'd,With bells and gewgaws idly dress'd,An image, cast in baby mould,He held, and seem'd o'erjoy'd to holdOn this he fix'd his eyes; to this,Bowing, he gave the loyal kiss,And, for rebellion fully ripe,Seem'd to desire the antitype.What if to that Pretender's foesHis greatness, nay, his life, he owes;Shall common obligations bind,And shake his constancy of mind?Scorning such weak and petty chains,Faithful to James he still remains,Though he the friend of George appear:Dissimulation's virtue here.Jealous and mean, he with a frownWould awe, and keep all merit down,Nor would to Truth and Justice bend,Unless out-bullied by his friend:Brave with the coward, with the braveHe is himself a coward slave:Awed by his fears, he has no heartTo take a great and open part:Mines in a subtle train he springs,And, secret, saps the ears of kings;But not e'en there continues firm'Gainst the resistance of a worm:Born in a country, where the willOf one is law to all, he stillRetain'd the infection, with full aimTo spread it wheresoe'er he came;Freedom he hated, Law defied,The prostitute of Power and Pride;Law he with ease explains away,And leads bewilder'd Sense astray;Much to the credit of his brain,Puzzles the cause he can't maintain;Proceeds on most familiar grounds,And where he can't convince, confounds;Talents of rarest stamp and size,To Nature false, he misapplies,And turns to poison what was sentFor purposes of nourishment.Paleness, not such as on his wingsThe messenger of Sickness brings,But such as takes its coward riseFrom conscious baseness, conscious vice,O'erspread his cheeks; Disdain and Pride,To upstart fortunes ever tied,Scowl'd on his brow; within his eye,Insidious, lurking like a spy,To Caution principled by Fear,Not daring open to appear,Lodged covert Mischief; Passion hungOn his lip quivering; on his tongueFraud dwelt at large; within his breastAll that makes villain found a nest;All that, on Hell's completest plan,E'er join'd to damn the heart of man.Soon as the car reach'd land, he rose,And, with a look which might have frozeThe heart's best blood, which was enoughHad hearts been made of sterner stuffIn cities than elsewhere, to makeThe very stoutest quail and quake,He cast his baleful eyes around:Fix'd without motion to the ground,Fear waiting on Surprise, all stood,And horror chill'd their curdled blood;No more they thought of pomp, no more(For they had seen his face before)Of law they thought; the cause forgot,Whether it was or ghost, or plot,Which drew them there: they all stood moreLike statues than they were before.What could be done? Could Art, could Force.Or both, direct a proper courseTo make this savage monster tame,Or send him back the way he came?What neither art, nor force, nor both,Could do, a Lord of foreign growth,A Lord to that base wretch alliedIn country, not in vice and pride,Effected; from the self-same land,(Bad news for our blaspheming bandOf scribblers, but deserving note)The poison came and antidote.Abash'd, the monster hung his head,And like an empty vision fled;His train, like virgin snows, which run,Kiss'd by the burning bawdy sun,To love-sick streams, dissolved in air;Joy, who from absence seem'd more fair,Came smiling, freed from slavish Awe;Loyalty, Liberty, and Law,Impatient of the galling chain,And yoke of Power, resumed their reign;And, burning with the glorious flameOf public virtue, Mansfield came.