A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion Club

As I stroll the city, oft ISee a building large and lofty,Not a bow-shot from the college;Half the globe from sense and knowledgeBy the prudent architect,Placed against the church direct,Making good my grandam's jest,"Near the church"--you know the rest.Tell us what the pile contains?Many a head that has no brains.These demoniacs let me dubWith the name of Legion Club.Such assemblies, you might swear,Meet when butchers bait a bear:Such a noise, and such haranguing,When a brother thief's a hanging:Such a rout and such a rabbleRun to hear Jackpudding gabble:Such a crowd their ordure throwsOn a far less villain's nose.Could I from the building's topHear the rattling thunder drop,While the devil upon the roof(If the devil be thunder proof)Should with poker fiery redCrack the stones, and melt the lead;Drive them down on every skull,When the den of thieves is full;Quite destroy that harpies' nest;How might then our isle be blest!For divines allow, that GodSometimes makes the devil his rod;And the gospel will inform us,He can punish sins enormous.Yet should Swift endow the schools,For his lunatics and fools,With a rood or two of land,I allow the pile may stand.You perhaps will ask me, Why so?But it is with this proviso:Since the house is like to last,Let the royal grant be pass'd,That the club have right to dwellEach within his proper cell,With a passage left to creep inAnd a hole above for peeping.Let them, when they once get in,Sell the nation for a pin;While they sit a-picking straws,Let them rave of making laws;While they never hold their tongue,Let them dabble in their dung:Let them form a grand committee,How to plague and starve the city;Let them stare, and storm, and frown,When they see a clergy gown;Let them, ere they crack a louse,Call for th'orders of the house;Let them, with their gosling quills,Scribble senseless heads of bills;We may, while they strain their throats,Wipe our a--s with their votes.Let Sir Tom, that rampant ass,Stuff his guts with flax and grass;But before the priest he fleeces,Tear the Bible all to pieces:At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy,Worthy offspring of a shoeboy,Footman, traitor, vile seducer,Perjured rebel, bribed accuser,Lay thy privilege aside,From Papist sprung, and regicide;Fall a-working like a mole,Raise the dirt about thy hole.Come, assist me, Muse obedient!Let us try some new expedient;Shift the scene for half an hour,Time and place are in thy power.Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me;I shall ask, and you instruct me.See, the Muse unbars the gate;Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!All ye gods who rule the soul:Styx, through Hell whose waters roll!Let me be allow'd to tellWhat I heard in yonder Hell.Near the door an entrance gapes,Crowded round with antic shapes,Poverty, and Grief, and Care,Causeless Joy, and true Despair;Discord periwigg'd with snakes,'See the dreadful strides she takes!By this odious crew beset,I began to rage and fret,And resolved to break their pates,Ere we enter'd at the gates;Had not Clio in the nickWhisper'd me, "Lay down your stick."What! said I, is this a mad-house?These, she answer'd, are but shadows,Phantoms bodiless and vain,Empty visions of the brain.In the porch Briareus stands,Shows a bribe in all his hands;Briareus the secretary,But we mortals call him Carey.When the rogues their country fleece,They may hope for pence a-piece.Clio, who had been so wiseTo put on a fool's disguise,To bespeak some approbation,And be thought a near relation,When she saw three hundred brutesAll involved in wild disputes,Roaring till their lungs were spent,Now a new misfortune feels,Dreading to be laid by th' heels.Never durst a Muse beforeEnter that infernal door;Clio, stifled with the smell,Into spleen and vapours fell,By the Stygian steams that flewFrom the dire infectious crew.Not the stench of Lake AvernusCould have more offended her nose;Had she flown but o'er the top,She had felt her pinions drop.And by exhalations dire,Though a goddess, must expire.In a fright she crept away,Bravely I resolved to stay.When I saw the keeper frown,Tipping him with half-a-crown,Now, said I, we are alone,Name your heroes one by one.Who is that hell-featured brawler?Is it Satan? No; 'tis Waller.In what figure can a bard dressJack the grandson of Sir Hardress?Honest keeper, drive him further,In his looks are Hell and murther;See the scowling visage drop,Just as when he murder'd Throp.Keeper, show me where to fixOn the puppy pair of Dicks:By their lantern jaws and leathern,You might swear they both are brethren:Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player,Old acquaintance, are you there?Dear companions, hug and kiss,Toast Old Glorious in your piss;Tie them, keeper, in a tether,Let them starve and stink together;Both are apt to be unruly,Lash them daily, lash them duly;Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,Scorpion's rods, perhaps, may tame them.Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,Sweetly snoring in his cloak:Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne,Half encompass'd by his kin:There observe the tribe of Bingham,For he never fails to bring 'em;And that base apostate VeseyWith Bishop's scraps grown fat and greasy,While Wynne sleeps the whole debate,They submissive round him wait;(Yet would gladly see the hunks,In his grave, and search his trunks,)See, they gently twitch his coat,Just to yawn and give his vote,Always firm in his vocation,For the court against the nation.Those are Allens Jack and Bob,First in every wicked job,Son and brother to a queerBrain-sick brute, they call a peer.We must give them better quarter,For their ancestor trod mortar,And at Hoath, to boast his fame,On a chimney cut his name.There sit Clements, Dilks, and Carter;Who for Hell would die a martyr.Such a triplet could you tellWhere to find on this side Hell?Gallows Carter, Dilks, and Clements,Souse them in their own excrements.Every mischief's in their hearts;If they fail, 'tis want of parts.Bless us! Morgan, art thou there, man?Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman?Chairman to yon damn'd committee!Yet I look on thee with pity.Dreadful sight! what, learned MorganMetamorphosed to a Gorgon!For thy horrid looks, I own,Half convert me to a stone.Hast thou been so long at school,Now to turn a factious tool?Alma Mater was thy mother,Every young divine thy brother.Thou, a disobedient varlet,Treat thy mother like a harlot!Thou ungrateful to thy teachers,Who are all grown reverend preachers!Morgan, would it not surprise one!To turn thy nourishment to poison!When you walk among your books,They reproach you with their looks;Bind them fast, or from their shelvesThey'll come down to right themselves:Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,All in arms, prepare to back us:Soon repent, or put to slaughterEvery Greek and Roman author.Will you, in your faction's phrase,Send the clergy all to graze;And to make your project pass,Leave them not a blade of grass?How I want thee, humorous Hogarth!Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art.Were but you and I acquainted,Every monster should be painted:You should try your graving toolsOn this odious group of fools;Draw the beasts as I describe them:Form their features while I gibe them;Draw them like; for I assure you,You will need no car'catura;Draw them so that we may traceAll the soul in every face.Keeper, I must now retire,You have done what I desire:But I feel my spirits spentWith the noise, the sight, the scent."Pray, be patient; you shall findHalf the best are still behind!You have hardly seen a score;I can show two hundred more."Keeper, I have seen enough.Taking then a pinch of snuff,I concluded, looking round them,"May their god, the devil, confound them!"

Dean's family, there occur the following lines, apparently the roughdraught of the passage in the text:"Making good that proverb odd,Near the church and far from God,Against the church direct is placed,

Nathaniel and Henry. Michael Obrien Dilks represented the borough of

written by Swift:"Except the righteous Fifty TwoTo whom immortal honour's due,Take them, Satan, as your dueAll except the Fifty Two."--Forster.